, boys; don't have a scrap, now," pleaded the serious-minded Alf.
"Just think how many dead men are lying around. It looks like raising a
disturbance at a funeral."

"That's so," said Jake Humphreys. "I don't think any of us is in shape
to throw up anything to another about shaking. I own up that I was never
so scared in all my life, and I feel now as if I ought to get down on my
knees before everybody, and thank God Almighty that my life was spared.
I ain't ashamed to say so."

"Bully for you, Jake," said Monty Scruggs, heartily. "We all feel that
way, but hain't the nerve to say so. I wish the Chaplain would come
around and open a meeting of thanksgiving and prayer."

"I tell you what's the next best thing," suggested Jake Humphreys. "Let
Alf Russell sing one of those good old hymns they used to sing in the
meetings back at home."

"Home!" How many thousands of miles away--how many years of time
away--seemed to those flushed, overwrought boys, bivouacking on the
deadstrewn battlefield, the pleasant cornfields, the blooming orchards,
the drowsy hum of bees, the dear homes, sheltering fathers, mothers,
and sisters; the plain white churches, with their faithful, grayhaired
pastors, of the fertile plains of Indiana.

Alf Russell lifted up his clear, far-reaching boyish tenor, that they
had heard a thousand times at devout gatherings, at joyful weddings, at
sorrowing funerals, in that grandest and sweetest of hymns:

"All hail the power of Jesus' name;
Let angels prostrate fall.
Bring forth the royal-diadem.
And crown Him Lord of All."

As far as his voice could reach, the rough soldiers, officers and men,
stopped to listen to him--listened to him with emotions far too deep
for the cheers that usually fly to the lips of soldiers at anything that
stirs them. The higher officers quit talking of the plans of the
morrow; the minor ones stopped, pen in hand, over their reports and
requisitions; the busy Surgeons stayed their keen knives; the fussy
Orderly-Sergeants quit bothering about rations and details; the men
paused, looked up from their cards and cooking until the hymn was sung
through.

The voice was so pure, so fresh, so redolent of all that had graced and
sweetened their far-off past, that it brought to each swarming emotions
for which there was no tongue.

"Bully for you, Alf; you're a sweet singer in Israel," said Si, brushing
away a suspicion of a tear. "Spread out your blankets, boys