Since the war began, seventy-five thousand Frenchmen have fallen on the field of honor. Some on the battlefields, some in the trenches, others destroyed beyond human recognition. Nameless graves cover the northern plains. In innumerable hospitals lie the broken remnants of French manhood.
Five hundred thousand they are today, suffering untold agonies, helpless, uncomplaining.
What can Americans, in the happy safety of their homes know of the tragedy, the death, that overwhelms us here?
It is so far-reaching, so stupendous, so heart-breaking, all energy and activity become paralyzed.
Where begin? What can one do? If one helps only a few hundreds, how about the thousands one cannot reach?
England, in fine generosity, has sent supplies of all kinds: medicines, garments, hospital stores, surgical instruments; five hundred tons have crossed the channel.
Beyond praise, the pitying help of England! She has poured her wealth, her supplies, her splendid armies, into France, giving ungrudgingly and constantly. But for her timely assistance, we should be in unimaginable straits. But now England needs for her own.
With her great losses in men, fifty-seven thousand; her own wounded the end of this October; her thousands upon thousands of refugees—one cannot expect her to do for all.
How are her cousins across the Atlantic coming to our aid?
Can we count on the Americans? Will their warm hearts send out to us these necessities for the wounded not only now, but during the long weary months that stretch in such dreary perspective before us?