as we have defended our northern part of the
red splotches which mark Britain on the map.

I was sorry that the Indian regiments had to be removed from the west
front, because, undoubtedly, they were the most feared by the Hun. The
Indian was at his best in a charge, but at night he had an uneasy habit of
crawling out of the trench toward Fritz, with his knife held firmly between
his teeth. Before dawn he would return, his knife still in his teeth, but
in his hand a German head.

To-day the Canadians in France are known by the enemy as the "white
Ghurkas," and this, to us, is one of the highest compliments. The Ghurkas
are considered bravest of the brave. Shall we not be proud to share a title
such as this?

As the religion of the Ghurka follows him to the battle-field, so in a
different sense does the religion of the white man. We have our thoughts,
our hopes and our aspirations. Some of us have our Bibles and our
prayer-books, some of us have rosaries and crucifixes. All of us have deep
in our hearts love, veneration and respect for the sky-pilot--chaplain, if
you would rather call him so. To us sky-pilot, and very truly so, the man
who not only points the way to higher things, but the man who travels with
us over the rough road which leads to peace in our innermost selves.

It does not matter of what sect or of what denomination these men may be.
Out on the battle-field there are Anglican clergy, there are Roman
Catholic priests, there are ministers of the Presbyterian, the Methodist,
the Baptist and other non-conformist faiths. Creed and doctrine play no
part when men are gasping out a dying breath and the last message home. The
chaplain carries in his heart the comfort for the man who is facing
eternity. We do not want to die. We are all strong and full of life and
hope and power of doing. Suddenly we are stricken beyond mortal aid. The
chaplain comes and in a few phrases gives us the password, the sign which
admits us to the peaceful Masonry of Christianity. Rough men pass away,
hard men "go West" with a smile of peace upon their pain-tortured lips if
the padre can get to them in time for the parting word, the cheerful,
colloquial "best o' luck."

Does the padre come to us and sanctimoniously pronounce our eternal doom
should he hear us swear? The clergyman, the minister of old time, is down
and out when he reaches the battle-fields of France, or any other of the
fronts we are holding. No stupid tracts are ha