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own boyhood given by Rev. Dr. James M. Ludlow, who was pastor of the church which the Roosevelt family attended more than forty years ago. In his tribute, at the memorial services held on Sunday, February 2, Dr. Ludlow said:

"When Roosevelt was a boy, he displayed the same characteristics which later raised him to such great eminences—the same interest in all things, the same determination and decision, the same fearlessness, the same devotion to lofty ideals. of truth and honor.

...

"In those days . . . we all used to say, as a matter of course, 'Young Roosevelt will make his mark in the world.' But whether he would make it at the north pole, or on the locks of a Panama Canal, we never could have guessed. For he was always doing something new.

"It was here that I knew the boy, and he was a boy to the end. His was a loving, boyish heart,. swelling with love for humanity. And it is his message for boyhood that I would give you. Simply it was this: "If you believe a thing is good or true, say so. If you see a duty, do it.'

The universal affection in which he was held by the young folk of his own country is admirably set forth in the message sent to his family by the Boy Scouts of America, through their National Council:

As Vice-President and Chief Scout Citizen of our organization, Colonel Roosevelt materially aided in the development of our movement to its present strength of four hundred and forty thousand men and boys, each of whom regarded him as their hero for his manliness, sterling character, and accomplishments as an out-of-doors man. By direction of our executive board, each of our sixteen thousand troops will be requested to arrange special memorial meetings, thus covering the whole of the United States. In order, also, to give permanent expression of all Colonel Roosevelt stood for to the boys of our nation we shall arrange to have each troop of scouts plant one or more sturdy trees with suitable inscription and ceremonial in memory of the great leader they all hon

ored and loved. In losing Colonel Roosevelt, our boys and indeed the whole world have sustained a great loss. But a spirit like this does not die and the National Council of the Boy Scouts of America will endeavor in every way within its power to see that his memory is kept alive and his splendid qualities emphasized to serve to stimulate the boyhood of our country and the world to better citizenship.

"No man in modern times," declared Rev. Dr. W. I. Chamberlain, in the course of the Memorial Service of February 2nd, "has so thrilled the soul of the youth of all lands as Theodore Roosevelt by his deeds and his words. The work he did went far deeper down than any mere statesmanship. He galvanized into life the fervor of the American soul. America was not in a heroic mood when he came to the fore. But Roosevelt fired America's imagination and purpose." A similar tribute in the New York "Evening Post" said: "He became to all the young men of his generation the very type of impetuous youth, flinging itself into the service of the state.

. . He did more than any man of his time to arouse the conscience of the American nation."

"The outstanding note of his life," says Rev. Dr. William T. Manning, "was his love of right and his fearless courage in advocating it. He never hesitated to take his open stand, nor flinched from saying what he believed needed to be said. He sometimes aroused strong and even fierce opposition, but in the end he was admired, beloved, and trusted, even by most of those who disagreed with him."

In 1912, Sir William Watson, the famous English poet, addressed to Mr. Roosevelt, this ringing sonnet: *

I HEAR a mighty people asking now

Who next shall be their captain and their chief.

Amidst them towers a man as Teneriffe Towers from the ocean, and that man art

thou

Thou of the shaggy and the craggy brow.

*From "Songs of Exile," by courtesy of the John Lane Co., N. Y.

The day of Fate comes on; the time is brief;

Round the great ship is many a lurking reef;

And would 'st thou drive once more that gallant prow?

Perhaps thou shalt and must. But if the choice

Fall on a lesser voyager, thou shalt still Be what thou art-thy nation's living voice Wherewith she speaks in thunder. Nay,

thou art more;

avows one New York paper; and it will be remembered that, at his reëlection in 1904, he received the greatest popular majority ever accorded to an American Presidential candidate.

There is no touch of exaggeration, moreover, in Charles Willis Thompson's statement in his "Recollections":

"He had had the people's love as no other man has had it in our day. He had had the love of those who knew him personally as surely no other man, great or

Thou art her fiery pulse, her conquering small, has had it in our day. There is will!

Thou art America, dauntless Theodore!

"Not half a dozen Presidents ever wielded so much political power as he,"

something mighty that is gone from us; but we have lost mighty men before. The lost might we can only regret; but there is also gone from us a great lovableness for which we grieve."

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Ribbons pinned on many breasts, back the champions come,
To the cheering multitudes that bid them welcome home.

Brave Pershing wears his medals; other generals, too;
Admirals and captains in the navy blue.

Officers and soldiers fighting in the line;

Cited for the Croix de Guerre, gallant men and fine;

Surgeons in the thick of fire; aviators brave;
Chasers of sea-dragons underneath the wave;

Drivers of an ambulance through a storm of shell;
Engineers who, scorning death, built the bridges well;

Men who cut the wires; lads who saved their guns;
Wounded stretcher-bearers who bore other wounded ones.

But many wear no medals; many won no fame—
Faithful, generous privates whom we do not name.

They did gallant service we shall never know;
Quietly, unnoticed, helped to down the foe.

Think! When they are marching where the proud Flag waves,
How these and countless others in their Flemish graves-
Make Each Day in the calendar a proud and sacred one,
As the birthday of some hero, some simple mother's son!

A Narrative founded on the Diary of Jeannette de Martigny

By EMILIE BENSON KNIPE and ALDEN ARTHUR KNIPE Authors of "The Lucky Sixpence," "Beatrice of Denewood," "Peg o' the Ring," etc.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HONOR OF FRANCE

I AM no braver than other girls. I detest mice and creepy-crawly things. I can remember a time when I would hold my hands over my ears and shiver when any one let off a gun near me. So sometimes, when I think over my experiences in this dreadful war, it starts me wondering if perhaps I did not dream them. But I have my diary for proof that all these things did happen, and, moreover, I know I am only one of many thousand girls in France who, when the need arose, forgot themselves.

In the face of danger there seems to come an insensibility to everything but the object to be attained. That Saturday That Saturday afternoon, when I started for the cathedral, I was possessed by the thought that I must save the image of Sainte Jeanne. I was not at all unconscious of my nearness to death, but my life was of much less importance just then than the accomplishment of my purpose.

In the Place du Parvis the forbidding sight that met my eyes held me spellbound for a space. Here was the target of the Boches, the despoilers of the houses of God. Shell after shell fell upon the cathedral, and, after each explosion, clouds of dust floated up into the poisoned air as the crumbling fragments of beautiful images fell into the reek of ruin on the ground.

I looked up and there, floating from one of the towers, was the flag of the Red Cross, the symbol of mercy and kindness. It, too, was a target for the German guns. As I gazed at this bright banner, flying amid the storm of ruin, my heart grew hard and angry at such wanton destruction. The Boches should not injure the image of my dear saint if I could help it, and I rushed across the Place with never

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a thought that I might be struck at any moment. Indeed, what was my little life in the presence of this calamity over which all the world, save only the Germans, would never cease to mourn?

Almost before I knew it, I was in the cathedral, hastening toward the familiar shrine, scarcely conscious of the strange litter of straw under my feet and too intent upon my purpose to notice what was going on near me. Arriving there, I looked up to the niche and breathed a sigh of thankfulness. The tender figure of Jeanne d'Arc was gone, but in its place. was the tricolor of France. The good abbé had been there before me and had left the flag, a fitting substitute in time of war.

I fell upon my knees, and, unconscious of the raging tumult about me, prayed that those who fought for our country might see in her glorious banner a token of the spirit of Jeanne d'Arc. For myself, I asked that, in time of trial, I should be given the courage to do my part with the fortitude of her whose name I bore.

My prayer ended, I stood up, and in my ears again sounded the din of the bombardment. I looked about me, a little bewildered, and saw the pitiful faces of a score or more of the German wounded lying upon the straw. Here were the men

for whom the Red Cross flag had been raised. I wondered what they thought of the way their brothers were treating them.

One of the good fathers, noticing me, stopped for a moment in his ministrations to bid me leave the building.

"This is no place for you," he said, somewhat sternly.

This I knew was true, for I could do nothing and my presence might be more of a hindrance than a help. Obediently 1 started away, but as I passed into the north transept, I found it filling with smoke and heard an ominous crackling of

burning wood. At the same moment the Abbé Chinot ran toward me.

"Do not open that door, Jeannette!" he cried. "There is fire outside, the workmen's scaffolding is ablaze, and that is worse than shells. Go by the other door."

As I turned back with the abbé from the burning scaffolding we found that it was not the only thing that had caught fire. Several parts of the broad roof were in flames, set alight by incendiary bombs; final proof, if any doubted, that the Boches deliberately planned to destroy the cathedral.

And how can I describe the sight that met my eyes when I re-entered the great nave? The straw which had been scattered over the stone floor to make a bed for the German wounded was flaring like a huge torch. From the spots where the roof blazed, melted lead and huge pieces of flaming timbers dropped down and set alight fresh places in the litter. At each bursting crash of shell, fragments of carved saints, shattered for all eternity, fell in showers.

We both paused for a moment, horrorstricken, then the abbé pointed to another door. "Go, Jeannette," he ordered. "Here is work only for men." He turned and hurried away to join his comrades who, careless of their own danger, strove to save their crippled enemies.

I ran across the Place du Parvis and joined the crowd that had gathered to watch the destruction of the cathedral. I was not surprised to find them there. It seemed natural that, in spite of the danger, the people who remained in Rheims should be on the spot to behold this great tragedy. Nor were the tears I saw on nearly every face in any way unexpected. My own eyes were full as I gazed up at that sacred building. In a moment I was but one of a mourning throng. What I felt, all felt. We stood as might a close-knit family, gathered to watch the passing from earth of one most dear.

As each shell burst upon the building there came an uprush of sparks, followed by the patter of falling stone and glass, and then the wail of those who bore wit

ness. Each new wound in that dear monument hurt us as might a blow delivered by an unclean hand. Each sculptured saint maimed by these Germans took on the semblance of flesh and blood. They were no longer images of stone, but martyrs, brought to life for an instant to endure that chaos of destruction. Each figure became precious to us. Heretofore we had looked upon them as small parts of a great and beautiful whole, now we treasured them for their own sakes-and they were dying before our eyes.

Thus was the cathedral at Rheims wrecked, while we who watched, wept. The whole world will weep, remembering for long years to come whose work this destruction was. Who could see such sacrilege and not weep? Only a German.

Meanwhile, the good priests inside were gathering the wounded Boches together, hoping to save them alive; and presently out they came to face that throng of heartsick people. We caught sight of them suddenly, a huddled group of those same Germans whose countrymen were inflicting untold suffering upon our souls and bodies. Who could say that any one of these had refrained from insulting us upon the streets or pillaging our houses? A righteous anger stirred us to the depths, and a bitter cry went up as, with a common impulse, we moved toward our heartless enemies.

What was in the minds of those who pressed about me I do not know, but the good priests, reading, perhaps, a threat of punishment in the cry we had raised, put themselves between us and the Boches. Then, as they advanced, the archbishop stepped in front and raised his hand to stay the crowd.

"Back! Back!" he cried, in a loud voice that we heard above the thunder of the guns. "These," and he made a gesture toward the prisoners, "these are in our hands. What would you do? Nay, back! We are French. Let not the God above look down to see us become as these -these Germans! Our bodies they may kill, but the soul of France they cannot touch. Let no action of ours lay a stain

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