The Cotton Factory Times. — 1901-12-13 (Manchester, Greater Manchester, England)

BATTLE. Silence is never more ominous than during a battle. Then it means that batteries are taking new positions, battle lines being changed, and new plans being brought into play. Let the roar of battle suddenly die away on the right or left and grim silence take its place, and those who were fighting like heroes a moment before will turn pale and tremble. NIGHT mita owtrisstiso nowt. And under this harvest moon, with the night breeze singing 10,000 requiems in the pines—with heaven looking pityingly down on the blood.stained meadows—with the torn and trampled wheatfields burdened with the dead and the dying, we pass the pickets and move down into the slaughter-pen. And this is war! Fences levelled, walls battered down, orchards swept as by a cyclone. Blue and gray intermingled—dead—dying! Gray and blue interrningled—diernernbered—shattered each one the centre of a horrible pool of blood ! For each of these dead someone will grieve, some home be desolated, some other life desolated. Cannon and musket are heard no more, the rush of living lines has been stayed by the darkness. But, with hands held up in pity, with eyes full of terror, with voices which no longer seem human, 10,000 wounded men cry out in anguish. On the right—in the centre— on the left—everywhere on that front is heard the groan of despair. the call for aid, the shriek of pain. as the poor vietim seeks to tura or to drag himself within the lines. Let the night wind whisper softly—the moon be with them through the awful night. War is not yet satisfied. To-morrow is to add to their number—to the list of the dead.  BEHIND THE EARTHWORKS,  Right in front of me I see a face and form which I select as a target. I could kill him now, but I grimly wait for him to come nearer. He is pale with excitement, and its the man at his left is struck down my target loses the steady step of the line. But only for an instant. Now he is not over forty feet away, and the fire of musketry has checked the advance. My weapon points straight at him. I am looking right into his eyes. I note his brown curie, his high forehead—the white teeth shut tight together in his excitement. He is not twenty years old. He has a mother whose poor old heart will almost break to•morrow. He has sisters who will refuse to be comforted for long months. And such a fair-faced boy mast have a sweetheart, whose very soul will cry out in anguish at the news of his death. lam going to kill him! The excitement of the check has confused him. Ile looks to the right and the left, and then into my eyes. He is stand• ing almost alone. As our eyes meet he sees murder in mine, and I read an appeal for mercy in his. The result of a battle does not hinge upon the life of a corporal. The war will never be over the sooner for his death. But I take deliberate aim at his breast and press the trigger, and even before I feel the shock of discharge I see the red blood spray out from the horrible wound, and lie falls back with a prayer upon his lips. The Octopus is beaten back. I go over the works and find my target. Those brown curls are damp with death—the fair face as white as snow—the ground soaked with blood so precious that every drop will call for a hundred tears from women's eyes. The blue eyes are wide open, the lips are parted, and as I bend over him it seems as if his voice came back for an instant to whisper tho exclamation: Murderer! And that was war! That was one of the acts which helped to make victory for thousands to shout over—for flags to ripple—for rockets to ascend—for children to cheer and women to bless high heaven!