Although I have not seen the manuscript of _The Diggers_, with such a theme it is impossible that the author of _The Children of the Dead End_ and _The Great Push_ can fail.
Oh! barren hearth of Picardy And trampled harvest field, Say, who will light your fire at night Or mill your autumn yield? No more the reaper plies his trade, The hours of peace are o'er, And gone the matron and the maid, And they return no more.
The poppies blow in Picardy, The skylark sings o'erhead, And flower and bird their vigil keep Above the nameless dead; But though above the dark sky lowers, Beneath its gloom is set The little seeds of Freedom's flowers, To rim the parapet.
And hearts are strong in Picardy, Where Hope is still aflame, Where Freedom's heroes see ahead The goal at which they aim; Though drear and cold the ruined hearth And barren fields are dumb, A voice breathes soft across the earth Of peace that is to come.
In the afternoon of October 11, 1918, I found myself with a party travelling out from Amiens and taking the straight road that runs eastwards towards St. Quentin across the war harried fields of the Somme. We had just passed through a country where the harvest was gathered in, where the hay ricks and cornstacks stood high round the ancient farmhouses, and we were now in a country where Death had reaped its sad harvest for over four years, where all was ruin and decay--a spread of demolition and destruction. This was the battleground of the Somme.
This department is level, very fertile and was at one time amongst the best cultivated districts of France. Cider was made there, poultry reared, and the locality was rich in all manner of farm produce. And it stood high in textile industries--wool, cotton, hemp, silk-spinning, and the weaving of velvet and carpets. In addition to these industries there were also large iron foundries, beetroot sugar factories, distilleries, breweries, employing prior to the war close on seventy thousand hands. But now, at the present moment, all these industries are obliterated, the rich pastures of the Somme are barren wastes, the factories and distilleries huddles of charred wood, twisted iron, and broken bricks. All homes and hamlets are destroyed, and for miles and miles ruin succeeds ruin, until the eye wearies and the heart is heavy at the sight of the horror which has been heaped on the once fair land of France.