Old men--who can scarcely bear the weight of a musket on their shoulders: and boys--mere children--who are sacrificed under the blood-stained wheels.

The best! The flower of our land! We are dumping them all into a big, red hopper.

Feed! Feed! Always more feed for this greedy machine of war!" Silently wife and daughter came to the man in his despair, as if to ward off some dark shape which hovered over him with brushing wings.

Their arms went around him together.
"There, there, dear," he heard a soft voice whisper, "don't grow despondent.

_Think!_ Even though you've fought a losing fight it has been a glorious one--and God will not forget the Stars and Bars! Remember,--you still have us--who love you to the end--and fight your battles--on our knees." Slowly the man looked up.
"Forgive me, honey," he murmured remorsefully.