In fancy we saw once more the French peasants toiling in their fields of grain; over the once desolate region the skylarks were soaring and singing above emerald meadows, covered with the blue of the corn-flower and crimson of poppies; the pines were peacefully murmuring their age-old songs of freedom and content, unmindful of the conquer-lust of the Hohenzollerns; the evening sky was no longer profaned by the lurid illumination of star shells as they looped across the ghastly field; in what were once shell holes filled with poisonous water the frogs were piping; in the lovely gardens overlooking the Meuse the mavis and merle were singing; and in the violet dusk no hissing shells screamed their songs of death and destruction, and no crashing of forests were heard from far-thrown shells, but the heavy box- scented breeze bore the heavenly psalm of the nightingale. Across the road from the ward moving silently about the avenues of that vast "city of the dead," French mothers were scattering flowers on graves of their loved ones; and then it was understood why Chester Howland sang while the thundering cannon shook the wards. Soon for him there would be no weary marches, no days of terror and nights of pain. Ah, precious gold-star mother, rightly have you said it seems that he is just "away." The home he once brightened and filled with the beauty of his presence shall know him no more; but think to what radiant fields he has gone, for which you early taught him to prepare! There no cruel war will ever come to take him from your hearth- side. I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead--he is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand He has wandered into an unknown land, And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there, And you--O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes. Mild and gentle, as he was brave, When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things; where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed; While the little brown thrush that harshly chirped Was dear to him as the mocking bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain. Think of him still as the same, I say He is not dead--he is just away. --Riley.