Part 10 (1/2)

Till these be avenged they be unredeemed-- Each piteous infant soul.

We must weep, We must weep, till the debt be paid, Te debt of the sons of men-- But well avenged, they are aye redeemed; Ah, how shall We welcome them then!”

THE SONS OF MEN HEARKEN

Are ye worth the kiss of a woman?

Were ye worth the roof of a womb?

Are ye worth the price of your grave-clothes?

Are ye worth the name on a tomb?

Nay! None of these is your earning, And none of these be your meed, If the deathless wail of their yearning Shall add to your pulse no speed.

Never by hand of a warrior, Never by act of a man, Have the Little Ones thus perished, Since ever that Heaven began.

Such deed and the beings who wrought it-- Ah! deep must the cutting go To cure the world of the memory Of the Little Ones in woe.

The Three watch high in Their Heaven, And aye! the Three be grieved; The sword is the key of Their Heaven, If the babes shall be received.

Rise then, men of our banner-- Speak in our ancient tone-- Each of you for his mother, Each of you for his own!

Smite full and fell and fearless, Till that these be set free-- These, slain of the foulest slaying That ever made red the sea.

The sword of the Great Avenger Is now for the sons of men; It must redden in errand holy Till the babes be cradled again.

_Copyrighted, 1917, by Emerson Hough_

Tinkling Cymbals

_By Helen Sherman Griffith_

It was in the spring of 1915 that Margaret Durant came back to her home in Greenfield, Iowa, from a visit to friends in the East, and brought with her a clear, s.h.i.+ning flame of patriotism, with which she proceeded to fire the town. Margaret had always been a leader, the foremost in civic betterment, in government reform, and in the activities of her church and woman's club. She was a born orator, and loved nothing better than haranguing--and swaying--a crowd.

A fund was started for the purchase of an ambulance, which, Margaret insisted, must be driven by a Greenfield man. And she expressed sorrow on every occasion--particularly in the hearing of the mothers of young men--that she had no son to offer. The Red Cross rooms became the centre of Greenfield social activity, and the young people never dreamed of giving an entertainment for any purpose save to benefit the Red Cross, the British Relief or the Lafayette Fund. This last became presently the object of Margaret's special activities, since her husband, Paul, some four generations previously, had come of French blood. ”So that it is almost like working for my own country,” Margaret said proudly. And she glowed with gratification whenever the French were praised.

So complete and self-sacrificing was her enthusiasm that she announced, as the spring advanced, her intention of taking no summer vacation, but to dedicate the money thus saved to the Lafayette Fund, and to work for that organization during the entire summer.

Her friends were thrilled with admiration at Margaret's att.i.tude, and some of them emulated her heroic example. To be sure, staying at home that summer was a popular form of self-denial, since a good many families, even in Greenfield, Iowa, were beginning to feel the pinch of war.

One summer afternoon, Margaret strolled home from an animated meeting of the Lafayette Fund, exalted and tingling with emotion. She had addressed the meeting, and her speech had been declared the epitome of all that was splendid and n.o.ble. She had moved even herself to tears by her appeal for patriotism. She entered the house, still mentally enshrouded by intoxicating murmurs of ”Isn't she wonderful!” ”Doesn't she make you wish you were a man, to go yourself!” and so forth.

Softly humming the Ma.r.s.eillaise, she mounted the steps to her own room, to remove her hat. She stopped short on the threshhold with a sudden startled cry. Her husband was there, walking up and down the room, and also humming the Ma.r.s.eillaise. It was half an hour before his usual home-coming time, but that was not why Margaret cried out.

Paul was dressed in khaki! He was walking up and down in front of the cheval gla.s.s, taking in the effect from different angles. He looked around foolishly when he heard his wife.

”Just trying it on,” he said lightly. ”How do you like me?”

”But Paul--what--what does it _mean?_”