THE RIVER 



The little story is not mine, unhappily the 



words are. I wish you could have it as it 



came, smelling of the Flanders soil, from 



one sick and wearying for home. 

 * * * 



A quiet evening, as evenings went in the 

 firing-line, with a soft southerly wind, and 

 rain at the back of it. 



Captain Bruce put his head into a dug- 

 out where two subalterns of the Canadian 

 regiment to which he was attached were 

 resuming an oft-interrupted game of chess. 



— 'Stenson, MacDougal, this is Major 

 Bartlet, — over with your last contingent, 

 and sent up here to see how we live in the 

 pleasant land of Flanders.' 



'Come in. Captain; glad to see you. Ma- 

 jor. What's the best word from our Lady 

 of the Snows? — excuse the shortcomings of 

 our menage in the matter of furniture, 

 pray take a biscuit-box.' 



The new comer reviews with a discern- 

 ing eye the little dodges that made life en- 

 durable in the small damp cave. 



'Not exactly the Ritz, but Pve slept in 

 worse, and hope to again.' 

 145 

 10 



