impatience of discipline of the great Northwest. The story in
question is of a group of soldiers at night passing a sentry, who
challenges them:

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Black Watch."

"Advance, Black Watch, and all's well."

The next group is similarly challenged:

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"Cameronians."

"Advance, Cameronians."

The third group comes on.

"Halt! Who goes there?"

"What the devil is that to you?"

"Advance, Canadians!"

In the burst of mirth that followed the Canadian officer joined. Then
he told an anecdote also:

"British recruits, practising passing a whispered order from one end
of a trench to the other, received this message to pass along: 'Enemy
advancing on right flank. Send re-enforcements.' When the message
reached the other end of the trench," he said, "it was: 'Enemy
advancing with ham shank. Send three and fourpence!'"

It was a gay little meal, the only breaks in the conversation when the
great guns drowned out our voices. I wonder how many of those round
that table are living to-day. Not all, it is almost certain. The
German Army almost broke through the English line at that very point
in the late spring. The brave Canadians have lost almost all their
officers in the field and a sickening percentage of their men. That
little valley must have run deep with blood since I saw it that day in
the sunlight.

Luncheon was over. I wrote my name in the visitors' book, to the tune
of such a bombardment as almost forbade speech, and accompanied by
General H---- we made our way down the steep hillside to the car.

"Some time to-night I shall be in England," I said as I settled myself
for the return trip.

The smile died on the general's face. It was as if, in speaking of
home, I had touched the hidden chord of gravity and responsibility
that underlay the cheerfulness of that cheery visit.

"England!" he said. That was all.

I looked back as the car started on. A battery was moving up along the
road behind the hill. The sentry stood by his low painted tent. The
general was watching the car, his hand shading his eyes against the
glare of the winter sun. Behind him rose his lonely hill, white with
snow, with the little path leading, by devious ways, up its steep and
shining side.

It was not considered advisable to return by the road behind the
trenches. The late afternoon artillery duel was going on. So we turned
off a few miles south of the hill and left war behind us.