a fatherly sort of man, a
real block of Caledonian Railway thrown, tartanised, into a trench.

"How are you, Jock?" I said. I had never met him before.

"Are you Pat MacGill?"

I nodded assent.

"Man, I've often heard of you, Pat," he went on, "I worked on the Sou'
West, and my brother's an engine driver on the Caly. He reads your
songs a'most every night. He says there are only two poets he'd give a
fling for--that's you and Anderson, the man who wrote _Cuddle Doon_."

"How do you like the trenches, Jock?"

"Not so bad, man, not so bad," he said.

"Killed any one yet?" I asked.

"Not yet," he answered in all seriousness. "But there's a sniper over
there," and he pointed a clean finger, quite untrenchy it was, towards
the enemy's lines, "And he's fired three at me."

"At you?" I asked.

"Ay, and I sent him five back ----" (p. 237)

"And didn't do him in?" I asked.

"Not yet, but if I get another two or three at him, I'll not give much
for his chance."

"Have you seen him?" I asked, marvelling that Big Jock had already
seen a sniper.

"No, but I heard the shots go off."

A rifle shot is the most deceptive thing in the world, so, like an old
soldier wise in the work, I smiled under my hand.

I don't believe that Big Jock has killed his sniper yet, but it has
been good to see him. When we meet he says, "What about the Caly,
Pat?" and I answer, "What about the Sou' West, Jock?"

On the first Sunday after Trinity we marched out from another small
village in the hot afternoon. This one was a model village, snug in
the fields, and dwindling daily. The German shells are dropping there
every day. In the course of another six months if the fronts of the
contending armies do not change, that village will be a litter of red
bricks and unpeopled ruins. As it is the women, children and old men
still remain in the place and carry on their usual labours with the
greatest fortitude and patience. The village children sell percussion
caps of German shells for half a franc each, but if the shell (p. 238)
has killed any of the natives when it exploded, the cap will not be
sold for less than thirty sous. But the sum is not too dear for a
nose-cap with a history.

There are a number of soldiers buried in the graveyard of this place.
At one corner four different crosses bear the following names: Anatole
Series, Private O'Shea, Corporal Smith and under the symbol of the
Christian relig