heard, and feel what I felt—when the poppies bloomed again.
There, we are opposite the Treasury now and have made our way to within easy sight of the Cenotaph, piled higher than a man's head with flowers for England's heroic dead. There are thousands upon thousands of mothers in this multitude numbering more than a hundred thousand mourners. Each mother feels to-day that that Cenotaph was raised for her boy alone!
One mother just behind me in the press told me the whole of England's story. The tall "bobbies" of London's "finest" had come and stood shoulder to shoulder forming a wall with their rubber shoulder capes—for it had come on to rain—so that we could only see the bearskin busbies and the glistening swords and bayonets passing by. I had just told my young son that I thought these must be the Coldstream Guards, when the Mother of England spoke to me.
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but they're the Grenadiers."
I thanked her.
"I should know, sir," she continued apologetically, "my son was a Grenadier—'e died one of 'em!" It was not said boastfully or regretfully; just with a gentle mixture of grief and pride. "An' the sime d'y, me 'usband was reported missin', sir—but 'e was only wounded." She
