There is a certain small fishing village whose men were nearly all employed in fishing for mines. But there dawned a black day when news came that forty of their number had perished together and in the same hour. Now surely one would think that this little village, plunged in grief for the loss of its young manhood, had done its duty to the uttermost for Britain and their fellows! But these heroic fisher-folk thought otherwise, for immediately fifty of the remaining seventy-five men (all over military age) volunteered and sailed away to fill the places of their dead sons and brothers.
Glancing idly through a local magazine some days since, my eye was arrested by this:
"In proud and loving memory of our loved and loving son . . . who fell in France . . . with his only brother, 'On Higher Service.' There is no death."