Moselle. And England--dear green England, fairest of all--the rich blue
line of the Chiltern Hills, and Buckinghamshire beech woods bronze and
yellow in the autumn. He remembered thatched cottages where he had
bicycled for tea, and the naïve rustic folk who had made him welcome.

What deviltry had taken all these peaceful people, gripped them and
maddened them, set them at one another's throats? Millions of children,
millions of mothers, millions of humble workers, happy in the richness
of life--where were they now? Life, innocent human life--the most
precious thing we know or dream of, freedom to work for a living and
win our own joys of home and love and food--what Black Death had
maddened the world with its damnable seeds of hate? Would life ever be
free and sweet again?

The detestable sultry horror of it all broke upon him anew in a tide of
anguish. No, the world could never be the same again in the lives of men
now living. But for the sake of the generations to come--he thought of
his own tiny grandchildren--for the love of God and the mercy of
mankind, let this madness be crushed. If his country must enter the war
let it be only for the love and service of humanity. "It is a fearful
thing," he thought, "but the right is more precious than peace."

Sad at heart he turned again to the typewriter, and the keys clicked off
the closing words:

"_To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything
that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who
know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood
and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and
the peace which she has treasured_."