The Red Sun Was Pasted In The

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.

Two Or Three Angels Came Near To The Earth. They Saw A Fat Church. Little Black Streams Of People Came And Went In Continually. And The Angels Were Puzzled To Know Why The People Went Thus, And Why They Stayed So Long Within.

And It Was As If Fate Had Betrayed The Soldier. In Death It Exposed To His Enemies That Poverty Which In Life He Had Perhaps Concealed From His Friends.

Do Not Weep, Maiden, For War Is Kind.because Your Lover Threw Wild Hands Toward The Skyand The Affrighted Steed Ran On Alone,do Not Weep.war Is Kind.

Such An Assemblage Of The Spraddle-legged Men Of The Middle Class, Whose Hands Were Bent And Shoulders Stooped From Delving And Constructing, Had Never Appeared To An Asbury Park Summer Crowd, And The Latter Was Vaguely Amused.