When spring came again to the shell-torn fields near Verdun, we saw how Nature in places was reclothing the meadows in their mantles of green and around the ruined, tenantless homes along the Meuse, how the primrose and violet were covering up the scars made by unnumbered shells. The air was filled with the joyous notes of the lark, and the linnet and the black-cap warbled among the hedgerows. Here where once had dwelt the peasant, the cuckoo called from the evergreens and nightingales made the evening breeze vocal with their rapturous notes. This wealth of flowers and song only served to call up bitter memories for, alas! how many brave hearts lay sleeping in that vast abode of the dead, all unmindful of the beauty of flower or joy of song about them. Slowly we made our way from the flower gardens to the French cemetery, where thousands of valiant Poilus who had said: "they shall not pass" were sleeping. We saw where the hand of affection had planted the fleur-de-lis or hung beautiful bead- wrought wreaths upon the crosses until this abode of the dead resembled a vast flower garden. Just to the west and divided by a narrow road, our own American heroes were resting. Here we reverently paused and placed a wreath of ivy inwrought with flowers, upon the grave of Lieut. Lady and another on that of our own Ambrose Schank as a last loving tribute to all who had so dearly purchased the peace we now enjoy. While thinking of those other dear friends, Corporal Edgar Browder, of Chicago, and Lieut. Erk Cottrell, of Greenville, Ohio, who perished nobly upon the field of duty, we felt the significance of the words of the poet: "In Flanders fields the poppies grow, Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the dead; short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe! To you from falling hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high; If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep though poppies grow In Flanders fields." If you are approaching Gettysburg for the first time you cannot help but admire those even swells that stretch away from South Mountain like an emerald sea. No doubt you will begin to wonder where the town is situated as you advance. Numerous low ridges are crossed and at last the famous town lies before you. What a charming situation it has! Vast waves of undulating meadow and farm land appear with fields of gleaming grain and clamps of elm, oak and maple to break its smoothly flowing billows. Farther away rise higher treeless ridges or wooded slopes, but all alike are smoothly flowing.