"How Beautiful Are The Feet Of Him Upon The
Mountains That Bringeth Good Tidings, That Publisheth Peace."
And Chiming In With The Music Of The Bells, The Clear Voice Of
Lieut.
Lady was heard, as he exclaimed, "I hope and pray God
that this will be the end of all wars." Let us sincerely hope
that the noble sacrifice of such men as this shall not have been
in vain.
To many the bells that morning meant peace, home and
love, but alas, to others they had a sadder meaning!
When spring came again to the shell-torn fields near Verdun, we
saw how Nature in places was reclothing the meadows in their
mantles of green and around the ruined, tenantless homes along
the Meuse, how the primrose and violet were covering up the
scars made by unnumbered shells. The air was filled with the
joyous notes of the lark, and the linnet and the black-cap
warbled among the hedgerows. Here where once had dwelt the
peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales
made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This
wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter
memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that
vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or
joy of song about them.
Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French
cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they
shall not pass" were sleeping.
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