Page:Clarence S. Darrow - Realism in Literature and Art (1899).djvu/27

put they have no homes, and the owners of their native land exist upon their toil and blood. The nobles and princes for whom this fight is waged are far away upon a hill beyond the reach of shot and shell, and from this spot they watch their slaves pour out their blood to satisfy their rulers' pride and lust of power. What is the enemy they fight? Men like themselves, who blindly go to death at another king’s command; slaves, who have no land, who freely give their toil or blood, whichever one their rulers may demand. These fighting soldiers have no cause for strife, but their rulers live by kindling in their hearts a love of native land—a love that makes them hate their brother laborers of other lands, and dumbly march to death to satisfy a king's caprice. But let us look once more after the battle has been fought. Here we see the wreck and ruin of the strife; the field is silent now, given to the dead, the beast of prey and night. A young soldier lies upon the ground; the snow is falling fast around his form; the lonely mountain peaks rise up on every side; the wreck of war is all about. His uniform is soiled and stained, a spot of red is seen upon his breast. It is not the color that his country wove upon his coat to catch his eye and bait him to his death: it is hard and jagged and cold. It is his life's blood, which leaked out