aken by mysterious death in his stall,
had been devoured; but the two pups, fat and tender, no one ventured
to attack. And they had the powerful protection of the cook. Still, it
made our mouths water to see them gambol in their sleekness. At length
came the memorable morning of the last sortie at Montretout. Then for
the first time we mounted the cook upon our coffee-pot wagon, with an
extra large _brassard_ around his arm, allowing him about three times
the ordinary amount of linen to show how peacefully and culinarily he
was neutral. Poor fellow! I am sorry to say he was soon demoralized
that day. The coffee he had brewed was a success, but he could not
stand Krupp shells. Long before one of them had exploded under
his coffee-pot he had wanted to go home. At that fearful moment he
completely lost his head and--his white cap. How he got back to the
hospital not even himself ever knew. It was long after nightfall when
he wandered in, weary, listless, sorrowful. One of the pups came up to
greet him as he crossed the threshold of the kitchen. The _chef_ met
that welcome with an unfeeling kick, he was so demoralized. The fate
of the pup was sealed. Scarce had the cook found his way to a bed in
one of the tents when the scullions made for the pup, and had his fat
frizzing on the gridiron and his bones dancing in a seething soup-pot.
We all had a feast that night. Even the cook himself had a greasy
morsel brought to his bedside. But somehow thenceforth the name of
that dog was never mentioned, and his brother led a more luxurious,
a sleeker life than ever. We had learned, I think, the old moral of
being moved by sorrow for the dead to be kinder to the living.

As I have said before, we became very well acquainted with many of the
wounded men at our hospital. With some, indeed, we contracted strong
friendships. We buried many by subscription, thus rescuing them from
the _fosse commune_ to which soldiers, French or German, were as a
rule consigned within the French lines. Among others was a fair-haired
Saxon by the name of Bruno, almost a boy in years, who was brought in
from Champigny. He won our hearts from the very first by asking that
a suffering Frenchman who lay beside him might have his wounds dressed
before his own. He was dangerously and painfully wounded himself,
yet no one ever heard him complain. I shall never hear the "Wacht am
Rhein" without thinking of him, for he was the first one that I ever
heard sing it. He