FROM BLOMIDON TO SMOKY. 9 



on Sunday morning. It was a warm day at 

 best, but when we had fairly pelted up a narrow 

 street set on the earth at an angle best adapted 

 to tobogganing, and gained the gateway of a 

 chapel yard, all nature seemed melting. The 

 hot air was moved, not by a vulgar breeze, but 

 by the tramp of military men, and by the 

 scampering of women and children who gazed 

 upon the military men, and grew redder in the 

 light reflected from their uniforms. There was 

 morning service in the garrison chapel, and the 

 redcoats were out in force to attend it. They 

 marched lightly, quickly, and with an elastic 

 step pleasant to see. They were good-looking 

 boys, as a rule, and when seated, hundreds 

 strong, in the wooden pews of the chapel, they 

 looked tidy and good enough to be mothers' own 

 boys safe at home in the wayside chapels of the 

 old country. Above them, in the walls, were set 

 a score of marble tablets commemorative of 

 British officers who had died in or near Halifax. 

 The ages of these fallen heroes seemed to range 

 from seventeen to about twenty-four. No won- 

 der England is a power on the earth, when her 

 fighters begin life in childhood, and her states- 

 men keep on ruling until near fourscore and 

 ten. 



The red-coated youths joined heartily in the 

 Church service, singing, responding, and listen- 



