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 even while humanity was standing on the brink of tragic abysses. And now what about the Christmas of 1916?

Already we realize that there is to be no rest, no calm, perhaps no holiday, or next to none, in any of the greater munition factories. A hideous crime has been committed, a foul plot against the welfare of the nations has been hatched, and if the whirl of blazing misery which it has already brought upon mankind is to be beaten down, we must go on working. Shells, shells, and yet more shells must be made and sent across the sea that the carnage may be stopped, that civilization may be saved, and (awful and inexplicable mystery) that Christianity may be justified.

But what a spectacle for Christmas Eve! We see the coasts of our islands blackened out, lest from the dark waters about them (which were "to serve us in the office of a wall") that offal of all fighting-craft, the submarine, should fall unawares on our sleeping towns which lie breast-open to the sea. Our streets