We were merry when at length the relief was sent in and we emerged from the Ancre mists to form up and march in pale daylight to Senlis, a village six or seven miles behind the line.... But, prime gift of eccentric heaven, there was the evening when Harrison took all the old originals and some others to the divisional concert-party performing in the town. The barn roof ought indeed to have floated away in the pagans and warblings that rose from us, as the pierrots chirruped and gambolled there. In sweet music is such art—and never was music sweeter than the ragtime then obtaining, if appreciation indexes merit. “Take me back to dear old Blighty” was too much for us—we roared inanely, and when a creditable cardboard train was jerked across the stage and the performers looking out of the windows sang their chorus, “Birmingham, Leeds or Manchester,” the force of illusion could no further go. “Mr. Bottomley—-Good old Horatio” was a song scarcely less successful, though Mr. Bottomley was blamed for several things scarcely under his control—as, “When you’re deep in a decline Who provides the Number Nine? Mr. Bottomley—John Bull.” “On the day on which Peace is declared,” a neat little skit, and “When you’re a long, long way from home” will never cease to ring pathetically through the years between. All the performers had been over the top. Glum and droll clown, where can I now find your equal? Will time yield you such a “house” again? and you, graceful tenor, with what glorious air can you now awaken such a sigh as when in the farmstead you sang the “cheap sentiment” of those newly from the outer darkness? “When you’re a long, long way from home”—we seemed to be so. << less