a week ago a child lay face down after the bursting of a shell.
I see our armies arriving in Paris, now our second capital, and full for all time to come of vivid memories. I see a flower-girl on the platform of the Gare de Lyon handing up a flower to one of our wounded men, who is waiting in his carriage to be taken round to the Gare du Nord. "Ah, yes, Monsieur looks pale, but the air of England will soon bring the colour back to Monsieur's handsome face." I see our men arriving at Calais, welcomed with handshakes, and speeded on their homeward way with shouts. I see them crossing the grey waters of the Channel—the English Channel still, thank God, but now swept of its mines, its patrols and its destroyers. I see them arriving under Shakespeare's Cliff at the Admiralty pier at Dover, and going ashore amidst tumultuous greetings. I see them travelling up through Kent, and wondering if the world ever saw anything so beautiful, with its grass that is really green, its trees
