Angust 21, 1915. 
LAND AND W ATEE. 
than a hundred miles away, seem but a dream. Yet they are 
realities that will sadden, the epttages of France and the 
meadows and homesteads of England for many years to come. 
The sun will never shine quite as brightly again for my 
generation, and for the generation that is younger than mine. 
The sighing of the leaves as summers pass by may soften the 
bitterness of our remembrance, but;., the sweet, jolly laughter 
of childhood and youth — more wekpipe. .than eyex: — will, ever 
recall the voices of some whQ trod with u? th?se. woodland 
paths,. .but rose and left us.at,the call, of duty, . . , ....-, 
And died (uncouthly most) in foreign lands 
For some idea but dimly understood , 
Of au English city never built by'hsm'ds '• -^ ■ • v ■ • •> 
Which love of England prompted and made good. 
So dimly I also realise how the flood of pain" and suffering 
will not have flowed in vain for the kinship of men and the 
spirit of national liberty — that pain, the child of hate, is the 
parent of love, that through pain we reach love, aiid through 
love may come the redemption of a nation. 
Even in Belgium, through a mist of desolation and hate, 
gleam rare moments, the niore wonderful, memorable for 
impressions fragrant with poetry of hope, and promise. I re- 
call drives to Nieuport on frosty, nights, when the winds 
were hushed. After reaching Oost-Duntirk, lamps have to 
be extinguished, and the rest of the journey pursued in the 
darkness, however intense, except when the scene is fitfully 
illuminated by the rockets sent up from the opposing trenches. 
But no lights are needed when, on such nights, the moon 
makes plain the white road, the challenging sentries, and 
betrays the quiet batteries half concealed in the plantations 
of twisted. firs. Or w;hen the haze of the dawn slips away, 
uncovering the placid star-set heavens and a landscape 
resembling the rolling desert of Egypt. As the ambulance 
moves in silence over the drifted sand, along the road that 
leads to Nieuport Bains, the sun will rise and the dunes clothe 
themselves in the golden red of its glory. 
Just so centuries past did the sun rise over the same 
unchanging stretch of sand with its soft breast-shaped 
dunes; so centuries hence the peasant or passenger will 
watch its rays redden over the waking landscape, its rolling 
sand-valleys and uplifted hillocks. And as in centuries 
gone by, so now and for untold centuries to come, the soldier- 
children of the mother-earth will draw sustenance from her 
breast^, and, after their fierce brief fight, find in her bosom 
deep, sleep unchallenged, restoring and purifying their souls 
for a nobler life and kindlier deeds. 
FINLAY, V.a A HERO'S WELCOME, 
!* By Mary MacLeod Moore. 
WITH the pipers of the band of the Black 
Watch from Bridge of Earn playing " The 
Highland Soldier," as their kilts swung 
with, a dash unknown to the dull trews of 
the other side of .the Border, Sergeant 
David Finlav, V.C., 2nd Black Watch, and his bride 
of a few Iiours beside him came into Glenfarg. 
It was a great home-coming. 
The twenty-two-year-old Scottish ploughboy who 
ran away five years ago to be a iibldier returned, having 
w.on .the highest honour his King could bestow for 
valour — that little bronze badge that marks a man out 
and sets him apart as braver than his fellows. 
Son of a shepherd and of a patient, gentle mother 
who has borne eleven children is the young V.C. 
" Little did we think when he ran awa' that he'd iver 
come hame like this," .said the mother.' 
The hero's arrival at the home of his father and 
mother was quite undramatic. The first his parents 
Knew of the arrival of their son was when he struck 
matches to see his brothers and sisters, some born since 
his departure five years before. 
The whole of the far-flung parish of Arngask 
turned out to combine an une.Kpected wedding recep- 
tion with a public reception for the presentation of a 
gold watch and a purse of sovereigns. The wedding 
reception was Finlay's little surpri.se. There was a boy 
and girl love affair five years ago between Finlay and 
Christina Cunningham, and the renewal of the courtship 
and the marriage were the result of thi'ee days. 
From over the hills and far away, adown the pic- 
turesque roads, and from every house in Glenfarg came 
the people, gentle and simple, to cheer the V.C. There 
were motors full of people from the big houses, and there 
were barefooted, liatLe.ss bairns running breathlessly to 
points of vantage on the road through which Finlay 
mast pass. There was the white-haired minister, who 
later prayed fervently for this .soldier and for all our 
soldiers; there was the Army chaplain, alert and force- 
ful, whose grandfather was a Black Watch chaplain one 
hundred years ago; there were village lads, grinning 
and shy ; there were old people, and there were young 
girls in their summer finery. 
Acrcss the village street, upon which the Lomonds 
look down, danced lines of flags, and outside the local 
hotel there was a mighty show of decoration, with the 
Scottish lion ramping proudly over all. 
One looked up the hilly rbad ahd heard the wail of 
the pipes. One looked at the rows' bf jiebple lining the 
route of the little procession. One thrilled to think that 
the spirit of the Scottish heroes of oltf clays Uyed in their 
descendants. ' '. ," 
I lilt 
' l.'kKt > 
.:..,.. . t. 
The pipers came nearer — kilts, bonnets, sunburned 
faces. Then the great sight of the evening, a motor-car 
bearing a shy hero who blushed, his bride, and the bride- 
groom's father. A great shout went up, and with one 
accord the people turned and ran behind the car on its 
way to the public hall of the village. 
The presentation was to have been made with 
decorum and ceremony within doors, but the crowd was 
too large, and none must be disappointed. Who knew 
what V.C.'s in embryo there might be in the gathering? 
A platforni was hastily improvised, and out in the open 
air, with a thundery sky for canopy, the V.C. and his 
escort of local celebrities took their places, while the 
people stood watching silently and intently. 
One, though intent and silent, was not standing. 
" Cud ye gie a mon a seat in your motor-car.?." 
said' a voice; " he has nae legs." 
Borne on the shoulders of a man in khaki came a 
tragic reminder of the cruelty of war — a soldier in mufti, 
legless and half blind, but bright and smiling and ready 
to cheer with the best for the young comrade v/ho had 
won all he could never hope for. The contrast was 
bitter. Yet that face, seen through a mist of tears, 
made one feel afresh that there are victories far greater 
than those for which outward and visible decoration is 
awarded. 
Finlay, V.C, is no speaker. The other addresses 
were made, the gold watch was handed to the sergeant, 
and he rose amid loud cheers. Brown-eyed, honest, 
and brave, his white teeth gleamed in his bronzed face 
as he said, in broad vScotch : 
" Thank you, people of this parish. Thai's a' I'm 
gaeing to say." . . 
Over and over came three times three, and not only 
for the soldiers, but for the mother of the V.C. and for 
all the other mothers who wake in the night to wonder 
if all is well with their boys or listen in vain for a step 
for ever silent. 
"Carry him," shouted someone; And there was 
a ru.sh. Finlay struggled. 
" Wha's the wife? Come awa', lass! " he cried. 
It was no use. Shoulder-high they bore, him, pre- 
ceded by the band, bonnets cocked, and kilts flying, and 
followed by the whole village to the hotel where the 
wedding fea.st waited. 
Forming a wide circle, behind which the people 
crowded, the pipers da.shed into wild Scottish music, 
while feet beat time and iieads nodded. Thunder clouds 
rolled high overhead and above the purple hills, but 
ehtrainced the people sto<xi, thrilled by the magic music, 
^vhiIe Scotland's lion and the Union Jack blew in the 
light hreeze.' 
19 
