Breakfast over, we sat down to wait for our next move, not caring particularly when it might come. We were at home and that was the main point; the rest would take care of itself.

                Time passed, the order was given, and we filed off in column of twos, down a long flight of stairs into the trainshed of the pier. Loaded with gifts from various War Relief societies, we climbed gingerly on board the train. No "40 Hommes, 8 Chev- aux" this time! Real American day-coaches and each man had a seat to himself! Luxuriously we placed our packs on the baggage racks and sank, with moans of pleasure, onto our soft cushions.

                The train glided slowly out of the pier, through the railroad yards amid a shrieking of whistles, and soon Boston was left behind. We were not alone, though, for it seemed that every inch of track was lined with waving, cheering people, and whenever the train slowed down, pies and cakes of all descriptions were passed in through the car windows. The tiniest station had its excited representatives, and at Framingham, we found a veritable mob of welcomers. All the way to Ayer it was the same story, an almost continuous line of people.

                So this is what New England thinks of the 26th!

                The train bumped and jolted through the yards at Ayer, finally coming to a smooth halt near some buildings, whose every line said unmistakably "U. S. Army." Slowly, as though we feared that it was all a dream, we climbed out of the train, and fell in, half dazed, on a smooth asphalt road, and marched away, possessed by a strong feeling of unreality. It was

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