The section is on picket. Every time an aeroplane passes and the lieutenant, armed with his glasses, declares it to belong to the enemy, we fire at it. From time to time the machine may pitch a little, or ascend out of reach. Assuredly, this is not the sort of game for foot-soldiers. The commander of the company to-day addressed us as follows-- "Above the grotto are buried four Englishmen, killed here last month. On All Saints' Day you would not like their tombs, which you have seen so often, to appear neglected. Make some wreaths, and we will all go together and place them on the graves of those who died in defence of our soil. It is not your commander, it is your comrade who asks this of you." The men silently leave the ranks and set out into the wood. In less than an hour they have made up beautiful wreaths of ivy and holly. Chrysanthemums have been found in a garden which the Germans had forgotten to plunder. The graves, indicated by a couple of crosses, have become pretty tombs, similar to those one sees in a village cemetery. The entire company lined up on the hillock for the simple ceremony. Our lieutenant saluted in memory of our unknown brothers who have given their lives for France. We shouted aloud: "_Vive l'Angleterre!_" The picket rendered the honours due, and each man returned to his post. These dead heroes are Lieutenant B. MacCuire and Privates H.C. Dover, R. Byrne, and Ford, of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers. In offering these flowers to their memory, our thoughts were directed to the mourning families of the dead soldiers. _Sunday, 1st November._ A hot sun and a brilliant day, the right weather for a fête. The first line is calmer than ever. Not a cannon shot is heard. _Monday, 2nd November._ Three months since mobilization took place. We must allow for another three months before peace is declared. I have a row with Reymond because he pushed me and upset my coffee. Quarrel. Reymond is chosen to go on outpost duty; I ask permission to accompany him. Reconciliation. Corporal Davor conducts us through the winding passages, comes out in the field of beetroot, gets lost and makes straight for the German lines. He discovers his mistake just in time and we beat a retreat. Sergeant Chaboy, making his round, stops to have a few words with us. "Expect to be fired upon shortly," he says. "An attack is brewing from the direction of Condé." After a silence, he adds-- "If the shells fall in too great numbers you may withdraw." "When do shells fall in too great numbers for an outpost?" asks the corporal timidly. With a vague gesture, the sergeant leaves us to solve the problem ourselves.