I may breakfast in either of two ways. I may, as I pass a steaming field-kitchen, hold out by its long handle a shining aluminum basin. John Wilkert will put into it a big ladleful of rice, and Leo Maher will pour golden syrup over it. Also, before I leave the line I shall have three long strips of broiled bacon and two thick slices of white bread, and a canteen cup full of hot, sweet coffee. The breakfast room is a meadow or the roadside across from the barracks. There is good company, hungry and mirthful. And over our heads noisy battalions of crows maneuver, advancing, retreating, hoarsely shouting down to us news of what awaits us beyond the frozen hills. Or I may go to the House by the Fountain. Pierre’s “permission” is over, so he will not come in from the stable to smoke my tobacco and tell me of life and death in the trenches. _Grandpere_ sits by the fire, now and then blowing it to flame by forcing his scant old breath upon it through a long hollow tube, and toasting for me a thick slice of war-bread. Madame superintends the heating of the big iron pot of this morning’s milk and the three-legged pot of coffee. Now my bowl--a little precious sugar in the bottom--is filled with hot milk. Madame deftly pours black coffee into it, and it becomes richly brown. I break my toast into it and eat eagerly--more eagerly than does demure little Francine, who sits opposite me, her school books beside her on the bench. She has large innocent brown eyes like her father’s. Her hands are so tiny that I am surprised at her dexterity with the large pewter spoon. I am afraid that if I stare at her I shall embarrass her and make her spill _cafe au lait_ on her immaculate pinafore. On the great stone mantel over the fire are a spent seventy-five millimetre shell curiously engraved with wreaths of roses, a pink china pig and a brass crucifix. A bugle sounds by the barracks. I give Madame her half-franc. I take my belt and rifle. “Bon jour, Monsieur,” says Madame, “A demain!” Some day instead of “a demain” they will say “au revoir.” “TRY A TIN TO-DAY” “And now,” said John Potts, whirling around on the piano-stool and throwing his lank forelock back with a jerk of his head, “we will interpret Grace Mallon’s soul!” “Oh, wait till she comes, John!” boomed the Rev. Morris Gildell. “She was at the Karl Marx Forum in our parish-house last night, and she said positively she’d be down here this afternoon.” “Yes, do wait!” said Mrs. Anna Watkins Wilbur, placing her fat hands, covered with rings set with semiprecious stones, over those of the pianist. “Do wait! It will be wonderful for her to hear it!”