is hoofs; a very wide woman at the dwelling-house door; the
old farmer in blue linen looking on; and there, drawn up, listening to
their captain, row on row of blue-coated men, all hard-bitten, weary,
all rather cynical, all weather-stained and frayed, and all ready to go
on for ever.

This is what the captain said--a tall thin man of about thirty, speaking
calmly and naturally as though he was reading a book. "I have just seen
the Colonel," he said; "he has been in conference with the Commandant,
and this is what has been settled. In a day or two it is up to us to
attack. You know the place and what it all means. At such and such an
hour we shall begin. Very well. Now this is what will happen. I shall be
the first to leave the trench and go over the top, and I shall be killed
at once. So far so good. I have arranged with the two lieutenants for
the elder of them to take my place. He also will almost certainly be
killed. Then the younger will lead, and after him the sergeants in turn,
according to their age, beginning with the oldest who was with me at
Saida before the war. What will be left by the time you have reached the
point I cannot say, but you must be prepared for trouble, as there is a
lot of ground to cover, under fire. But you will take the point and hold
it. Fall out."

That captain was an "as."

The Reward of our Brother the Poilu

We often talk of the best poem which the war has produced; and opinions
usually vary. My own vote, so far as England is concerned, is still
given to Julian Grenfell's lyric of the fighting man; but if France is
to be included too, one must consider very seriously the claims of _La
Passion de Notre Frere le Poilu_, by Marc Leclerc, which may be had in a
little slender paper-covered book, at a cost, in France, where it has
been selling in its thousands, of one franc twenty-five. This poem I
have been reading with a pleasure that calls to be shared with others,
for it is not only very touching and very beautiful, but it has also
certain of those qualities which are more thoroughly appreciated in
company. Beauty and tenderness can make their appeal alone; but humour
demands two at least and does not resent a crowd, and the humour of
this little masterpiece is very deep and true.

Did I say I had been reading it? That is to use words with unjustifiable
looseness; rather should I say that I have been in part reading and in
part guessing at it; for it is written in the Ange