Do Not Weep, Babe, For War Is

Everything Is Bicycle.

Mother, Whose Heart Hung Humble As A Button The Bright Splendid Shroud Of Your Son, Do Not Weep. War Is Kind.

It Perhaps Might Be Said--if Any One Dared--that The Most Worthless Literature Of The World Has Been That Which Has Been Written By The Men Of One Nation Concerning The Men Of Another.

He Saw That It Was An Ironical Thing For Him To Be Running Thus Toward That Which He Had Been At Such Pains To Avoid.

It Was Not Well To Drive Men Into Final Corners; At Those Moments They Could All Develop Teeth And Claws.