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Nations heap up mountains of debt that must crush joy out of Europe for fifty years. Through the crevices and the yawning chasms of this frightful wreckage tiny yellow rivulets and large yellow streams make their way, forming pools and little lakes in the hollows. Upon these we fling ourselves in an ecstacy of mad joy, warning all others back, and crying "Profit! Profit! Mine! My very own!"
In this connection, note the Ballad of Bethlehem Steel; or, The Need for Preparedness:
(By Grace Isabel Colbron, printed in the Public, December 10, 1915.)
A fort is taken, the papers say,
Five thousand dead in the murderous deal.
A victory? No, just another grim day.
But—up to five hundred goes Bethlehem Steel.
A whisper, a rumor, one knows not where—
A sigh, a prayer from a torn heart rent—
A murmur of Peace on the death-laden air—
But—Bethlehem Steel drops thirty per cent.
"We'll fight to the death," the diplomats cry.
"We'll fight to the death," sigh the weary men.
As the battle roars to the shuddering sky—
And—Bethlehem Steel has a rise of ten.
What matters the loss of a million men?
What matters the waste of blossoming lands?
The children's cry or the women's pain?
If—Bethlehem Steel at six hundred stands?
And so we must join in the slaughter-mill,
We must arm ourselves for a senseless hate,
We must waste our youths in the murder drill—
That Bethlehem Steel may hold its state.
