you try to
take in all the realities, all the far-away high ones, you must first
become quite still and lonely. And then in your loneliness a fire begins
to creep through your veins. It's--well--I don't know much about it.
Shall we return to the theater?

The oddest of all entertainments is a musical comedy. I remember that
during the war we had one about Belgium. When the curtain went up,
soldiers were talking by the light of a lantern, and clapping each other
on the shoulder when their feelings grew deep. They exchanged many
well-worded thoughts on their deep feelings, too, and they spoke these
thoughts briskly and readily, for it was the eve of a battle. One of the
soldiers blinked his eye now and then. He was taking it hard. He said
briskly he probably would never see his mother again.

His comrade, being affected by this, clapped his friend on the
shoulder, and said, Oh yes he would, and cheer up.

The other looked at him, stepped forward (with his chest well expanded),
and said ringingly: "I was not thinking of myself, Jean. I was thinking
of Bel-jum."

It was a trifle confusing, but we applauded him roundly for this. The
light from the balcony shown full on the young hero's face. You could
see he was ready for the enemy--his dark-rouged cheeks, his penciled
eyebrows proved it. He offered to sing us a song, on the subject of
home. His comrade hurried forward and clapped him some more on the
shoulder.

[Illustration: Songs of home]

The orchestra started.

"_Muth-aw_,

"_Muth-aw_," roared the hero, standing stiffly at attention,

"_Let your arms en-fo-o-ho-old me._"

All was silent on the firing-line--except of course, for this singing.
The enemy waited politely. The orchestra played on. Then the song ended,
and promptly the banging of guns was heard in the distance--and a rather
mild bang hit the shed and the lantern went out.

The audience was left there to shudder alone, in the darkness, not
knowing whether the hero was dead--though, of course, we had hopes....
Then up went the curtain, and there he stood by a chateau, where a plump
Belgian maid, dressed in white silk, was pouring high tea.

[Illustration: In Belgium?]

An American war-correspondent appeared on the scene. He was the humorous
character of the performance. He was always in trouble over his
passports. He had with him a Red Cross nurse who capered about, singing
songs, as did also eight Belgian girls, from the neighboring farms.
Be