In course of conversation with a soldier, I questioned the advisability of his proceeding to the trenches. 'Oh,' he declared, 'it is all right; no matter where I may be, if a shell has my number on it, I will have to take delivery, whether I like it or not.' While working in the lines a few days later a shell penetrated the parapet and buried its nose in the clay at the edge of the duck-boards. Allowing sufficient time to elapse to ascertain whether it was 'alive' (it proved to be a 'dud') he then examined the base of the shell, and was astonished to read thereon his regimental number. Such coincidences tend to strengthen the superstitious tendencies of the soldier, and the effect upon most minds is to lead them to believe that a man's death or deliverance is absolutely due to Fate, which is just another way of saying, 'There's a Divinity which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we may.' [Illustration: TO THE WIDOWS OF FRANCE] ON THE EVE OF BATTLE TO THE WIDOWS OF FRANCE Eyes that have rained tears, lips that have trembled, Twitching convulsively, torn with their grief. Now face us bravely with pride undissembled, Glad to have suffered to show their belief. Troop upon troop of them, some walking singly, Weaker ones plodding in pairs for support; Mates to the spirits of men who were kingly, Coming from Matins with old men's escort. Ask them, ye watchers, inquire their elation, Tell them ye wonder they bear them so brave. Proudly they'll answer, 'La belle France, our nation, Requires us to suffer, our country to save.' To save from the maw of the great avaricious, The cold scheming brain of a commerce run mad-- A commerce all-grasping and sordid and vicious; For this are we martyred, for this are we glad. Then the soul of the Springtime, the great resurrection, Shines bright in their faces, they wave to the car, Packed tight with our comrades, a cheery collection, As we dash thro' the streets to the trenches afar. And France comes to meet us, to cheer us and greet us, As we race past the fields to the woods brightly green, Whose young leaves half rustle with a great show of bustle When we halt at the fairest of spots ever seen.[1] Where the old kings of history, now shrouded in myst'ry, Once hunted the boar, or the feather, or fur. But we feel this is over as we wade thro' the clover, No tyrant again in this great wood shall stir. For France now demands it; however she stands it, However those brave ones in thousands can smile, Requires some explaining, so cease all complaining, And come on and battle and make it worth while. Yes! on to the thunder, tho' it's a blunder, On to the swish and the whine and the roar; With the memoried face of one you called 'treasure,' Above and around and ever before.