ing. No amount of
discipline could transform him from the free-from-care,
do-as-you-please individual into the polished soldier. One evening he
was posted over the gas-alert in the front line trenches, when a shell
exploded a few yards in front of him. The explosion caused his hat to
disappear and the concussion projected him into a dug-out. Only the
solidity of the wall prevented him from going further; as it was, the
force with which he was hurled against the side of the dug-out made a
deep impression on the damp wall. He lay in a motionless heap in the
corner of the dug-out. A N.C.O. rushed along the duck-boards, thrust
his head into the dug-out, and anxiously inquired of Bill as to
whether he was hurt. Bill by this time had partially recovered from
the shock. His small steel-grey eyes gradually opened. The N.C.O.
again asked if he were hurt. Bill's eyes rolled, his lips moved, and
then he blurted out, 'Oh, no, only my feelings!'

Bill is not a man to make a fuss about anything. He has no time for
red-tape in any shape or form, it is true, but whatever work is
assigned him is always done satisfactorily. Whether he is any less a
soldier or his efficiency as a fighting force impaired because of his
failure to meet the rigid requirements of an exacting military
regulation is a matter concerning which there might be a difference of
opinion; but this at least stands to his credit: he knows no fear, is
the life of the unit, and the battalion to which he belongs would
sustain a distinct loss by the removal of Bugler Bill, &c.

A TRAGEDY OF THE WAR

From strife they now march back to smiling farms,
Recoiling from the crash and smoke and roar.
Meadows, all verdant, faerie fields, whose charms
Serve for a space to make them as before.
And peaceful pictures of the days of yore,
With thrilling thoughts of those they left behind
Flash thro' the mental vision, and a score
Of letters brightly occupy the mind
Without a care, or woe, or doubt of any kind.

Anon they journey from this place of rest
By night or early dawn back to the brink
Of that volcanic crater where the best
Sit tight, scarce caring if they swim or sink.
Silent they bear it, as they quietly think
The end approaching to their life at last,
And face each other, with a smile or wink
Outwardly stoic, tho' their hearts beat fast
As, thumping down, great shells come ra