Now with the larch and soon with the beech trees
and hazel, a bright green blazes forth to illumine the year. The
slopes are covered with violets. Those who have gardens are beginning
to be proud of them and to point them out to their neighbours. Almond
and peach in blossom peep over old brick walls. The land dreams of
summer all in the youth of the year.
But better than all this the Germans have found war. The simple
content of a people at peace in pleasant countries counted for nothing
with them. Their Kaiser prepared for war, made speeches about war,
and, when he was ready, made war. And now the hills that should be
covered with violets are full of murderous holes, and the holes are
half full of empty meat tins, and the garden walls have gone and the
gardens with them, and there are no woods left to shelter anemones.
Boundless masses of brown barbed wire straggle over the landscape. All
the orchards there are cut down out of ruthless spite to hurt France
whom they cannot conquer. All the little trees that grow near gardens
are gone, aspen, laburnum and lilac. It is like this for hundreds of
miles.
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