The infallible instinct of Theodore Roosevelt has given us a name for all the shapes of treachery that squeak and gibber in the American streets and eke sometimes from American platforms. These are the shadow Huns, the forerunners of a solid flesh and blood reality--or blood and iron, as it prefers to describe itself. All flesh is as grass, and grass is a thing for which the German sword has no use, except it snatch at a few wisps to wipe its blade dry.

Shadow Huns, puppet shapes, ghosts of the insane madness which seized a few men in the summer of 1914 and persuaded them that they could subdue a world to their passionate and evil desires.

The shadow Huns have voices. Ghosts speak, but behind their words is neither substance nor reason, only terror and despair gasping a last few envenomed phrases, phrases lost in the great roar of the machinery they could not stop and the tramp, tramp, tramp of a million men. New York Sun.