“It is Germany,” says a German paper, “who will speak the last word in this War.”  Yes, and the last word will be “Kamerad!” But that word will be spoken in spite of many pseudo-war-workers on the Home Front.

Among the many wonders of the War one of the most wonderful is the sailor-man, three times, four times, five times torpedoed, who yet wants to sail once more.  But there is one thing that he never wants to do again—­to “pal” with Fritz the square-head: 

  “When peace is signed and treaties made an’ trade begins again,
  There’s some’ll shake a German’s ‘and an’ never see the stain;
  But not me,” says Dan the sailor-man, “not me, as God’s on high—­
  Lord knows it’s bitter in an open boat to see your shipmates die.”

Among the ignoble curiosities of the time we note the following advertisements in a Manchester newspaper of “wants” in our “indispensable” industries:  “Tennis ball inflators, cutters and makers” and “Caramel wrappers”; while a Brighton paper has “Wanted, two dozen living flies weekly during the remainder of winter for two Italian frogs.”

The situation in Ireland remains unchanged, and suggests the following historical division of eras. (1) Pagan era; (2) Christian era; (3) De Valera.

March, 1918.

Once again the month of the War-God has been true to its name.  March, opening in suspense, with the Kaiser and his Chancellor still talking of peace, has closed in a crisis of acute anxiety for the Allies.  The expected has happened; the long-advertised German attack has been delivered in the West, and the war of movement has begun.

Breaking through the Fifth British Army, in five days the Germans have advanced twenty-five miles, to within artillery range of Amiens and the main lateral railway behind the British lines.  Bapaume and Peronne have fallen.  The Americans have entered the war in the firing line.  It is the beginning of the end, the supreme test of the soul of the nation: 

  The little things of which we lately chattered—­
    The dearth of taxis or the dawn of Spring;
  Themes we discussed as though they really mattered,
    Like rationed meat or raiders on the wing;—­

  How thin it seems to-day, this vacant prattle,
    Drowned by the thunder rolling in the West,
  Voice of the great arbitrament of battle
    That puts our temper to the final test.

  Thither our eyes are turned, our hearts are straining,
    Where those we love, whose courage laughs at fear,
  Amid the storm of steel around them raining,
    Go to their death for all we hold most dear.

  New-born of this supremest hour of trial,
    In quiet confidence shall be our strength,
  Fixed on a faith that will not take denial
    Nor doubt that we have found our soul at length.

  O England, staunch of nerve and strong of sinew,
    Best when you face the odds and stand at bay;
  Now show a watching world what stuff is in you! 
    Now make your soldiers proud of you to-day!