A man feared that he might find an assassin; Another that he might find a victim. One was more wise than the other. - Stephen Crane

It perhaps might be said — if any one dared — that the most worthless literature of the world has been that which has been written by the men of one nation concerning the men of another.

Mother, whose heart hung humble as a button the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.

The fire cackled musically. From it swelled light smoke. Overhead the foliage moved softly. The leaves, with their faces turned toward the blaze, were colored shifting hues of silver, often edged with red. Far off to the right, through a window in the forest could be seen a handful of stars lying, like glittering pebbles, on the black level of the night.