xt78930ns82k https://nyx.uky.edu/dips/xt78930ns82k/data/mets.xml Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman, d. 1936. 1919  books b92-171-30119788 English Charles Scribner, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. World War, 1914-1918 Fiction. Joy in the morning  / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. text Joy in the morning  / by Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews. 1919 2002 true xt78930ns82k section xt78930ns82k 
















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He pinned the thing men die for on the shabby coat of the guide.
                                                         I Page 1351




        NEW YORK
          19 19


        Copyright, 1919, by Charles Scribner's Sons
Copyright, 1917, 1918, by The American National Red Cross
      Copyright, 1917, by "Milestones" Publishing Co.
      Copyright, 1917, by McClure Publications, Inc.
      Copyright, 1918, by International Magazine Co.
        Copyright, 1919, by Curtis Publishing Co.
        Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner's Sons

                Published, September, 1919



To the two stars of a service flag, to a brother
and a son who served in France, this book is dedi-
cated. No book, to my thinking, were one Shake-
spere and Isaiah rolled together, might fittingly
answer the honor which they, with four million
more American soldiers, have brought to their
own. So that the stories march out very proudly,
headed by the names of


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  Now that the tide of Khaki has set toward our
shores instead of away; now that the streets are
filled with splendid boys with gold chevrons of for-
eign service or no less honorable silver chevrons
of service here; now that the dear lads who sleep
in France know that' the "torch was caught" from
their hands, and that faith with them was kept;
now that-thank God, who, after all, rules-the
war is over, there is an old word close to the
thought of the nation. "Heaviness may endure
for a night, but joy cometh in the morning." A
whole country is so thinking. For possibly ten
centuries the Great War will be a background for
fiction. To us, who have lived those years, any
tale of them  is a personal affair.  Every-day
women and men whom one meets in the street may
well say to us: "My boy was in the Argonne," or:
"MIy brother fought at St. Mihiel."  Over and


over, unphrased, our minds echo lines of that verse
found in the pocket of the soldier dead at Gallipoli:

  "We saw the powers of darkness put to flight,
  We saw the morning break."

  Crushed and glorified beyond all generations of
the planet, war stories prick this generation like
family records. It is from us of to-day that the
load is lifted. We have weathered the heaviness
of the night; to us "Joy cometh in the morning."
                                 M. R. So A.



  I. The Ditch                            1
  II. Her Country Too                  37
  III., The Swallow                     85
  IV. Only One of Them                137
  V. The V. C.                       163
  VI. He That Loseth His Life Shall
        Find It                       193
VII. The Silver Stirrup              241
VIII. The Russiao                     263
IX. Robina's Doll                   283
X. Dundonald's Destroyer            299

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 THE BoY ..      ......... an American soldier
 ANGGELIQUE ..........    1
        JEAN-BAPTISTE.J.S French childrenX
 JEAN-BAPTISTE .............
The Time.-A summer day in 1918 and a summer
                day in 2018



The time is a summer day in 1918. The scene is the
   first-line trench of the Germans-held lately by
   the Prussian Imperial Guard-half an hour after
   it has been taken by a charge of men from the
   Blankth Regiment, United States Army. There
   has been a mistake and the charge was not pre-
   ceded by artillery preparation as usual. However,
   the Americans have taken the trench by the un-
   expectedness of their attack, and the Prussian
   Guard has been routed in confusion. But the
   German artillery has at once opened fire on the
   Americans, and also a German machine gun has
   enfiladed the trench. Ninety-nine Americans have
   been killed in the trench. One is alive, but dying.
   He speaks, being part of the time delirious.

   The Boy.   Why can't I stand   What-is it
I'm wounded. The sand-bags roll when I try-
to hold to them. I'm-badly wounded. (Sinks
down. Silence.) How still it is! We-we took
the trench. Glory be! We took it! (Shouts
weakly as he lies in, the trench.)  (Sits up and
stares, shading his eyes.) It's horrid still. Why
-they're here!   Jack-you! What makes you



-lie there You beggar-oh, my God! They're
dead. Jack Arnold, and Martin and-Cram and
Bennett and Emmet and-Dragamore- Oh-
God, God! All the boys! Good American boys.
The whole blamed bunch-dead in a ditch. Only
me. Dying, in a ditch filled with dead men.
What's the sense  (Silence.)  This damned silly
war. This devilish-killing. When we ought to
be home, doing man's work-and play. Getting
some tennis, maybe, this hot afternoon; coming in
sweaty and dirty-and happy-to a tub-and
dinner-with mother. (Groans.) It begins to
hurt-oh, it hurts confoundedly. (Becomes de-
lirious.) Canocing on the river. With little Jim.
See that trout jump, Jimmie Cast now. Un-
der the log at the edge of the trees. That's it!
Good-oh! (Groans.) It hurts-badly. Why,
bow can I stand it  How can anybody     I'm
badly wounded.  Jimmie-tell mother.   Oh-
good boy-you've hooked him. Now play him;
lead him away from the lily-pads. (Groans.) Oh,
mother! Won't you come I'm wounded. You
never failed me before. I need you-if I die. You


went away down-to the gate of life, to bring me
inside. Now-it's the gate of death-you won't
fail You'll bring me through to that other
life You and I, mother-and I won't be scared.
You're the first-and the last.  (Puts out his
arm searching and finds a hand, still warm, of
a dead soldier.) Ah-mother, my dear. I knew
-you'd come. Your hand is warm-comforting.
You always-are there when I need you. All my
life. Things are getting-hazy.  (He laughs.)
When I was a kid and came down in an eleva-
tor-I was all right, I didn't mind the drop if I
might hang on to your hand. Remember (Pats
dead soldier's hand, then clutches it again
tightly.) You come with me when I go across and
let me-hang on-to your hand. And I won't
be scared. (Silence.) This damned-damned-
silly war! All the good American boys. We
charged the Fritzes.  How they ran! But-
there was a mistake. No artillery preparation.
There ought to be crosses and medals going for
that charge, for the boys- (Laughs.) WAhy,
they're all dead. And me-I'm dying, in a ditch.



Twenty years old. Done out of sixty years by-
by the silly war. What's it for Mother, what's
it about I'm ill a bit. I can't think what good
it is. Slaughtering boys-all the nations' boys-
honest, hard-working boys mostly. Junk. Fine
chaps an hour ago. What's the good I'm dy-
ing-for the flag. But-what's the good It'll
go on-wars. Again. Peace sometimes, but noth-
ing gained. And all of us-dead. Cheated out of
our lives. Wouldn't the world have done as well
if this long ditch of good fellows had been let
live Mother
  The Boy's Dream of His Mother. (Seems to
speak.) My very dearest-no. It takes this great
burnt-offering to free the world. The world will
be free. This is the crisis of humanity; you are
bending the lever that lifts the race. Be glad,
dearest life of the world, to be part of that glory.
Think back to your school-days, to a sentence you
learned. Lincoln spoke it. "These dead shall not
have died in vain, and government of the people,
by the people, for the people, shall not perish from
the earth."


  The Boy.   (Whispers.)  I remember.  It's
good.  "Shall not have died in vain"-"The
people shall not perish"-where's your hand,
mother It's taps for me. The lights are going
out. Come with me-mother. (Dies.)




The scene is the same trench one hundred years later,
   in the year 2018. It is ten o'clock of a summer
   morning. Two French children have come to the
   trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is
   gentle and soft-hearted; her older brother is a
   man of nearly ten years, and feels his patriotism
   and his responsibilities.

   A ngelique.  (The little French girl.)  Here's
where they grow, Jean-B'tiste.
  Jean-Baptiste.  (The little French boy.)    I
know. They bloom bigger blooms in the Ameri-
can ditch.
  Anggliqwe.  (Climbs into the ditch a'nd picks
flowers busily.) Why do people call it the 'Meri-
can ditch, Jean-B'tiste  What's 'Merican
  Jean-Baptiste.   (Ripples  laughter.)   One's
little sister doesn't know  much!  Never mind.
One is so young-three years younger than I am.
I'm ten, you know.
  A ngglque.  Tiens, Jean-B'tiste.  Not ten till
next month.


   Jean-Baptiste.  Oh, but-but-next month!
   Angqliue. What's 'NMerican
   Jean-Baptiste. Droll p'tite. Why, everybody
in all France knows that name. Of American.
  Angteique. (Unashamed.) Do they What
is it
  Jean-Baptiste. It's the people that live in the
so large country across the ocean. They came
over and saved all our lives, and France.
  Angelique. (Surprised.) Did they save my
life, Jean-B'tiste
  JeanBaptiste.  Little dr6le.  You weren't
  Angeliqu-e. Oh! Whose life did they then
save Maman's
  Jean-Baptiste. But no. She was not born
  Angelique.  Whose life, then-the grand-
  Jean-Baptiste.  But even he was not born.
(Disconcerted by Angelique's direct tactics.)
One sees they could not save the lives of people
who were not here. But-they were brave-but


yes-and friends to France. And they came
across the ocean to fight for France. Big, strong
young soldiers in brown uniforms-the grand-
father told me about it yesterday. I know it all.
His father told him, and be was here. In this
field.  (Jean-Baptiste looks about the meadow,
where the wind blows flowers and wheat.) There
was a large battle-a fight very immense. It was
not like this then. It was digged over with ditches
and the soldiers stood in the ditches and shot at
the wicked Germans in the other ditches. Lots
and lots of soldiers died.
  A nglique.   (Lips  trembling.)   Died - i n
  Jean-Baptiste.  (Grimly.) Yes, it is true.
  Angezique. (Breaks into sobs.)  I can't bear
you to tell me that. I can't bear the soldiers to-
die in ditches.
  Jean-Baptiste. (Pats her shoulder.) I'm sorry
I told you if it makes you cry. You are so little.
But it was one hundred years ago. They're dead
  Angelique. (Rubs her eyes with her dress and


smiles.) Yes, they're quite dead now. So-tell
me some more.
  Jean-Baptiste. But I don't want to make you
cry more, p'tite. You're so little.
  A ngelique. I'm not very little. I'm bigger than
Anne-Marie Dupont, and she's eight.
  JeanBaptiste. But no. She's not eight till
next month. She told me.
  Angeliqwe. Oh, well-next month. Me, I want
to hear about the brave 'Mericans. Did they make
this ditch to stand in and shoot the wicked
  JeanBaptiste. They didn't make it, but they
fought the wicked Germans in a brave, wonderful
charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather said.
And they took the ditch away from the wicked
Germans, and then-maybe you'll cry.
  Angilique. I won't. I promise you I won't.
  Jean-Baptiste. Then, when the ditch-only
they called it a trench-was well full of American
soldiers, the wicked Germans got a machine gun
at the end of it and fired all the way along-the



grandfather called it enfiladed-and killed every
American in the whole long ditch.
  Angfiique.  (Bursts into tcars again.; buries
her face in her shirt.)  I-I'm  sorry I cry, but
the 'Mericans were so brave and fought-for
France-and it was cruel of the wicked Germans
to-to shoot them.
  Jean-Baptiste. The wicked Germans were al-
ways cruel. But the grandfather says it's quite
right now, and as it should be, for they are now a
small and weak nation, and scorned and watched
by other nations, so that they shall never
be strong again. For the grandfather says they
are not such as can be trusted-no, never the
wicked Germans. The world will not believe their
word again. They speak not the truth. Once they
nearly smashed the world, when they had power.
So it is looked to by all nations that never again
shall Germany be powerful. For they are sly, and
cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked.
That is what the grandfather says.
  Angelique. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked


Germans that they are so bad. It is not nice to
be bad. One is punished.
  Jean-Baptiste.  (Sternly.)  It is the truth.
One is always punished. As long as the world
lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But
as long as France lasts there will be a nation to
love the name of America, one sees. For the Ameri-
cans were generous and brave. They left their
dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free
in France from the wicked Germans.
  Angd'ique. (Lip' trembles.) I'm sorry-they
  Jean-Baptiste. But, p'tite! That was one hun-
dred years ago. It is necessary that they would
have been dead by now in every case. It was more
glorious to die fighting for freedom and France
than just to die fifty years later. Ale, I'd enjoy
very much to die fighting. But look! You pulled
up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to
the roots-not a rock
  Angilique. No, I think not a rock. (She takes
the object in her hands and knocks dirt from it.)
But what is it, Jean-B'tiste


  JeanBaptiste. It's-but never mind. I can't
always know everything, don't you see, Ang6lique
It's just something of one of the Americans who
died in the ditch. One is always finding something
in these old battle-fields.
  Angdique.   (Rubs the object with her dress.
Takes a handful of sand and rubs it on the object.
Spits on it and rubs the sand. Vtit, Jean-B'tiste
-it shines.
  Jean-Baptiste. (Loftily.) Yes. It is nothing,
that. One finds such things.
  Angdique.   (Rubbing more.)   And there are
letters on it.
  Jean-Baptiste. Yes. It is nothing, that. One
has flowers en masse now, and it is time to go home.
Come then, p'tite, drop the dirty bit of brass and
pick up your pretty flowers. Tiens! Give me
your hand. I'll pull you up the side of the ditch.
(Jean-Baptiste turns as they start.)  I forgot
the thing which the grandfather told me I must do
always.  (He stands at attention.) A4u revoir,
brave Americans. One salutes your immortal
glory. (Exit Jean-Baptiste and Angelique.)



The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is
    eleven o'clock of the same summer morning. Four
    American schoolgirls, of from fifteen to seventeen
    years, have been brought to see the trench, a relic
    of the Great War, in charge of their teacher.
    The teacher, a worn and elderly person, has im-
    agination, and is stirred, as far as her tired nerves
    may be, by the heroic story of the old ditch. One
    of the schoolgirls also has imagination and is also
    stirred. The other three are "young barbarians
    at play." Two out of five is possibly a large pro-
    portion to be blessed with imagination, but the
    American race has improved in a hundred years.

  Teacher. This, girls, is an important bit of our
sight-seeing. It is the last of the old trenches of
the Great War to remain intact in all northern
France. It was left untouched out of the rever-
ence of the people of the country for one hundred
Americans of the Blankth Regiment, who died here
-in this old ditch. The regiment had charged too
soon, by a mistaken order, across what was called


No-MIan's Land, from  their own front trench,
about (consults guide-book)-about thirty-five
yards away-that would be near where you see
the red poppies so thick in the wheat, They took
the trench from the Germans, and were then wiped
out partly by artillery fire, partly by a German
machine gun which was placed, disguised, at the
end of the trench and enfiladed the entire length.
Three-quarters of the regiment, over two thou-
sand men, were killed in this battle. Since then
the regiment has been known as the "Charging
  First Schoolgirl. Wouldn't those poppies be
lovely on a yellow hat
  Second Schoolgirl. Ssh! The Eye is on you.
How awful, Miss Hadley! And were they all
killed Quite a tragedy!
  Third Schoolgirl. Not a yellow hat! Stupid!
A corn-colored one-just the shade of the grain
with the sun on it. Wouldn't it be lovely! When
we get back to Paris-
  Fourth Schoolgirl (the owe with imagination.).
You idiots! You poor kittens!


  First Schoolgirl. If we ever do get back to
  Teacher.  (Wearily.)  Please pay attention.
This is one of the world's most sacred spots. It
is the scene of a great heroism. It is the place
where many of our fellow countrymen laid down
their lives. How can you stand on this solemn
ground and chatter about hats
  Third Schoolgirl. Well, you see, Miss Hadley,
we're fed up with solemn grounds. You can't
expect us to go into raptures at this stage over
an old ditch. And, to be serious, wouldn't some
of those field flowers make a lovely combination
for hats With the French touch, don't you
know You'd be darling in one-so ingenue!
  Second  Schoolgirl.  Ssh!  She'll kill you.
(Three girls turin their backs and stifle a giggle.)
  Teacher. Girls, you may be past your youth
yourselves one day.
  First Schoolgirl.  (Airily.)  But we're well
preserved so far, Miss Hadley.
  Fourth Schoolgirl.  (Has wandered away a
few yards. She bends and picks a flower from the



ditch. She speaks to herself.) The flag floated
here. There were shells bursting and guns thun-
dering and groans and blood-here. American
boys were dying where I stand safe. That's what
they did. They made me safe. They kept Amer-
ica free. They made the "world safe for free-
dom." (She bends and speaks into the ditch.)
Boy, you who lay just there in suffering and gave
your good life away that long-ago summer day-
thank you. You died for us. America remem-
bers. Because of you there will be no more wars,
and girls such as we are may wander across battle-
fields, and nations are happy and well governed,
and kings and masters are gone. You did that,
you boys. You lost fifty years of life, but you
gained our love forever. Your deaths were not in
vain. Good-by, dear, dead boys.
  Teacher.  (Calls.)  Child, come! We must
catch the train.




The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is
   three o'clock of the afternoon of the same sum-
   mer day. A newly married couple have come to
   see the trench. He is journeying as to a shrine;
   she has allowed impersonal interests, such as his-
   tory, to lapse under the influence of love and a
   trousseau. She is, however, amenable to patriot-
   ism, and, her husband applying the match, she
   takes fire-she also, from the story of the trench.

   He. This must be the place.
   She. It is nothing but a ditch filled with
  He. The old trench. (Takes off his hat.)
  She. Was it-it was-in the Great War
  He. AMy dear!
  She.  You're horrified.  But I really-don't
  He. Don't know You must.
  She. You've gone and married a person who
hasn't a glimmer of history. What will you do
about it


  He. I'll be brave and stick to my bargain. Do
you mean that you've forgotten the charge of the
Blankth Americans against the Prussian Guard
The charge that practically ended the war
  She. Ended the war How could one charge
end the war
  He. There was fighting after. But the last
critical battle was here (looks about) in these
meadows, and for miles along. And it was just
here that the Blankth United States Regiment
made its historic dash. In that ditch-filled with
flowers a hundred of our lads were mown down
in three minutes. About two thousand more fol-
lowed them to death.
  She. Oh-I do know. It was that charge. I
learned about it in school; it thrilled me always.
  He. Certainly. Every American child knows
the story. I memorized the list of the one hundred
soldiers' names of my own free will when I was
ten.  I can say them now.   "Arnold-Ashe
Bennett-Emmet-Dra gmore        "
  She. Don't say the rest, Ted-tell me about it
as it happened. (She slips her lwmd into his.)


We two, standing here young and happy, looking
forward to a lifetime together, will do honor, that
way, to those soldiers who gave up their happy
youth and their lives for America.
  He. (Puts his arm around her.) We will.
We'll make a little memorial service and I'll
preach a sermon about how gloriously they fell
and how, unknowingly, they won the war-and so
much more!
  She. Tell me.
  He. It was a hundred years ago about now-
summer. A critical battle raged along a stretch
of many miles. About the centre of the line-
here the Prussian Imperial Guards, the crack
soldiers of the German army, held the first trench
-this ditch. American forces faced them, bit
in weeks of fighting had not been able to make
much impression. Then, on a day, the order came
down the lines that the Blankth7 United States
Regiment, opposed to the Guard, was to charge
and take the German front trench. Of course the
artillery was to prepare for their charge as usual,
but there was some mistake. There was no curtain


of fire before them, no artillery preparation to
help them. And the order to charge came. So,
right into the German guns, in the face of those
terrible Prussian Guards, our lads went "over the
top" with a great shout, and poured like a flame,
like a catapult, across the space between them-
No-Man's Land, they called it then-it was only
thirty-five yards-to the German trench. So fast
they rushed, and so unexpected was their coming,
with no curtain of artillery to shield them, that the
Germans were for a moment taken aback. Not
a shot was fired for a space of time almost long
enough to let the Americans reach the trench, and
then the rifles broke out and the brown uniforms
fell like leaves in autumn. But not all. They
rushed on pell-mell, cutting wire, pouring irre-
sistibly into the German trench. And the Guards,
such as were not mown down, lost courage at the
astounding impetus of the dash, and scrambled and
ran from their trench. They took it-our boys
took that trench-this old ditch. But then the
big German guns opened a. fire like hail and a
machine gun at the end-down there it must have


been-enfiladed the trench, and every man in it
was killed. But the charge ended the war. Other
Americans, mad with the glory of it, poured in a
sea after their comrades and held the trench, and
poured on and on, and wiped out that day the
Prussian Guard. The German morale was broken
from then; within four months the war was over.
  She. (Turns and hides her face on his shoulder
and shakes with sobs.)   I'm  not-crying for
sorrow-for them. I'm crying-for the glory of
it. Because I'm so proud and glad-that it's
too much for me. To belong to such a nation-
to such men. I'm crying for knowing it was my
nation-my men. And America is-the satne to-
day. I know it. If she needed you today, Ted,
you would fight like that. You would go over
the top with the charging Blankth, with a shout,
if the order came-wouldn't you, my own man
  He. (Looking into the old ditch with his head
bent reverently.) I hope so.
  She. And I hope I would send you with all my
heart. Death like that is more than life.
  He. I've made you cry.



  She. Not you. What they did-those boys.
  He. It's fitting that Americans should come
here, as they do come, as to a Mecca, a holy place.
For it was here that America was saved. That's
what they did, the boys who made that charge.
They saved America from the most savage and
barbarous enemy of all time. As sure as France
and England were at the end of their rope-and
they were-so surely Germany, the victor, would
have invaded America, and Belgium would have
happened in our country.    A  hundred years
wouldn't have been enough to free us again, if
that had happened. You and I, dearest, owe it to
those soldiers that we are here together, free,
prosperous citizens of an ever greater country.
  She. (Drops on her knees by the ditch.) It's
a shrine. Men of my land, I own my debt. I
thank you for all I have and am. God bless you
in your heaven. (Silence.)
  He. (Tears in his eyes. His arm around her
neck as he bends to her.) You'll not forget the
story of the Charging Blankth
  She. Never again. In my life. (Rising.)   I


think their spirits must be here often. Perhaps
they're happy when Americans are here. It's a
holy place, as you said. Come away now. I love
to leave it in sunshine and flowers with the dear
ghosts of the boys. (Eait He aind She.),




The scene is the same trench in the year 2018. It is
   five o'clock of the same summer afternoon. An
   officer of the American Army and an English cabi-
   net member come, together, to visit the old trench.
   The American has a particular reason for his in-
   terest; the Englishman accompanies the distin-
   guished American. The two review the story of
   the trench and speak of other things connected,
   and it is hoped that they set forth the far-reaching
   work of the soldiers who died, not realizing their
   work, in the great fight of the Charging Blankth.

   Englishman. It's a peaceful scene.
   American. (Advances to the side of the ditch.
Looks down. Takes off his cap.) I came across
the ocean to see it. (He looks over the fields.)
It's quiet.
  Englishman.   The trenches were filled in all
over the invaded territory within twenty-five
years after the war. Except a very few kept as
a manner of monument. Object-lessons, don't
you know, in what the thing meant. Even those


are getting obliterated. They say this is quite
the best specimen in all France.
  American. It doesn't look warlike. What a
lot of flowers!
  Englishman. Yes. The folk about here have
a tradition, don't you know, that poppies mark
the places where blood flowed most.
  American. Ah! (Gazes into the ditch.) Pop-
pies there. A hundred of our soldiers died at
once down there. Mere lads mostly. Their names
and ages are on a tablet in the capitol at Wash-
ington, and underneath is a sentence from Lin-
coln's Gettysburg speech: "These dead shall not
have died in vain, and government of the people,
by the people, for the people shall not perish from
the earth."
  Englishman. Those are undying words.
  American. And undying names -the lads'
  Englishman. What they and the other Amer-
icans did can never die. Not while the planet en-
dures. No nation at that time realized how vital
was your country's entrance into the war. Three


months later it would have been too late. Your
young, untried forces lifted worn-out France and
England and swept us to victory. It was Amer-
ica's victory at the last. It is our glory to confess
that, for from then on America has been our kin.
  American.   (Smiles.)  England is our well-
beloved elder sister for all time now.
  Englishman. The soldiers who died there (ges-
tures to the ditch) and their like did that also.
They tied the nations together with a bond of
common gratitude, common suffering, common
  American. You say well that there was com-
mon gratitude. England and France had fought
our battle for three years at the time we entered
the war. We had nestled behind the English fleet.
Those grim gray ships of yours stood between us
and the barbarians very literally.
  Englishman. Without doubt Germany would
have been happy to invade the only country on
earth rich enough to pay her war debt. And you
were astonishingly open to invasion. It is one of
the historical facts that a student of history of


this twenty-first century finds difficult to realize.
  American. The Great War made revolutionary
changes. That condition of unpreparedness was
one. That there will never be another war is the
belief of all governments. But if all governments
should be mistaken, not again would my country,
or yours, be caught unprepared. A general staff
built of soldiers and free of civilians hampering is
one advantage we have drawn from our ordeal of
  Englishman. Your army is magnificently effi-
  American. And yours. Heaven grant neither
may ever be needed! Our military efficiency is the
pride of an unmilitary nation.  One Congress,
since the Great War and its lessons, has vied with
another to keep our high place.
  Englishman.  Ali! Your Congress. That has
changed since the old days-since La Follette.
  American. The name is a shame and a warning
to us. Our children are taught to remember it so.
The "little group of wilful men," the eleven who
came near to shipwrecking the country, were


equally bad, perhaps, but they are forgotten. La
Follette stands for them and bears the curses of
his countrymen, which they all earned.
  Englishman. Their ignominy served America;
it roused the country to clean its Augean stables.
  American. The war purified with fire the legis-
lative soul.
  Englishman. Exactly. Men are human still,
certainly, yet genuine patriotism appears to be
a sine qua non now, where bombast answered in
the old day. Corruption is no longer accepted.
Public men then were surprisingly simple, surpris-
ingly cheap and limited in their methods. There
were two rules for public and private life. It was
thought quixotic, I gather frbm studying the doc-
uments of the time, to expect anything different.
AAnd how easily the change came!
  American. The nation rose and demanded hon-
esty, and honesty was there.    The enormous
majority bf decent people woke from a discon-
tented apathy and.took charge. Men sprang into
place naturally and served the nation. The old
log-rollingi brainless, greedy public officials were


thrown into the junk-heap. As if by magic the
stress of the war wrung out the rinsings and the
scourings and left the fabric clean.
  Englishman. The stress of the war affected
more than internal politics. You and I, General,
are used to a standard of conduct between respon-
sible nations as high as that taken for granted
between responsible persons. But, if one consid-
ers, that was far from the case a hundred years
ago. It was in 1914, that von Bethmann-Hollweg
spoke of "a scrap of paper."
  American. Ah-Germans!
  Englishman..  Certainly one does not expect
honor or sincerity from German psychology.
Even. the little Teutonic Republic of to-day is
tricky, scheming always tb get a foothold for
power, a beginning for the army they will never
again be allowed to have. Even after the Kaiser
and the Crown Prince and the other rascals were
punished they tried to, cheat us; if you remember.
Yet it is not that which r had in