But noo! Noo we've come tae a new day. This auld world has seen a great sacrifice—a greater sacrifice than any it has known since Calvary. The brawest, the noblest, the best of our men, have offered themselves, a' they had and were, upon the altar of liberty and of conscience.

And I'll ask you some questions. Gie'n you're asked, the noo, tae do something that's no just for your ain benefit. Whiles you would ha' thought, maybe, and hesitated, and wondered. But the noo? Wull ye no be thinking of some laddie who gave up a' the world held that was dear to him, when his country called? Wull ye no be thinking that, after a', ought that can be asked of you in the way of sacrifice and effort is but a sma' trifle compared to what he had tae do?

I'm thinking that'll be sae. I'm thinking it'll be sae of all of us. I'm thinking that, sae lang as we live, we folk that ken what the war was, what it involved for the laddies who fought it, we'll be comparing any hardship or privation that comes tae us wi' what it was that they went through. And it's no likely, is it, that we'll ha' the heart and the conscience tae be saying 'No!' sae often and sae resolutely as used tae be our wont?

They've put shame into us, those laddies who went awa'. They ha' taught us the real values o' things again. They ha' shown us that i' this world, after a', it's men, not things, that count. They helped to prove that the human spirit was a greater, grander thing than any o' the works o' man. The Germans had all that a body could ask. They had numbers, they had guns, they had their devilish inventions. What beat them, then? What held them back till we could match them in numbers and in a' the other things?

Why, something Krupp could not manufacture at Essen nor the drillmasters of the Kaiser create! The human will—the spirit that is God's creature, and His alone.

I was in France, you'll mind. I remember weel hoo I went ower the ground where the Canadians stood the day the first clouds of poison gas were loosed. There were sae few o' them—sae pitifully few! As it was they were ootmatched; they were hanging on because they were the sort o' men wha wouldna gie in. French Colonials were supporting them on one side.

And across the No Man's Land there came a sort o' greenish yellow cloud. No man there knew what it meant. There was a hissing and a writhing, as of snakes, and like a snake the gas came toward them. It reached them, and men began to cough and choke. And other men fell doon, and their faces grew black, and they deed, in an agony such as the man wha hasna seen it canna imagine—and weel it is, if he would sleep o' nichts, that he canna.

The French Colonials broke and ran. The line was open. The Canadians were dying fast, but not a man gave way. And the Hun came on. His gas had broken the line. It was open. The way was clear to Ypres. That auld, ruined toon, that had gi'en a new glory to British history in November o' the year before, micht ha' been ta'en that day. And, aye, the way was open further than that. The Germans micht ha' gone on. Calais would ha' fallen tae them, and Dunkirk. They micht ha' cut the British army awa' frae it's bases, and crumpled up the whole line along the North Sea.

But they stopped, wi' the greatest victory o' the war within their grasp. They stopped. They waited. And the line was formed again. Somehow, new men were found tae tak' the places of those who had deed. Masks against the gas were invented ower nicht. And the great chance o' the Germans tae win the war was gone.

Why? It was God's will? Aye, it was His will that the Hun should be beaten. But God works wi' human instruments. And His help is aye for they that help themselves—that's an auld saying, but as true a one as ever it was.

I will tell you why the Germans stopped. It was for the same reason that they stopped at Verdun, later in the war. It was for the same reason that they stopped again near Chateau Thierry and gave the Americans time to come up. They stopped because they couldna imagine that men would stand by when they were beaten.

The Canadians were beaten that day at Ypres when the gas came upon them. Any troops i' the world would ha' been beaten. The Germans knew that. They knew just hoo things were. And they knew that, if things had been sae wi' them, they would ha' run or surrendered. And they couldna imagine a race of men that would do otherwise—that would dee rather than admit themselves beaten.

And sae, do you ken hoo it was the German officers reasoned?

"There is something wrong with our information," they decided. "If things were really, over there, as we have believed, those men would be quitting now. They may be making a trap ready for us. We will stop and make sure. It is better to be safe than sorry."

Sae, because the human spirit and its invincibility was a thing beyond their comprehension, the German officers lost the chance they had to win the war.

And it is because of that spirit that remains, that survives, in the world, that I am so sure we can mak' it a world worthy of those who died to save it. I would no want to live anither day myself if I didna believe that. I would want to dee, that I micht see my boy again. But there is work for us all tae do that are left and we have no richt to want, even, to lay doon our burdens until the time comes when God wills that we maun.

Noo—what are the things we ha' tae do? They are no just to talk, you'll be saying. 'Deed, and you're richt!

Wull you let me touch again on a thing I've spoken of already?

We ken the way the world's been impoverished. We've seen tae many of our best laddies dee these last years. They were the husbands the wee lassies were waiting for—the faithers of bairns that will never be born the noo. Are those that are left doing a' that they should to mak' up that loss?

There's selfishness amang those who'll no ha' the weans they should. And it's a selfishness that brings its ain punishment—be sure of that. I've said before, and I'll say again, the childless married pair are traitors to their country, to the world, to humanity. Is it that folk wi' children find it harder to live? Weel, there's truth i' that, and it's for us a' tae see that that shall no be so.

I ken there are things that discourage them that would bring up a family o' bairns. Landlords wull ask if there are bairns, and if there are they'll seek anither tenant. It's no richt. The law maun step in and reach them. Oh, I mind a story I heard frae a friend o' mine on that score.

He's a decent body, wi' six o' the finest weans e'er you saw. He'd to find a bigger hoose, and he went a' aboot, and everywhere, when he told the landlords he had six bairns, they'd no have him. Else they'd put up the rent to sic a figure he couldna pay it. In the end, though, he hit upon a plan. Ane day he went tae see an agent aboot a hoose that was just the yin to suit him. He liked it fine; the agent saw he was a solid man, and like tae be a gude tenant. Sae they were well along when the inevitable question came.

"How many children have you?" asked the agent.

"Six," said my friend.

"Oh," said the agent. "Well—let's see! Six is a great many. My principal is a little afraid of a family with so many children. They damage the houses a good deal, you know. I'll have to see. I'm sorry. I'd have liked to let the house to you. H'm! Are all the children at home?" "No," said my friend, and pulled a lang face. "They're a' in the kirkyard."

"Oh—but that's very different," said the agent, growing brichter at once. "That's a very different case. You've my most sincere sympathy. And I'll be glad to let you the house."

Sae the lease was signed. And my friend went hame, rejoicing. On the way he stopped at the kirkyard, and called the bairns, whom he'd left there to play as he went by!

But this is a serious matter, this one o' bairns. Folk must have them, or the country will gae to ruin. And it maun be made possible for people to bring up their weans wi'oot sae much trouble and difficulty as there is for them the noo.

Profiteering we canna endure—and will'na, I'm telling you. Let the profiteer talk o' vested richts and interests—or whine o' them, since he whines mair than he talks. It was tae muckle talk o' that sort we were hearing before the war and in its early days. It was one of the things that was wrang wi' the world. Is there any richt i' the world that's as precious as that tae life and liberty and love? And didna our young men gie that up at the first word?

Then dinna let your profiteer talk to me of the richts of his money. He has duties and obligations as well as richts, and when he's lived up to a' o' them, it'll be time for him tae talk o' his richts again, and we'll maybe be in a mood tae listen. It's the same wi' the workingman. We maun produce, i' this day. We maun mak' up for a' the waste and the loss o' these last years. And the workingman kens as weel as do I that after a fire the first thing a man does is tae mak' the hoose habitable again.

He mends the roof. He patches the holes i' the walls. Wad he be painting the veranda before he did those things? Not unless he was a fule—no, nor building a new bay window for the parlor. Sae let us a' be thinking of what's necessary before we come to thought of luxuries.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Weel, I'm near the end o' my tether. It's been grand tae sit doon and talk things ower wi' you. We're a' friends together, are we no? Whiles I'll ha' said things wi' which you'll no agree; whiles, perhaps, we've been o' the same way o' thinking. And what I'm surest of is that there's no a question in this world aboot which reasonable men canna agree.

We maun get together. We maun talk things over. Here and noo there's ane great trouble threatening us. The man who works isna satisfied. Nor is the man who pays him. I'll no speak of maister and man, for the day when that was true of employer and workman has gone for aye. They're partners the noo. They maun work together, produce together, for the common gude.

We've seen strikes on a' sides, and in a' lands. In Britain and in America I've seen them.

I deplore a strike. And that's because a strike is like a war, and there's no need for either. One side can force a war—as the Hun did. But if the Hun had been a reasonable, decent body—and I'm praying we've taught him, all we Allies, that he maun become such if he's tae be allowed tae go on living in the world at a'!—he could ha' found the rest o' the world ready to talk ower things wi' him.

And when it comes tae a strike need ane side or the other act like the Hun? Is it no always sae that i' the end a strike is settled, wi' both sides giving in something to the other? How often maun one or the other be beaten flat and crushed? Seldom, indeed. Then why canna we get together i' the beginning, and avoid the bitterness, and the cost of the struggle?

The thing we've a' seen maist often i' the war was the fineness of humanity. Men who hadna seemed tae be o' much account proved themselves true i' the great test. It turned oot, when the strain was put upon them, that maist men were fine and brave and full of the spirit of self sacrifice. Men learned that i' the trenches. Women proved it at hame. It was one for a', and a' for one.

Shall we drop a' that noo that peace has come again? Shall we gie up a' we ha' learned of how men of different minds can pull together for a common end? I'm thinking we'll no be such fools. We had to pull together i' the war to keep frae being destroyed. But noo we've a chance to get something positive—to mak' something profitable and worth while oot of pulling together. Before it was just a negative thing that made us do it. It was fear, in a way. It was the threat that the Hun made against all we held most dear and sacred.

Noo it's sae different. We worked miracles i' the war. We did things the world had thought impossible. They've aye said that it was necessity that was the mither of invention, and the war helped again tae prove hoo true a saying that was. Weel, canna we make the necessity for a better world the mother of new and greater inventions than any we ha' yet seen? Can we no accomplish miracles still, e'en though the desperate need for them has passed?

That's the thing I think of maist these days—that it would be a sair thing and a tragic thing if the spirit that filled the world during the war should falter the noo. We've suffered sae much—we've given sae much of our best. We maun gain a' that we can in return. And the way has been pointed tae us. It is but for us to follow it.

Things have aye been done in certain ways. Weel, they seemed ways gude enow. But when the war came we found they were no gude enow, for all we'd thocht. And because it was a case of must, we changed them. There's many would gae back. They say that wi' the end o' the war there maun be an end o' all the changes that it brought. But we could do more, we could accomplish more, through those changes. I say it would be a foolish thing and a wicked thing to go back.

It was each man for himself before the war. It couldna be sae when the bad times came upon us. We had to draw together. Had we no done so we should have perished. Men drew together in each country; nations approached one another and stood together in the face of the common peril. They have a choice now. They can draw apart again. Or they can stay together and advance wi' a resistless force toward a better life for a' mankind.

I've the richt to say a' this. I made my sacrifice. I maun wait, the noo, until I dee before I see my bairn again. When I talk o' suffering it's as ane who has suffered. When I speak of grief it's as ane who has known it, and when I think of the tears that have been shed it is as ane who has shed his share. When I speak of a mother's grief for her son that is gone, and her hope that he has not deed in vain, it is as one who has sought to comfort the mither of his ain son.

So it's no frae the ootside that auld Harry Lauder is looking on. It's no just talk he's making when he speers sae wi' you. He kens what his words mean, does Harry.

I ken weel what it means for men to pull together. I've seen them doing sae wi' the shadow of death i' the morn upon their faces. I've sung, do you mind, at nicht, for men who were to dee next day, and knew it. And they were glad, for they knew that they were to dee sae that the world micht have a better, fuller life. I'd think I was cheating men who could no longer help themselves or defend themselves against my cheating were I to gie up the task undone that they ha' left tae me and tae the rest of us.

Aye, it's a bonny world they've saved for us. But it's no sae bonny yet as it maun be—and as, God helping us, we'll mak' it!

THE END