Singing is fostered by the high command. Who can estimate the influence of “Tipperary?” To me, American civilian in Paris, its mere melody will always stir those noble sentiments we felt as the first wounded English came to the American Ambulance Hospital of Neuilly. For many a year to come “Tipperary” will make British eyes wet, when, in the witching hour of twilight, it evokes the khaki figures in the glare of the sky-line and the dead who are unforgotten! Who can estimate, for France, the influence of that terrible song of Verdun—“_Passeront pas!_” Or who can forget the goose-step march to death of the Prussian Guard at Ypres, intoning “_Deutschland Uber Alles!_” “It is desired that the American Army be a singing army!” So ran the first words of a communication to the American public of Paris, asking for three thousand copies of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”—noble marching strophes of Julia Ward Howe, which 18641865 fired the hearts of the Northern armies in 1864-1865. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!... They are heard now on the American front in France. One regiment has adopted it “as our marching song, in memory of the American martyrs of Liberty.” And in Our Village, you may hear a noble French translation of it, torn off by inspired French grandmothers! I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I have read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; His day is marching on. Bear with me to hear three lines of this notable translation. Again they are by a woman, Charlotte Holmes Crawford, of whom I had never previously heard mention. They are word for word, vibrating! _Je L’ai entrevu Qui planait sur le cercle large des camps, On a érigé Son autel par les tristes et mornes champs, J’ai relu Son juste jugement à la flamme des feux flambants, Son jour, Son jour s’approche!_ It’s rather serious, you say? Rather solemn? Sammy doesn’t think so. * * * * * CUTE, WASN’T SHE? He was a young subaltern. One evening the pretty nurse had just finished making him comfortable for the night, and before going off duty asked: “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” Dear little Two Stars replied: “Well, yes! I should like very much to be kissed good-night.” Nurse rustled to the door. “Just wait till I call the orderly,” she said. “He does all the rough work here.” * * * * * EVERY ONE TO HIS TASTE Visitor—“It’s a terrible war, this, young man—a terrible war.” Mike (badly wounded)—“’Tis that, sor—a tirrible warr. But ’tis better than no warr at all.” TRENCH SUPERSTITIONS