long the line ten miles to north and south of us,
other flares light up the countryside. At the same instant there
breaks out the boom of our heavy guns, the sharp staccato of
sixty-pounders, the dull roar of howitzers, and the ear-splitting
clamour of whizz-bangs--a bedlam of noise. Shells whistle and whine
overhead; they cannot be distinguished one from another, but merge into
a cataract of sound.

". . . . The heavens are lighted up across their broad expanse by a
continuous sheet of lightning, playing relentlessly over the doomed
lines. Now a faint light of dawn shimmers in the east and soon blots
out the fireworks. A lark rises high, carolling. . . .

"The fog lifts. It is eight o'clock. The cavalry, a wonderful sight,
appear on the scene. They have come up from Hangest-sur-Somme and have
lain overnight in the great park of Amiens. Like a jack-in-the-box
they have sprung from nowhere--miles on miles of gay and serried ranks,
led by the Canadian Cavalry Brigade."

* * * * * *

On the 1913 side of this Wagnerian stage setting take a look at a real
estate office in Victoria, B.C. The junior member of the firm is a
pink-faced giant who had taught school and made no money, and having no
other qualification for getting ahead in the world, went into buying
and selling houses and corner lots. Victoria was booming then or he
never would have done it. He had maps of the city on his walls and
could solemnly point out to some timid newcomer in 1913 what little
house there or nice wooded lot yonder might suit her; and the
price--oh, yes, the price; seems high, but the location is excellent,
the neighbourhood fine, the scenery superb, and the city--well, it had
been going ahead until the slump and then----

"Oh, yes, Victoria's all right," he insists heavily. "Got sleeping
sickness, that's all."

Then he yawns, which is a relief to the lady client, who thinks that
his face is less ugly that way. Such a huge, long, solemn face! She
glances at the office, wondering--if the agent is hard up? If so, no
wonder; for he seems a sad salesman.

He closes his desk and locks up. Off to the rifle ranges, where he
stays as late as the eye can see because--well, it's a joy to help the
men get bull's eyes.

Sunday--marches in full Highland regalia at the head of the 50th Gordon
Highlanders on garrison parade. On the curb a twinkling little Jap
watches him.

"Nothin' like him in Jap