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through the streets, much mysterious
Finally, they said,
sniping was going on.

they located three German sharpshooters
in the belfry of a church, directly under the
shadow of the cross, shooting down on our
It took only a few shots to bring
soldiers.
these defilers of the sanctuary to cries for
mercy, and their surrender was accepted.

Private Robert Tibbert of Scranton, Pa.,
told of sniping from the second floor of
houses in Seringes, necessitating fierce com-
With his corporal
bats up narrow stairs.
he took seven German prisoners, all wearing
Red-Cross brassards on their arms.

Private Norman Dicks, of Washington, Wis., says that in the same town the Germans had placed a machine gun in the belfry of a church, and that the crew were dislodged only after a hard fight.

In the same area were found men chained to machine guns in trees, they having been told by their officers that the Americans took no prisoners. Several who had been killed were hanging dead from their chains, forming the most gruesome sight imaginable.

The New York World sings the praises of the Salvation lassies who have thrown their tambourines aside and busied themselves with rolling-pins and pie-manufacture as more fitting to the occasion:

They bake real home-made pies and feather-weight crullers that take the edge off a man's homesickness.

Every girl who wears the Salvation Army khaki in France must be a good cook. At one of their huts you bring about six cents and your plate for the evening's "special." These dishes are cakes and puddings, which aren't included in army rations.

One of the kitchens began with a tiny stove which would bake only one pie at a time. Soon a kindly quartermaster supplied the girls with an old field stove that cooked four at once; it looked big to those girls. But now they have a huge one and turn out hundreds of pies a day. At the canteen they sell them to soldiers who wait their turn in long lines. But some of the pies find their way into the trenches.

At night men set out with packs of provisions and crawl up to the boys with them. The enemy sends up star-shellslike arc-lights hung in mid-air-and the bearer ducks, crouching as still as the sandbags on either side of him. Then he reaches the outposts, where soldiers have lived on "iron rations" for two or three days. As yet, the Army has published no casualty list of pies at the front, but according to unofficial report, they don't last long.

At first there was a hard time finding tins for their pies. France does not appreciate American pastry, and had no dishes suitable for cooking it. A few weeks ago a French ship brought over 1,000 tins for use in the Salvation Army huts.

Pies won the Salvation Army its welcome at headquarters, according to a popular legend in France. They say that General Pershing asked only one question of the officer who arranged for the work there. "Can your girls bake good pies?" According to our soldiers, they can.

The day of a Salvation Army lass is long over there. She bakes and stews, she mends clothes for soldiers, and answers a thousand questions. When she gets up in the cold winter mornings she builds the wood-fire in her room. Once a vigorous captain arranged a schedule by which each of her three workers should build the fire for a month. Her turn would have come

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FORGETFULNESS

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The Home Life of the Ancient GREEKS

Translated from the German of Prof. H. BLUMNER
By ALICE ZIMMERN (Girton College, Cambridge)
With Over Two Hundred Illustrations

The purpose of this volume is to present, in a clearly written and
attractive style, a description of all sides of life in ancient Greece.
While to the student, by illuminating the many allusions to cus-
toms and manners, it will make clear the preparation for, and
study of, the Greek texts, its interest will be equally felt by the
general reader. The Nation, New York, says: "It is a book
which may be used either for consecutive reading, or, owing to
its full index, for reference."

Large 12mo, cloth. Profusely illustrated and thoroughly indexed.
Price $2.00 Net; average carriage charges, 12c.

FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, Publishers, 354 Fourth Avenue, New York City

around in April, but the others protested, so she continued to rise early during February. She discovered that the only water without

a coating of ice was that in their hot-water bottles. So every morning she would unscrew the cap of the bottle and pour its contents into her wash-bowl.

During the day the phonograph spins steadily. Every record sent across from the New York headquarters is played until the tune is shaved off. Then there are the reading and writing corners of the huts, where men can be quiet for a time, unless a bombardment interferes.

In the evening there is a religious service in the hut. Every night it is crowded by soldiers who enjoy singing the familiar hymns. The same girls lead these meetings who have worked since dawn. Men preach and pray after driving a heavy motortruck, or hammering all day at the walls of some new shack. Later, some of them will run a moving-picture machine, or make their night deliveries of food to the trenches. Sometimes the working-day is eighteen hours. One Englishwoman has served four years, without a day of rest, in the British huts.

Pies, doughnuts, hot coffee, and phonographs, are all part and parcel of a great, virile faith, found vigorous and watchful on every battle-front. In bomb raids, where panic-stricken refugees flee in terror, the Salvation Army, the Red Cross, the Y. M. C. A., the Knights of Columbus proclaim by deeds the faith that is in them. The World continues:

American soldiers in France will always think of the Salvation Army as a dispenser of pies and doughnuts, a store for the sale of everything from chocolate to shoestrings. But they will also remember the religious work of the Salvation Army, its meetings and songs. Some of these meetings have even been held in the Catholic churches of France, which shows the good feeling between the leaders. Then there are the quiet talks with the men or girls of the units, girls who can cook fudge-just a tiny piece for each-and talk like the girls at home.

So welcome have they made themselves at the front that Army officers are asking for huts at special places. Once, when a Salvation Army lass was ill, a gruff colonel insisted on turning over his comfortable billet to her, while he went into a tent. Often army officers address meetings at the huts.

These men and women are not only soldiers of the faith, but, when need be, stand side by side with the boys before the Hun guns and gases. Such a man the New York Evening Telegram tells of:

John T. Atkins, who was a Salvation Army major in Chicago, but now is serving with a famous battalion of the United States Army as a Salvation Army worker, has been mentioned in battalion and regimental orders and has been several times "over the top" with the battalion. He has been acclaimed the most popular man in the battalion and recommended for a commission as chaplain by the regimental

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commander.

"Major" Atkins, who is known to the officers and men of the battalion as the "little major" to distinguish him from the real majors of the organization, is said to carry the good luck of the unit with him. The boys believe that when he is with them

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light. On one occasion, when a raid was to be undertaken, the little major's unit suffered only four casualties, while the organization which followed them into action suffered severely.

When pay-day was a long time coming recently the "little major" gave each man in the battalion an order for seven francs on the canteen. Each took advantage of the "jawbone," as the Army boys call a loan, and when pay-day came not one failed to show up to the "little major" with the return payment.

Creed makes no difference when men want "to do their bit."

Anxious to be of service to his country, and believing his vacation-period this year was no time to loaf, says The World:

The Rev. Chester J. Hoyt of the Vincent Methodist Episcopal Church, Nutley, N. J., is working in the plant of the International Arms and Fuse Company, Bloomfield. He gets 284 cents an hour, the same as his seventeen-year-old son Robert. They are inspectors.

IN THE BRITISH TRENCHES BEFORE THE GERMAN STORM BROKE

SON

OMEWHAT akin to the weather sense of a wise old farmer, it seems, is the fighting sense of a well-seasoned British Tommy in the present stage of the war. As the farmer foretells changes in the weather by signs that would escape the city-dweller completely, so the battle-wise Tommy, by a bit of unusual shelling, or some sign of camouflaging activity, predicts the storms of flying steel and tornadoes of poison-gas that are forever breaking over the fighting-lines.

Whatever was the information of the
British higher command about the time
set for the beginning of the last great Teu-
tonic storm on the British front, the
veteran British soldier had a good deal of
definite information on the subject, says
Newman Flower, writing in Cassell's
Magazine.

Mr. Flower met
a war-weather-wise
Tommy just outside Ypres a few hours
before the storm broke. The Tommy ate
an orange, and cheerfully mentioned that
there was fresh war in the air. The writer
comments:

He was one of a type. He knew the
Boche was coming, and he knew it would be
red murder when he came.
between Ypres and Bapaume were like
The men I met
that. They waited for the Boche, they
realized and openly said that they might
be forced back somewhat by sheer weight
of numbers, but they figured out what the
Boche would pay per inch for the ground
he took.

And they knew, what thousands in
Britain did not know during the next few
days, that battles are not decided with the
yard measure.

Ypres was a queer place that day. It was very peaceful and restful in spots and noisy and unhealthy in others. We walked up through what may have been a city till the war made it an abortion, over the canal with the big shell-holes plugged in its banks, through the Menin Gate and

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down the road. Shells were dropping into the cemetery on the right of the street and flung gravestones and the remnants of stones high in the air like white feathers in the sunlight, disturbing nothing save the sanctity of the dead. Some freshly mangled horses were lying here and there. And there were ugly pools of blood that explained a lot.

An officer went up to the sentry. "Lively here this morning," he said calmly, as if he were a doctor inquiring after the health of his patient.

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men.

It was out toward Zonnebeke. The soft ground was pocked with shell-craters half full and more with water. Stooping down at one was a soldier shaving with a safety razor. He paid not the slightest attention to the aerial disturbance above as German "heavies" swung over. And in the middle of the water which served for his toilet a dead German floated, with the wavelets, made by the dabbling of the Tommy, breaking against the gray ugliness that had been a human face.

One of the greatest mysteries of the holocaust has been the accommodation of the gentler side of the human temperament But to the extreme sordidness of war. for it thousands-it may even have been millions would have gone down through the sheer uprooting of that mental refinement and comfortable orderliness of life to which they had always been accustomed. No one has yet written an epic about the sufferings of some of these during the readjustment of outlook. It has been a hidden miracle of endurance.

Shortly afterward the writer, after passing a bunch of men who were singing in the midst of the desolation all around them, came upon an American doctor; and the doctor, also, had news of the coming offensive. Much of the doctor's news, as is a very common way in this war, was too horrible to be put into words. Mr. Flower writes:

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names. Come and

"I've been here three years," said the doctor, after the exchange of "Seen something? Guess so. have a look round. Forty-two casualties in my station already this morning."

I looked at my watch; it was a quarter to eleven.

our feet.

We followed him to a dark hole in a broken-down wall. We bent our heads and crept through, feeling for steps with We went on down somewhere into the dark; we crawled along a narrow passage and then into somewhere else. And as we crept cautiously forward the atmosphere grew warmer and came in little gusts at one with a mixture of odors which at first I could not sort out.

We reached the main chamber. Probably before the hell came to Flanders it had been a rat-infested cellar. The air was heavy; one breathed in the smell of anæsthetics and blood and sweat. The wounded were being brought in, and they lay around on stretchers. Men shell-torn,

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