circuitous way to the Strand. Tramping through a six-inch-deep flood of broken glass he made his way by the Embankment and the Waterloo Bridge steps to the upper level, that leading to, and past, Peter the Great Terrace.

A vast host was now westward from over the river, and he felt the electric currents of joyous excitement, retrospective fear, and, above all, of eager, almost ferocious, curiosity, linking up rapidly about him. The rough and ready cordon of special constables seemed powerless to dam the human tide, and caught in that tide's eddies, Sherston struggled helplessly.

"Let me through," he shouted at last. "I must get through!" "You can't get through just here-there's a house been struck in Peter the Great Terrace! "Twas the last bomb did it!"

Sherston uttered a groan-Ah! If only that were true! But he had just now glanced up and seen the row of big substantial eighteenth century houses, of which his was the end one, solidly outlined against the star-powdered sky, though every pane of glass had been blown out.

Then some one turned round. "It's the corner house been struck. Bomb fell right through the skylight. They've sent for the firemen to see what damage was done. You can't see anything from this side."

Through the skylight?

Sherston was a powerful man. He forced his way, he did not know how, blindly, to the very front of the crowd.

Yes, there were two firemen standing by the low, sunk-in door, that door through which he had come and gone hundreds, nay thousands, of times, in his life. So much was true, but everything else was as usual. "I live here," he said hoarsely. "Will you let me through?"

The fireman shook his head. "No, sir. I can't let any one

through. And if I did 'twould be no good. The staircase is clean gone a great big stone staircase, too! It's all in bits, just like a lot of rubble. The front of the house ain't touched, but the center and behind-well, sir, you never did see such a sight!"

"Any one hurt?" asked Sherston in a strangled tone. He felt a most extraordinary physical sensation of lightness-of-ofwas it dissolution?-sweep over his mind and body. He heard as in a far away dream the answer to his question.

"There was no one in the house at all, from what we can make out. The caretaker had a lucky escape, or he'd be buried alive by now, but he and his missus had already gone out to see the sights."

A moment later the fireman was holding Sherston in his big brawny arms, and shouting "An ambulance this way-send along a nurse please gentleman's fainted!" The crowd parted eagerly, respectfully. "Poor feller!" exclaimed one woman in half piteous, half furious tones. "Those damned Germans-they've gone and destroyed the poor chap's little all. I heard him explaining just now as what he lived here!"

mail Belloc Lacedes

A CANADIAN SOLDIER'S DOMINION DAY AT

SHORNCLIFFE

IS THERE a holiday next Thursday?" inquired a Canadian an English confrére.

officer of an

"A holiday? Not that I know of. Why should there be?" "Why? Because it's Dominion Day."

"Dominion Day?" blankly echoed the English Officer.

"Yes! Did you never hear of it, you benighted Islander?"

"I really am afraid not," replied the English Officer, convicted by the Canadian's tone of nothing less than crime. "Just what is it?"

"Perhaps you have never heard of Canada?"

“Well, rather, we hear something of Canada these days."

Then, as the light began to break in on his darkened soul, “Ah,

I see, that is your Canadian National Day, is it not?"

"It is. And the question is 'Are we going to have a holiday?" " "Well, you see the King specially requested that there be no holiday on his birthday."

"The King's birthday! Oh, that's all right—but this is different, you see.

The Englishman looked mildly surprised.

"Oh, the King's all right," continued the Canadian, answering the other's look, "we think a lot of him these days. But-you know-Dominion Day-"

"I hope you may get it, old chap, but I fancy we are in for the usual grind."

The Canadian officer had little objection to the grind nor had his men. The Canadians eat up work. But somehow it did not seem right that the 1st of July slide past without celebration of any

kind. He had memories of that day, of its early morning hours when a kid he used to steal down stairs to let off a few firecrackers from his precious bunch just to see how they would go. Latterly he had not cared for the fireworks part of it except for the Kiddies. But somehow he was conscious of a new interest in Canada's birthday. Perhaps because Canada was so far away and the Kiddies would be wanting some one to set off their crackers. It was good to be in England, the beautiful old motherland, but it was not Canada and it did not seem right that Canada's birthday should be allowed to pass unmarked. So too thought the Commandant of the Shorncliffe Camp, a right good Canadian he.

"I have arranged a Tattoo for the evening," he announced in conversation with the Canadian Officer the day before the First. "What about a holiday, Colonel?" The Commandant shook his head.

"Well, then, a half-holiday?"

"No. At least," remembering the officer's ancestry and that he was a Canadian Highlander, "not officially, whateffer."

"Shall I get a rope for the Tug of War, do you think?"

"I think," replied the Commandant slowly with a wink in his left eye, "you might get the rope."

This was sufficient encouragement for the 43rd to go on with and so the rope was got and vaulting pole and standards with other appurtenances of a day of sports. And the preparations went bravely on. So also went on the Syllabus which for Dominion Day showed, Company Drill, Instruction Classes, Lectures, Physical for the forenoon, Bayonet fighting and Route marching for the afternoon.

"All right, let her go," and so the fields and plains, the lanes and roads are filled with Canadian soldiers celebrating their Dominion Day, drilling, bayonet fighting, route marching, while overhead

soars thrumming the watchful airship, Britain's eye. For Britain has a business on hand. Just yonder stretches the misty sea where unsleeping lie Britain's men of war. Beyond the sea bleeding Belgium has bloodsoaked ground crying to Heaven long waiting but soon at length to hear. And France fiercely, proudly proving her right to live an independent nation. And Germany. Germany! the last word in intellectual power, in industrial achievement, in scientific research, aye and in infamous brutality! Germany, the mighty modern Hun, the highly scienced barbarian of this twentieth Century, more bloody than Attila, more ruthless than his savage hordes. Germany doomed to destruction because freedom is man's inalienable birthright, man's undying passion. Germany! fated to execration by future generations for that she has crucified the Son of God afresh and put Him to an open shame. Germany! for the balking of whose insolent and futile ambition, and for the crushing of whose archaic military madness we Canadians are tramping on this Dominion Day these English fields and these sweet English lanes 5,000 miles from our Western Canada which dear land we can not ever see again if this monstrous threatening cloud be not removed forever from our sky. For this it is that 100,000 Canadian citizens have left their homes with 500,000 eager more to follow if needed, other sons of the Empire knit in one firm resolve that once more Freedom shall be saved for the race as by their sires in other days.

But the Tattoo is on-the ground chosen is the little plateau within the lines of the 43rd just below the Officers' tents, flanked on one side by a sloping grassy hill on the other by a row of ancient trees shading a little hidden brook that gurgles softly to itself all day long. On the sloping hill the soldiers of the various battalions lie stretched at ease in khaki-colored kilts and trews, caps and bonnets, except the men of the 43rd who wear the dark blue Glen