nging
virtuously upon his officer's lips.

"This," proceeds Bobby Little, "is what is known as a landscape
target."

He indicates the picture, which, apparently overcome by so much public
notice, promptly falls flat upon its face. A fatigue party under the
sergeant hurries to its assistance.

"It is intended," resumes Bobby presently, "to teach you--us--to
become familiar with various kinds of country, and to get into the
habit of picking out conspicuous features of the landscape, and
getting them by heart, and--er--so on. I want you all to study this
picture for three minutes. Then I shall face you about and ask you to
describe it to me."

After three minutes of puckered brows and hard breathing the squad is
turned to its rear and the examination proceeds.

"Lance-Corporal Ness, what did you notice in the foreground of the
picture?"

Lance-Corporal Ness gazes fiercely before him. He has noticed a good
deal, but can remember nothing. Moreover, he has no very clear idea
what a foreground may be.

"Private Mucklewame?"

Again silence, while the rotund Mucklewame perspires in the throes of
mental exertion.

"Private Wemyss?"

No answer.

"Private M'Micking!"

The "buzzer" smiles feebly, but says nothing.

"Well,"--desperately--"Sergeant Angus! Tell them what you noticed in
the foreground."

Sergeant Angus _(floruit_ A.D. 1895) springs smartly to attention, and
replies, with the instant obedience of the old soldier--

"The sky, sirr."

"Not in the foreground, as a rule," replies Bobby Little gently.
"About turn again, all of you, and we'll have another try."

In his next attempt Bobby abandons individual catechism.

"Now," he begins, "what conspicuous objects do we notice on this
target? In the foreground I can see a low knoll. To the left I see a
windmill. In the distance is a tall chimney. Half-right is a church.
How would that church be marked on a map?"

No reply.

"Well," explains Bobby, anxious to parade a piece of knowledge which
he only acquired himself a day or two ago, "churches are denoted in
maps by a cross, mounted on a square or circle, according as the
church has a square tower or a steeple. What has this church got?"

"A nock!" bellow the platoon, with stunning enthusiasm. (All but
Private M'Micking, that is.)

"A clock, sir," translates the sergeant, _sotto voce_.

"A clock? All right: but what I wanted was a steeple. Then, farther
away, we can see a mine, a winding brook,