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day as Uncle Sam, a new figure of the ages, was straightening himself in the thunder of battle to begin his march into history.

The divine right of kings seemed as fixed as the stars. The cold glory of imperial crowns lighted the skies of the fading century, while the darkness of poverty and misery fell in the shadow of every throne. The doctrine of equality was the essence of treason, and political dungeons, like black cancers, disfigured the fair bosom of the earth. But a new era was about to dawn.

On the wings of imagination let us go back one hundred and thirty years, and, standing with Uncle Sam on the crest of Bunker Hill, we may look upon the most remarkable array of characters ever born in a single age. There is Washington in the forty-third year of his life, standing in the foreground, as indeed, he must forever stand; and by his side is Jefferson, thirty-two years old, yet compassing in his brain the eternal chart of human rights and all the principles of popular government.

Alexander Hamilton, still in his teens, is rising, brilliant as a star, to meet Jefferson in a clash of ideas that will shake the new republic to its center.

Beyond the ocean we see the young nobleman, Lafayette, moving in the splendor of the French Court. He too, is still in his teens, but in his soul the Titans of liberty are holding council, and we shall see him again riding in the belt of flame, which shall encircle the fields of Yorktown. Benjamin Franklin, the nestor of wisdom and philosophy in the new world, has already coaxed the lightning from the storm clouds and winged his name with electricity.

Playing about the doors of a Southern home is Andrew Jackson, eight years old; his hair is coarse, his face is thin, but his deep-set eyes are the windows of courage.

On a far away island in the Mediterranean, where tall mountains rise up to pour their cataracts into the sea, and where the kneeling hills are sweet with the fragrance of flowering vines, behold the young Napoleon, a child at his mother's knee. Pensive and silent, he is not like other men. Mark him well, for from the brain unfolded behind that pallid brow shall spring an empire. Look wonderingly on those little feet, for they are already setting forth for that summit of renown where but two men have left their footprints since the flight of time began. Think not upon him only as the tyrant which prejudice and jealous history shall paint him, for when that delicate hand shall grasp the sword that is yet unmolded, its might will smite the walls of patriot's prisons, and the doors of their dungeons shall fly open.

What a troop of actors are moving behind the scenes in ill-fated France, where the curtain is soon to rise on the maddest tragedy in the annals of men!

Young Louis the Sixteenth is not dreaming of the guillotine and the lime pit; and his beautiful queen recks not that her fair head shall be chopped from her shoulders.

The lion-hearted Mirabeau is only twenty-six and his giant intellect has not yet settled to the task of inspiring the French Revolution.

Robespierre is only seventeen, and his name is not yet the synonym of horror.

The mountains and hills and valleys and lakes and

rivers of Scotland are not yet made immortal in song and story, for that babe of four years toddling in the shadow of old “Ben Lomond” is Walter Scott, and that boy of sixteen whistling up and down the "bonny banks of Ayr," is Robert Burns.

Such were the conditions of the earth in the year of our Lord 1776. The American Revolution continued seven years with unabated fury, until, Uncle Sam was left alone in the prize ring of war the champion fighter of the world.

In the short space of our national life we have wrought miracles of invention and discovery which have revolutionized the world and advanced civilization a thousand years in a single century. The vast wilderness has melted away, and now the new continent swings between the seas like a huge and beautiful hanging garden, the home, the sanctuary, the hospitable establishment of UNCLE SAM.


Adapted from several sources, mainly from a speech by Mr. Otto
H. Kahn delivered in Boston and a description in Cosmopolitan

On the twenty-fifth of May, 1918, the Germans broke through the French position at Chemin des Dames. Day by day they came nearer to Paris until only thirty-nine miles separated them from their goal. A few days more and Paris would be within reach of their guns. Paris, the very heart of France, more to French people than merely the capital of their country. Paris, the nerve center of the railroad system, the seat of the war industries; Paris, in danger of conquest by a brutal invader drunk with lust and victory. But they were not afraid, these superb men and women of France. Though they felt in their faces the very breath of the approaching beast they calmly and resolutely faced whatever destiny might bring. But there was a deep gloom in their hearts and dire forebodings. They had buried over a million of their sons, brothers, fathers. They were bleeding from a million wounds and more. They said, “We will fight to the last drop of our blood, but alas, our strength is ebbing. Where can we look for aid? The British have just suffered a crushing defeat; the Italians are at bay on their own soil; the Russians have collapsed; our troops are in retreat and the Americans are not ready.”

Then suddenly, out of the gloom flashed the lightning of a new sword, the sharp and valiant sword of Uncle Sam, the sword that had never known defeat. A division of United States Marines was rushed to the front as a desperate measure to stop the gap where flesh and blood, even when assisted by French heroism, seemed incapable of further resistance. They went in trucks, cattle cars, in any possible way, crowded together like sardines. For days they had little food and less sleep. When they arrived the French command ordered them to retire, but they and their brave general wouldn't hear of it. With little care for battle order or strategy they stormed ahead, right through the midst of a retreating French division, yelling like wild Indians, ardent, young, irresistible in their fury of battle. “Don't go that way,” shouted the Frenchmen. "There are Boches with machine guns." "That's where we want to go,” yelled the Yanks, "that's where we have come three thousand miles to go.” And go they did, into the very teeth of the deadly machine guns. They fought like demons with utter, reckless bravery. A score of times they were beaten but didn't know it. They fought on, and at last, the Germans gave way before them, swayed, broke, fell back. The Marines went on driving the Boches before them, dazed, incredulous. Eight thousand went into that fighting, six thousand and two hundred of them were hit, but they stopped the Hun.

Then Paris sent for them to bestow its thanks. It was the Fourth of July. They paraded; the most thrilling parade perhaps the world has ever seen. Have you heard how the Marines who carried the Stars and Stripes that day were chosen? There were three thou

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