“THIS is a story for patriots,” said the pin of the unexploded hand-grenade to the poppies among which he was rusting.

“What is a patriot?” asked the youngest of the poppies, who, I am afraid, was rather an affected puss and thought that the pin was in love with her.

“A patriot,” said the pin, “is a man who loves his country so well that he dies for it.”

“He would show his affection better to my mind,” said a rather withered female poppy, “if he lived for it.”

“Oh no,” simpered the young poppy, “I think that death is so romantic.”

“How adorable,” sighed the hand-grenade, “are the enthusiasms of youth. I remember exactly the same innocent thrill when some five years ago I reposed among a pile of grenades like myself all going into action. We were doomed, we knew, to burst. But what did that matter? Our country called us.”“What country was that?” inquired one of the poppies.

“England,” said the grenade proudly. “Bow, poppies, you are in the presence of a British bomb! It is true, of course, that my iron was dug in Spain, that my copper came from the New World, and that my explosives were in part foreign. But I was as pure British as anybody else.”

“I’m sure you were,” said the young poppy consolingly.

“When we came to the trench,” continued the pin, “we were assigned each to a bomb-thrower. I myself fell to the lot of a young man beautiful as an angel and reckless as a devil. Grenade after grenade he tossed into the air with exquisite dexterity, and the frightful explosions and horrible cries that followed showed only too well how richly his skill had been rewarded. And now my great moment was at hand. An attack was ordered. Over the parapet he leapt clasping me in his hand, and together we flew through the flying and screaming death about us. We reached the enemy trench. The loathsome horrors were actually attempting to shoot down our brave fellows. I am happy to say that the bayonet taught them better. But alas! I now come to the most awful moment in my life. We jumped into the trench. My hero raised his hand to throw me at one of the incarnate devils. And then—his hand dropped. ‘Carl,’ he whispered, ‘is it you, Carl?’ This, mind you, to an incarnate devil. ‘George,’ he replied, and though he was a devil, I confess his voice made me uneasy, ‘has it come to this, dear brother? Throw the grenade. It will be better so. There can be no hell as foul as this.’ ‘What, murder you?’ cried my ex-hero. ‘Why not?’ said the other wearily. ‘After all, one more or one less, why should it matter to either of us?’ ‘I won’t,’ said George, ‘not if they shoot me for it.’ ‘What?’ said Carl, ‘have you still a soul? Then by God I can die in peace.’ And with that he shot himself through the heart. ‘Kiss me, George,’ he whispered, and George, dropping me as though I were of no account, kissed the crime-stained lips. And here in consequence I have been ever since.”

“And what happened to George?” asked the oldest poppy. “Oh,” said the grenade easily, “I am not sure. I heard—(and I hoped it was true) that he had been shot for cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

“Would patriots like that story?” inquired the withered female poppy.

“Certainly,” said the pin.

“Then,” said the poppy, “you do not seem to me to make out a good case for patriots.”

“Madam,” said the grenade hotly, “you would not speak so if you were being threatened by the hobnailed boots of a gross invader, who was on the point of squashing you flat. Then you would be glad enough to have the protection of a patriot like myself.” And the pin was so moved (and the sun so hot) that he suddenly and violently exploded, with the result that the poppies were scattered in fragments to the four winds of heaven.