Here where once had dwelt the
peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales
made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This
wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter
memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that
vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or
joy of song about them.
Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French
cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they
shall not pass" were sleeping. We saw where the hand of
affection had planted the fleur-de-lis or hung beautiful bead-
wrought wreaths upon the crosses until this abode of the dead
resembled a vast flower garden.
Just to the west and divided by a narrow road, our own American
heroes were resting. Here we reverently paused and placed a
wreath of ivy inwrought with flowers, upon the grave of Lieut.
Lady and another on that of our own Ambrose Schank as a last
loving tribute to all who had so dearly purchased the peace we
now enjoy. While thinking of those other dear friends, Corporal
Edgar Browder, of Chicago, and Lieut. Erk Cottrell, of
Greenville, Ohio, who perished nobly upon the field of duty, we
felt the significance of the words of the poet:
"In Flanders fields the poppies grow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
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