has been a yet greater glory than any they ever dreamed of.
From north to south, from east to west, our people are at work making munitions of war, and more than five hundred thousand of them are women. We look along the "garden of England," from the harassed coast of Kent, across the wild west country, to where the feet of Cornwall dip into the sea. Once at least in times long past this long stretch of our island was swept by the wings of war, and more than once by the storms of religious strife, leaving the splendid stories of both in the stones of the cathedral cities, Canterbury, Winchester, Salisbury, Exeter, Truro, whose great names are woven into the history of England, through many centuries. But another war is here now, a silent, muffled, semi-subterranean war, in the great factories for the manufacture of deadly explosives, and the filling of the shells, as well as in the tin mines of Redruth and the copper mines of St. Just, not to speak of the coal
