s evening, and when I had talked to
the boys, I said,

"I wonder if any of you would like to meet me for a little prayer?"

And from all over the camp came the answer, "Yes, sir; yes, sir; yes,
sir."

There was a big room there--we called it a quiet room--and so I asked all
the boys who would like to see me, just to leave their seats and go into
this room. I went to them and said,

"You have elected to come here to pray, so we will just kneel down at
once. I am not going to do anything more than guide you. I want you to
tell God what you feel you need in your own language."

The prayers of those boys would have made a book. There were no
old-fashioned phrases. You know what I mean--people begin at a certain
place and there is no stopping them till they get to another certain
place. One of these boys began, "Please God, You know I've been a rotter."
That's the way to pray. That boy was talking to God and the Lord was very
glad to listen.

* * * * *

I was talking to one boy--an American; he was a little premature, he was in
the fight before his country.

"Sonny," I said, "you're an American?"

"Yes, sir. I was born in Michigan."

"Well, what are you doing, fighting under the British flag?"

"I guess it's my fight too, sir. This," he said, "is not a fight for
England, France, or Belgium, but a fight for the race, and I wouldn't have
been a man if I had kept out."

I told that story to one of our Generals who died last September.

"Ah!" he said, "that boy got to the bottom of the business. It's for the
race. It's for the race."

"Are you a Christian?" I asked.

"No," he answered; "but I should like to be one. I wasn't brought up. I
grew up, and I grew up my own way, and my own way was the wrong way. I go
to church occasionally--if a friend is getting married. I know the story of
the Christian faith a little, but it has never really meant anything to
me."

Then he continued slowly, "On the Somme, a few hours before I was badly
wounded"--he put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little crucifix--"I
picked up that little crucifix and I put it in my pack, and when I got to
hospital I found that little crucifix on my table. One of the nurses or
the orderlies had put it there, thinking I was a Catholic. But I know I'm
not, sir. I am _nothing_. I have been looking at this little crucifix so
often since I was wounded, and I look at it till my eyes fill with tears,
because it