You will see boys, eager strong boys, who impatiently await the
call to arms. You will see young men who now look old. You will see them
blind, and led about by a younger brother or sister. You will see the
permanently crippled and those that wait for death, a slow and lingering
death from the Hun's poisonous gases.
[Illustration: With the best of luck]
It is no uncommon sight to see the peasantry of France and Belgium, the old
and young women, the children and the very old men, working in their fields
and on their tiny farms, less than a mile from the trenches. It is their
home. It is France or it is Belgium, and love of country and that which is
theirs is stronger than fear of death. Some one of them may be blown to
pieces as he works; it makes no difference. They do not leave as long as it
is possible to remain, or as long as the Allied armies will permit them to
stay.
Their houses may be leveled, they may only find shelter in a half ruined
cellar. Often they may go hungry, but always there is a grim determination
to stick to their own, to till the ground which has kept them, which has
kept their parents and great-grandparents, and which they mean shall keep
their children when victory, which they know is inevitable, is complete.
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