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‛His wings he hath put away in steel,

He goes mail-clad from head to heel;

Never moon-silver hath outshone

His breastplate and his morion.

His brows are like a battlement,

Beautiful, brave, and innocent;

His eyes with fires of battle burn—

On his strong mouth the smile is stern.’

“Isn’t that great, great!” Little Anne caught her breath in a sob. “Isn’t he beautiful, and awful? I’m not afraid of him; I’d like to go with him, anywhere.”

“You wouldn’t be afraid of any one who fought for the right, little Anne,” said Kit, somewhat embarrassed by this child’s demands upon him. “And that poem is in Joyce Kilmer’s Anthology? Well, he himself fought for the right.”

“Oh, yes!” Little Anne clasped and unclasped her hands. “He went scouting to find where the dang’rous enemy was hiding, and they found him lying, just as if he was looking over the edge. He was looking for Germans. They were devilish, weren’t they?”

“We thought so, little Anne,” said Kit.

“Well, what do you suppose it felt like?” Anne went on. “I’ve wondered and wondered. It makes me shake. He was looking for Germans, and they shot, and there was God Almighty!”