The Australian Mounted Division was pushing on from Damascus towards the country north of Aleppo, and the armistice was signed as they reached Homs, which marked the northern limit attained by the Light Horsemen. To-day, the force asks only one question: “Who goes Home—and when?” [Illustration: H. S. Gullett.] _Palestine, December, 1918._ [Illustration] Anthem Bells Heard ye the bells, the chapel bells, Pealing in Bethlehem? The vibrant swells, the solemn knells, On the eve of a requiem? Saw ye the trees When the gentle breeze Caressed the leaves of them? Heard ye the guns, the distant guns, That thundered down the vale, When comrades strode the mountain road To brave the battle gale?... O, see the worn, returning men whose march no fire could stem, And hear their song as they surge along The road to Bethlehem! O, hear the hoofs, the iron hoofs, Falling in Bethlehem, While sunlight flames on the ruddy roofs In the hills of Jerusalem! And if you’ve crossed the wilderness by well and palmy hod, Pray heed the bells, the heavenly bells, That call the folk to God. “GERARDY.” Palestine Poppies From the hills to the sea, a scarlet trail of flowers in the spring, when the little grey larks are singing and all the low country is green with barley. Wild flowers everywhere, yellow and purple and butterfly-blue—but the poppy is our choice. It glows on Australian graves in the plains and down by the sea where the surf croons all day long; it makes beautiful old battle-grounds, and flakes the wady’s brown banks with scarlet. The blood-red poppy is Palestine’s flower. At the wind’s touch petals fall from the slender stems to lie softly in the grass, as if some rare and lovely bird had shed its plumage there. The red poppy is our flower of War, and in the tranquil days of Peace will be our flower of Memory. Among the sea-dunes white lilies grow, and they, too, will have power to win us memories of Palestine, unclouded by sorrow; memories of the blue Mediterranean, serene as a summer sky, or flinging ramparts of foam alongshore. When we camped at Malala or Marakeb beach, heeding all day the call of the surf, the land wind bore to us faintly the scent of blossoms unseen. A colour, then, and a fragrance of flowers are the gifts we shall take overseas. One will bring memories tinged with sadness; the other of golden hours.