Who was Aubrey I wonder? Then another:
_To Our Beloved Comrade._
Then one which has attached to it, in the cheapest of little frames, the
crude water-color daub of a child, three purple flowers standing in a
yellow vase. Below it, painfully printed, I read:
_To My Darling Papa--Thy Little Odette._
And beyond the crosses many fresh graves have been dug. With hungry open
mouths they wait. Even now I can hear the guns that are going to feed
them. Soon there will be more crosses, and more and more. Then they
will cease, and wives and mothers will come here to weep.
Ah! Peace so precious must be bought with blood and tears. Let us honor
and bless the men who pay, and envy them the manner of their dying; for
not all the jeweled orders on the breasts of the living can vie in glory
with the little wooden cross the humblest of these has won. . . .