"Here is a picture of the dearest mother in all the world."

How well we remembered that morning when the cheery rays of
sunlight, the first of many days, stole through the windows and
fell in golden bands and lay on the pure white brow,
illuminating those manly features. A light divine filled his
clear, blue eyes, as he said:

"I do not know how badly I am wounded, but then it will be all
right."

Then we thought of the once lovely region around Verdun, where
the homes were shot full of holes. In many places only heaps of
blackened stone remained. The beautiful meadows of the Meuse had
been torn full of pits, some small, others large and deep enough
to bury a truck; and trenches, barbed wire entanglements and
shattered trees were scattered all about. The American
cannonading roared along the Argonne front, and the German
artillery answered, until the air trembled with an overload of
sound. Then as the clear, fine voice of this noble lad filled
those halls of pain and death with a rippling melody of cheer,
we looked again and a vision came.

In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their
fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were
soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue
of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were
peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content,
unmindful of the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns; the evening
sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star