cluding myself, signed it. Next day it was published in 20
full with the names of its signers, by all our city papers, and
by night everybody in the state was laughing at us.

"The petition recited that a sundial in Central Park, the
gift of a wealthy citizen, was weathering badly. It should
be protected. That sounded reasonable, so everybody 25
signed just below the name of everybody else. And what
had we petitioned for? _A roof to cover that sundial!_

"You'll get no hasty signatures to a petition in this
city--we remember the sundial!"

_IN TIME OF WAR_

_Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking. . . ._

_Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking._

--SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[Illustration: A MODERN BATTLE SCENE]

GREAT LITTLE RIVERS

BY FRAZIER HUNT

The armies of the world were contending on the
battlefields of France in a death struggle, known
in history as the World War. It was a mighty clash
of ideas and ideals. Frazier Hunt, a war
correspondent and journalist, selected the Little
Rivers of France as a subject to carry his theme:
that little things sometimes set apart great
differences, and that littleness and greatness are
not matters of physical size.

For miles along the hard white road that had helped
save France a tiny river ran. But it was such a quiet
race with life and time. It had no steep banks; only gentle,
green, silent slopes that fell gracefully back from its edges.
Here and there fragrant woods wandered almost to its 5
drowsy waters.

A cuckoo sounded its call, and far off its mate sent
back the echo. On sun-splashed mornings the thrush
came, and in the moonlight the nightingale sang to
this little stream. 10

It was a tiny river, and if in great America, only the
countryside that knew its winding ways could have told
its name. It was a brook for poets to dream by. Little
islands of willows, weeping for France, slept in its heart.
One could almost whisper across it, an