the trees was generous with affectionate enthusiasm. And then, at a bugle call, the rest of the sea-soldiers charged shouting down the dusky aisles, climbed the platform, and sang their war songs with fine pride and spirit. "America, Here's My Boy"; "It's a Long, Long Way to Berlin, But We'll Get There, by Heck"; "Goodby, Broadway: Hello, France" and "There's a Long, Long, Trail" were the favorites. And then came the one song that of all others has permeated American fiber during the last year—"Over There." There is something of simple gallantry and pathos in it that I find genuinely moving. The clear, merry, audacious male voices made me think of their brothers in France who were, even at that very moment, undergoing such fiery and unspeakable trial. The great gathering under the trees seemed to feel something of this, too; there was a caught breath and a quiver of secret pain on every bench. "Over There," unassuming ditty as it is, has caught the spirit of our crusade with inspiration and truth. It is the informal anthem of our great and dedicated resolve.
As we walked back toward the station the rolling loops and webbed framework of the scenic railway were silhouetted black against a western sky which was peacock blue with a quiver of greenish crystal still eddying in it. The bullfrogs were drumming in the little ponds enameled with green scum. And from the train window, as we rattled down that airy valley, we could see the Grove's
