at's left of them's filth and corruption. . . . Where is the Fire Divine?

I'll tell you. . . . At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part,
Three radiant spirits I'm seeing, high heart revealing to heart,
And they're building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.

Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed!
And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled,
Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten. . . .
Well, who shall say that they failed!

No, each did a Something Grander than ever he dreamed to do;
And as for the work unfinished, all will be paid their due;
The broken ends will be fitted, the balance struck will be true.

So painters, and players, and penmen, I tell you: Do as you please;
Let your fame outleap on the trumpets, you'll never rise up to these--
To three grim and gory Tommies, down, down on your bended knees!

Daventry, the sculptor, is buried in a little graveyard near one of our
posts. Just now our section of the line is quiet, so I often go and sit
there. Stretching myself on a flat stone, I dream for hours.

Silence and solitude! How good the peace of it all seems! Around me the
grasses weave a pattern, and half hide the hundreds of little wooden
crosses. Here is one with a single name:

AUBREY.

Who was Aubrey I wonder? Then another:

_To Our Beloved Comrade._

Then one which has attached to it, in the cheapest of little frames, the
crude water-color daub of a child, three purple flowers standing in a
yellow vase. Below it, painfully printed, I read:

_To My Darling Papa--Thy Little Odette._

And beyond the crosses many fresh graves have been dug. With hungry open
mouths they wait. Even now I can hear the guns that are going to feed
them. Soon there will be more crosses, and more and more. Then they
will cease, and wives and mothers will come here to weep.

Ah! Peace so precious must be bought with blood and tears. Let us honor
and bless the men who pay, and envy them the manner of their dying; for
not all the jeweled orders on the breasts of the living can vie in glory
with the little wooden cross the humblest of these has won. . . .

The Twa Jocks

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin'--it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoos