We marched along, the sun was high; We marched along—the halt was nigh; We marched along, a little parched, It seemed we marched—and marched—and marched; We sang a song, a little dry, We sang a song, a halt was nigh. The whistle blew, ah! welcomed cry-- 'Halt!'--welcomed rest from wearied road, With opened tunic, laid-down load; Ah! welcomed rest with opened vest, 'Twere worth that strain to rest again! H. H. V. CROSS, London Rifle Brigade. 'A Route March in Northern France, 1916.' I A QUIET NIGHT ON THE WESTERN FRONT We are getting near IT at last. We have started our march through the quaint Flemish villages, past canals where long strings of barges, painted grey, and bearing the marks of the wonderful Army Service Corps of the British Army, are being towed steadily forward. Occasionally, we march through good French towns, with their fine churches and cathedrals. We hate the pavé. It is hard for marching; but we recognize that it is a great advantage to possess such hard roads to bear the enormous War traffic of great guns and heavy motor-lorries, proceeding constantly to the front. Our band cheers us up. We are proud of it. The tunes we like best are, 'Advance, Australia Fair,' 'Australia will be There,' and 'Bonnie Dundee.' The women and children and a few old men come out to cheer and clap, and, occasionally, we see some woman in black turn aside to weep. Is she thinking of some brave husband or son who marched to the front just as gaily as we are doing, and who did not come back? But what rouses the enthusiasm of those stricken people is the 'Marseillaise.' When our band strikes up the martial strains of that most wonderful melody, the old men square their shoulders and the boys march bravely alongside us, and the whole roadside seems to be vibrant with the fighting spirit.