A correspondent tells of a strange little war picture. He got mixed with
a French regiment on the right. In returning to his own regiment he says
he crossed a field and passed up a big avenue of trees. Halfway up the
avenue was a German officer of lancers lying dead at the side of the
road.
“How he got there was a mystery,” the soldier said. “We had seen no
cavalry, but there he lay. Some one had crossed his hands over his
breast and had put a little celluloid crucifix in them. Over his face
lay a beautiful little handkerchief--a lady’s handkerchief with lace
edging. The handkerchief, too, was a bit of a mystery, for there wasn’t
a woman within miles of the place.”
“WE DON’T WANT YOUR KAISER!”
“Go back to your Pomeranian grenadiers,” writes Henri Berenger, the
Frenchman, to the German aviator who flew over Paris yesterday. “Mimi
Pinson is not for you. We don’t want your Kaiser, nor your Kultur, nor
your Kolossal, nor your capital. You are not even original. Wretched
Prussian cuckoo, where did you get your wings? Who invented aviation,
Germany or France? Who first crossed the Channel or the Alps, a German
or a Frenchman? What did you bring under your wings that we should
surrender to you intelligence, or liberty, or justice, or truth, or
love? Nothing of the kind. You brought death--a bomb--that is all. That
is why you will never have Paris. Paris is civilization in its beauty.
You are barbarism in your ugliness. Possibly you may bombard us and burn
our city, but we shall never surrender. Paris will be wherever the
French flag floats, and in the end chantecler will crow over the bloody
nests of your crushed tyrants.”