nown as such at home, but the golden ambrosial kind angels
dream of--and surely were the Salvation Army ladies who saved me that
day from starving, angels. Not only did they kindly point to the table
of delight and generously say, "Help yourself, Chaplain," but Adjutant
Brown, husband of one of them, entering at that moment, cheerily
remarked:

"Chaplain, won't you join us? we are just sitting down to dinner."

Having no other dinner engagement just then, I accepted! The table was
placed under a stairway, just room for the four of us. Outside, the air
was filled with the spume and shriek of bursting shells. The windows
were tightly barricaded, and a candle, placed in the mouth of a bottle,
gave the only light.

"Chaplain, will you offer Grace?"

Reverently all four bowed our heads in prayer; and may the good God who
brought us there together, join us some future day in his heavenly home
above!

The problem of transportation was most insistent and difficult. The
Division being far below its quota of automobiles and motorcycles,
Chaplains and burying details were compelled frequently to journey on
foot, with possible aid from some passing truck.

Under these conditions I found "Jip" truly "bonne chance." "Jip" was the
horse assigned me by my good friend, Lieutenant Davis, of Headquarters
Troop, and whom I named after my faithful dog "Jip" of Harvey. He was a
noble animal, utterly without fear; broken by chasseurs-a-cheval to gun
fire. My only comrade on many a long, lone ride, we grew fond of each
other to a degree only he can appreciate who has spent days and weeks of
solitude and danger with a devoted horse. All the pet names and phrases
"Jip" of Harvey knew, I lavished on him, leaning forward to whisper in
his ear. Although it was not the familiar French he heard, it seemed to
please him, and obediently he bore me on, little heeding the danger of
the trail, so that he shared my sorrows and pleasures.

One beautiful day in mid-October, he carried me many miles through Bois
de Puvinelle, deep in whose solitudes, at Jung Fontaine the 20th Machine
Gun Battalion was camped; passing on our way ruined Martincourt, then
heavily shelled, to the borders of grim Bois-le-Pretre.

Before starting on this mission, which had for its object inspecting of
front line conditions and burial work, I had talked over the situation
thoroughly with Colonel P. Lenoncle, French Army, who, during two years,
had fought over every foot of