Pierre des Corps, a suburb of Tours. Here we had a long halt; coffee was served by the Red Cross, and life took on a far brighter aspect. Seated in car doors, the lighter spirits of the Battery passed the time by commenting on the M. P.'s, the R. T. O. and similar inoffensive beings. "Who won the war?" some wit would shout, whereupon thirty voices would answer as one, "The M. P.'s. One M. P. rashly tried to argue, but was quickly routed and retired in disorder amid a storm of exultant howls. The appearance of Q. M. C. men instantly brought forth the song "Mother, Pull in Your Service Flag, Your Son's in the S. O. S.," to the tune of ' :'Where do we go from here," a sprightly song, but rather unfair to the highly essential S. O. S.

                While we waited, a passenger train drew up between us and the station. The door of a first class compartment opened and out popped a "Y" man. Beaming all over, with outstretched hand he advanced toward our cars. In the mind of the Battery, an outstretched Y. M. C. A. hand can mean but one thing; so those men at the doors dug down into their pockets with sighs of resignation, and tossed five- centime pieces to the approaching Red Triangle man who fled under this novel barrage.

                Toward four in the afternoon our train pulled out, to the obvious relief of the M. P.'s, and R. T. O., and away we jolted on the last lap of our journey. Six o'clock, and our train slowed down, halted, and at a blast from the top-sergeant's whistle, out we tumbled, giving silent thanks that it was Still light, for

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