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THE FATHERLAND 11
themselves busily persuading the world that the Lion
was not bound to help France and Russia. When the
great day of Armageddon came they persuaded the na-
tion, persuaded the House of Commons, persuaded their
own Cabinet, and at last, at least, persuaded Germany,
and the Lion crouched almost before he was ready.
“The devil's own luck struck down the Archduke by
the hand of an assassin. Austria saw Servia in her grasp
at last. She flew at Servia, Russia flew at Austria; Ger-
many flew at France, and the Lion, with a mighty roar,
sprang at last and in a flash had his teeth and claws in the
rival of England and will not now let her go for all the
pacifists and socialists in the world until he is either killed
or is back on the kVaterloo pedestal again.
“I am a socialist and know well that the Lion’: day has
90116 by and that the bravest lion gets shot in the long
run. I foresee that his victory will not be like the old
yictories and lead to a century of security. I know that
It will create a situation more dangerous than the situa-
tion six months ago.”
ADMIRAL COUNT VON SPEE
E print on the cover of this week’s issue a por-
trait of the late Admiral Count von Spee, the
heroic commander of the German squadron which, after
destroying the British squadron of Admiral Craddock,
had himself to yield to a British fleet four times more
powerful than his own. Nothing that the German navy
has achieved forms a higher tribute to its courage and
efiiciency than the battle in which Admiral von Spee lost
his life along with 2,000 gallant German tars. Three
German ships went down still firing when the water was
washing their decks. When he met Craddock’s squadron
On November 1, the odds were more than even in favor
Of the British. The Good Hope, Craddock’s flagship,
carried 9-inch guns; the Gneisenau and Scharnhorst only
8-inch guns. Without coaling stations, without oppor-
tunities to scrape his ships or make repairs, no basis of
Opefations, getting provisions wherever possible and de-
Drived of the use of his wireless, the'German commander
On December 8 met a British squadron of two dread-
'1011ghts and six large cruisers. Considering that one
British dreadnought has a tonnage equal to the Gnezlrenan
and Scharuhorst together, and a gun range almost double
that of the largest of the German cruisers engaged, that
the Leipxig, N iirnberg and Dresden were small cruisers of
hardly 4,000 tons, operating under the handicap named,
the defeat of the Germans after a five hours’ battle
against such odds is a tribute to German seamanship, and
reflects more glory on the vanquished than the victors.
The mysterious silence which the British have observed
regarding the battle, except as to the general result, is the
best evidence that England is not excessively proud of its
achievement, and lends color to the rumor that it is con-
cealing heavy losses-one report fixing the British casual-
ties at three warships sunk. At last accounts the Dresden
had made her escape. Her commander is Capt. Koehler.
Who rescued the besieged Americans at Tampico and by
his threat to bombard the town unless the harrassed fugi-
tives were permitted to depart, endeared himself to all
ericans.
“MY NORMANDY”
(The Wurtemberg papers recently published a poem written
by a French prisoner of war. The prisoner is a professor of
German language and literature in a um'11er.rfty in Normandy.
The irtleresling part of the story is that he wrote the poem in
German. The following translation of the poem 1': theewarle of
Mr. Frederick F. Schrader.)
Alien tongue and alien legions,
Alien scenes around me teem.
Am I still in fancy's regions?
Do I wake or do I dream?
Still I hear the roar and rattle
Of the cannon, fierce and deep,
And I see the god of battle
O’er my native valleys sweep.
Still the dull reverberation
Of the thunder fills my ear;
Scenes of carnage, desolation,
Haunt my memory even here.
From embattled walls my vision
Sweeps o’er alien land and dome,
VVhile my heart on holy mission
Sends a thousand greetings home.
Where the shades of night are falling-
Yonder, where I fought for thee,
Thee for whom my heart is calling:
My beloved Normandy.
Yonder sun, serenely beaming,
Shines alike on friend and foe;
Over yonder, shells are screaming,
Battles raging to and fro.
Here a peace-enjoying nation,
Far from tumult, strife and dread-
VVould that war’s fierce devastation
Had descended here instead.
These the rude barbarian minions,
Planning early, planning late,
To dismember our dominions,
Filled with envy and with hate?
hVere these homes and pleasant places
Fashioned by barbarian hands?
No, I say! No noble graces
Ever throve on barren lands.
Quiet, love of home, submission,
Faith in God, is what I see;
Pleasing prospects greet my vision,
Beautiful as Normandy.
“Ihen they led us through the city,
Enemies, cast down in cheer,
Throngs were watching us in pity,
And in many an eye a tear.
Not as chained slaves did they meet us,
Bent beneath the ruler’s rod;
But as equals did they greet us,
Brothers still in sight of God.
Who, then, fanned this conflagration,
Filled out hearts with fierce distrust
Of this proud and noble nation,
Calm and sober, strong, robust?
France, thy gallant sons are dying,
And thy fields are desolate;
Not thy foeman, but a lying
Friend has sealed thy iron fate.
Traitrous friend, thy favor suing,
Dragged thee down in infamy,
And in thy complete undoing
My beloved Normandy.
