ades and sizes.

One Cyclopian was not in on the grab. In addition to having lost one
eye, he had received about a pound and a half of assorted hardware in
his back, and these flesh wounds confined him to his bed. He had been
sleeping and he suddenly awoke during the distribution of the glassware.
He apparently became alarmed with the thought that he was going to be
left out of consideration. I saw him sit bolt upright in bed as he
shouted clear across the ward:

"Hey, Doc, pass the grapes."

When it became possible for me to leave that hospital, I went to another
one three blocks away. This was a remarkable institution that had been
maintained by wealthy Americans living in France before the war. I was
assigned to a room on the third floor--a room adjoining a sun parlour,
overlooking a beautiful Old World garden with a lagoon, rustic bridges,
trees and shrubbery.

In early June, when that flood of American wounded had come back from
the Marne, it had become necessary to erect hospital ward tents in the
garden and there a number of our wounded were cared for. I used to
notice that every day two orderlies would carry out from one of the
small tents a small white cot on which there lay an American soldier.
They would place the cot on the green grass where the sunlight, finding
its way through the leafy branches of the tree, would shine down upon
the form of this young--this very young--fighter from the U. S. A.

He was just two months over seventeen years of age. He had deliberately
and patriotically lied one year on his age in order that he might go to
France and fight beneath our flag.

He was wounded, but his appearance did not indicate how badly. There
were no bandages about his head, arms or body. There was nothing to
suggest the severity of his injuries--nothing save his small round spot
on the side of his head where the surgeons had shaved away the
hair--just a small round spot that marked the place where a piece of
German hand-grenade had touched the skull.

This little fellow had forgotten everything. He could not remember--all
had slipped his mind save for the three or four lines of one little
song, which was the sole remaining memory that bridged the gap of four
thousand miles between him and his home across the sea.

Over and over again he would sing it all day long as he lay there on the
cot with the sunlight streaming all over him. His sweet boyish voice
would come up through the leafy branches to t