Part 35

* * * * * *

A long wooden box five feet by three feet "in the cold, dark underground." Here we move and sleep and have our being, under one of the famous battlefields of Europe, a captured German dugout, with German shells bumping on the roof from time to time. Had I but the ability I could paint you a word-picture that might bring to you the wonder of last night's events in their grandeur and their grimness. As it is I must do what little I can.

A long straying column along a road as darkness fell; turning westward one saw the splendor of a blood-red sunset where the crimson melted to gold, the gold to green, so often called blue. Against this the silhouetted outlines of slag-heaps and pits and houses, now ruined, now whole. By the roadside little huts some three feet square built by their owners, who gathered around little blazing fires now that their day's work was done. The low drone of homing planes filled the air as one by one they swooped down to earth, or rose on some perilous mission, while bursting shrapnel added golden balls of fire to the firmament of heaven, now a deep, deep blue. To north, to east, to south, yellow-green flashes of guns stabbed the darkness, and the redder glare of bursting shells came ever and anon. Across an open heath, along a road pitted with shell-holes to the skeleton of a shell-smashed town like some ghostly sentinel to the gates of war. Here the sweet smell of a September evening was every now and then rendered hideous by pungent odors through the dead town, where the smell of gas still clung to houses and issued up from cellars. Now trenches lay along the road, and the golden harvest moon turned to silver and flooded the scene, casting long, strange shadows on the ground. A deepening roar, followed by the whizzing scream of shells as hidden batteries poured death into the German lines. A whistle, a roar, a thud, a sudden check, and on as a couple of shells spattered the road ahead. "Halt, off-load the limbers"--on to a crater where our guides awaited us. Here the chalk molds and craters of the shattered German lines along which we walked looked like miniature snow-clad mountains in the moonlight. Destruction everywhere, but a destruction that was grand while it was dreadful. And so to dug-outs, and the night-time "hate" and gas--a doze, and the wonderful dawn of a perfect daybreak. Exploration of trenches, broken by pauses to look at aerial combats far up in the blue, where planes looked like bits of silver dust whirled about by the breeze. Interest covered and crushed every other emotion, and though many of the things that lie about seem loathsome in cold-blooded language, I found nothing of loathing there. Now a human skull with matted ginger hair, but with the top bashed in, now a hand or arm sticking up from some badly-buried body or shell-smashed grave, and everywhere the appalling waste of war--spades, shovels, German clothes, armor, ammunition scattered in a chaos beyond words.

Crash! bang! boom! and like rabbits to earth once more; we have been spotted, and whiz-bangs fall--a dozen wasted German shells.

Packed like sardines we lie and try to snatch some moments' sleep. With revolvers by our sides, and respirators on our chests, we live in the perpetual night of underground, coming to the surface to work or see a little of God's sunshine or explore, as shells permit and the spirit moves us. Time as a measure has ceased to be and our watches serve just as checks on our movements. I love life, and oh, how I hate it too!

G. B. MANWARING.

A CAROL FROM FLANDERS

1914

In Flanders on the Christmas morn The trenched foemen lay, The German and the Briton born-- And it was Christmas Day.

The red sun rose on fields accurst, The gray fog fled away; But neither cared to fire the first, For it was Christmas Day.

They called from each to each across The hideous disarray (For terrible had been their loss): "O, this is Christmas Day!"

Their rifles all they set aside, One impulse to obey; 'Twas just the men on either side, Just men--and Christmas Day.

They dug the graves for all their dead And over them did pray; And Englishman and German said: "How strange a Christmas Day!"

Between the trenches then they met, Shook hands, and e'en did play At games on which their hearts are set On happy Christmas Day.

Not all the Emperors and Kings, Financiers, and they Who rule us could prevent these things For it was Christmas Day.

O ye who read this truthful rime From Flanders, kneel and say: God speed the time when every day Shall be as Christmas Day.

FREDERICK NIVEN.

THE MINER AND THE TIGER

On an October day in 1866, David Lloyd George, then a little lad of three years, came with his mother and younger brother to live with his uncle, Richard Lloyd, for his father had died leaving the family penniless. His uncle, a shoemaker and preacher, was educated though poor. In the picturesque little village of Llanystumdwy on the coast of Wales, Lloyd George grew up,--a leader among his mates, not only in his studies but in mischief as well. He was a good thinker and liked to debate with his uncle, and to be in his uncle's shop in the evening when the men of the village gathered to talk over questions of business and politics. As he grew older, he took part in their conversation and was acknowledged by them to have a good mind.

When he had finished his ordinary schooling, after which most boys were put to work, his mother and his uncle agreed that the lad ought to receive a good education; that such a capable boy should not all his life be obliged to work by the day at farming. But his mother was penniless, and his uncle had only a few hundred pounds which he had saved to care for himself in his old age. But, though he was often stern with the boy, he loved him, and decided to spend all that he had for his education. He could not know then that he was helping a boy who would be the greatest man in England at a later day.

Eagerly Lloyd George entered upon his work at the university, studying especially the subject of law. At graduation time, funds were too low to pay for the official robe which was accustomed to be worn in the profession. But Lloyd George left college and worked in an office until he had acquired the needed sum. Then he went back home and opened a law office.

He knew that his home people needed his help, for they were farmers who were continually being taxed or having portions of their land taken from them unjustly by the rich landowners. He knew, too, that the laborers in the Welsh mining districts were unfairly treated. Lloyd George undoubtedly had heard the men talk over their troubles in his uncle's shop. Now he was prepared to defend them, and soon had many clients, for they learned that he could not only sympathize with them, but could plead their cases well. Because he so strongly championed the rights of the miners, and because he himself lived for so long in the mining district, Lloyd George came to be called "The Miner."

More and more, renowned lawyers of the country began to hear of him. He carried cases to the high court of London where he won great admiration. Always he fought for the poor and downtrodden people. He began to speak everywhere--on street corners, in the market places, and in public buildings, with such feeling and force that even those who opposed him admired him. They liked his quick wit and good humor, and his honest, direct way of looking at things.

In the year 1890 he obtained a seat in the House of Commons. His reputation grew, as through one act after another he sought to make life easier and fairer for the nation's poor. His advance, step by step, to higher seats in the government was met with constant opposition from the rich lords and magistrates. But there was in him an almost unbelievable power for overcoming all obstacles. He was keen to see what was the right thing to be done, then went straight after it, making a new way, if necessary,--breaking down all barriers by means of his own wonderfully skillful schemes. Thus his policy came to be known as one of "make or break." Often the men who opposed him most bitterly at first were afterward his stanchest friends and supporters. No other premier, elected at the beginning of the World War, succeeded in holding the position until the end.

He served in many capacities, proving invaluable in all. It became natural for officials or people anywhere, having difficult problems at hand, to send for Lloyd George to settle them. Once 200,000 miners of Wales struck and refused to work again until certain conditions were granted by their employers. Lloyd George had really nothing to do with the case. But the labor officials spent a long time trying to arrive at some agreement, and failed completely. At last they sent for Lloyd George to assist them. He traveled down from London to the miners' camp and in one day reached a settlement and left the men in good humor back at their work again.

He was impatient at delay and slowness of action. So when the British soldiers went into the trenches to fight, he determined that they should have as many and as good guns and shells as the enemy. He decided that the government should have all the money it needed to back the great war; for building ships, airplanes, and countless other necessities.

With his characteristic straightforward manner, he brought the problems before the people, and thrilled and stirred them mightily by his powerful, searching speeches. He thus secured all that was desired. At the close of the war, he was the chief power in England and whatever he willed was done.

Yet Lloyd George was a warm-hearted Welshman who loved the people. Even in war time, he was a jovial, home-loving man. At the royal house, at 11 Downing Street, he lived in sweet companionship with his wife and two daughters, Olwen and Megan--one a young lady, the other a little girl of twelve years. His two sons fought in France. Nor did he forget his aged uncle now past ninety, who staked all that he had for the boy's education. As Premier of England, Lloyd George gladly welcomed him to his royal home. No other name in the past few years, save that of President Wilson, has been so often and so affectionately upon the lips of people in every land as has the name of David Lloyd George. He is a hero worthy of any boy's admiration and emulation. He has made some glorious pages in English history. At the peace table, in all his kindliness and power, he determined to see justice meted out to poor, unfortunate people in all lands.