trucks, recalling the voluptuous sound of the circus wagon on the village street.  But always there are two great circus parades, one going up, one coming down.  Lumbering trucks larger than city house-moving vans whirl by in dust clouds; long—­interminably long—­lines of these trucks creak, groan and rumble by.  Some of the trucks are mysteriously non-committal as to their contents—­again reproducing the impression of the circus parade.  Probably they hide nothing more terrible than tents or portable ice plants.  But most of the trucks that go growling up and come snarling down the great white roads, bear men; singing men, sleeping men, cheering men, unshaved men, natty men, eating men, smoking men, old men and young men, but always cheerful men—­private soldiers hurrying about the business of war; to their trenches or from their trenches, but always cheerful.  Sometimes a staff officer’s car, properly caparisoned, shuttles through the line like a flashing needle; sometimes a car full of young officers of the line tries to nose ahead of the men of the regiment, but rather meekly do these youngsters try to sneak their advantage, as one swiping an apple; no great special privilege is theirs.  Interminable lines of truck-mounted guns rattle along, each great gun festively named, as for instance, “The Siren,” or “Baby” or “The Peach” or “The Cooing Dove.”  Curious snaky looking objects all covered with wiggly camouflage—­some artist’s pride—­are these guns, and back of them or in front of them and around them, clank huge empty ammunition wagons going out, or heavy ones coming in.  At short intervals along the road are repair furnaces, and near them a truck or a gun carriage, or an ambulance that has turned out for slight repairs.  In the village are great stores of gasoline and rubber, huge quantities of it assembled by some magic for the hour’s urgent need.

What a marvel of organization it is; no confusion, no distraught men, no human voice raised except in ribald song.  From the ends of the earth have come all these men, all these munitions, all this food and tents and iron and steel and rubber and gas and oil.  And there it centers for the hour of its need on this one small sector of the front; indeed on every small sector of the long, long trail, these impedimenta of war come hurrying to their deadly work.  And it is not one man; not one nation even, not one race, nor even one race kindred that is assembling this endless caravan of war.  It is a spirit that is calling from the vasty deep of this world’s treasure, unto material things to rise, take shape and gather at this tryst with death.  It is the spirit of democracy calling across the world.  The supreme councils of the Allies—­what are they?  They change, form and reform.  Generals, field marshals, staff officers in gold lace, cabinets, presidents, puppet kings, and God knows what of those who strut for a little time in their pomp of place and power—­what are they but points on the drill of the great machine whose power