For the wars we fight to-day are not like other wars, and the wonders of them are unlike other wonders. If we do not see in them the saga and epic, how shall we tell of them? England “And then we used to have sausages,” said the Sergeant. “And mashed?” said the Private. “Yes,” said the Sergeant, “and beer. And then we used to go home. It was grand in the evenings. We used to go along a lane that was full of them wild roses. And then we come to the road where the houses were. They all had their bit of a garden, every house.” “Nice, I calls it, a garden,” the Private said. “Yes,” said the Sergeant, “they all had their garden. It came right down to the road. Wooden palings: none of that there wire.” “I hates wire,” said the Private. “They didn’t have none of it,” the N. C. O. went on. “The gardens came right down to the road, looking lovely. Old Billy Weeks he had them tall pale-blue flowers in his garden nearly as high as a man.” “Hollyhocks?” said the Private. “No, they wasn’t hollyhocks. Lovely they were. We used to stop and look at them, going by every evening. He had a path up the middle of his garden paved with red tiles, Billy Weeks had; and these tall blue flowers growing the whole way along it, both sides like. They was a wonder. Twenty gardens there must have been, counting them all; but none to touch Billy Weeks with his pale-blue flowers. There was an old windmill away to the left. Then there were the swifts sailing by overhead and screeching: just about as high again as the houses. Lord, how them birds did fly. And there was the other young fellows, what were not out walking, standing about by the roadside, just doing nothing at all. One of them had a flute: Jim Booker, he was. Those were great days. The bats used to come out, flutter, flutter, flutter; and then there’d be a star or two; and the smoke from the chimneys going all grey; and a little cold wind going up and down like the bats; and all the colour going out of things; and the woods looking all strange, and a wonderful quiet in them, and a mist coming up from the stream. It’s a queer time that. It’s always about that time, the way I see it: the end of the evening in the long days, and a star or two, and me and my girl going home. “Wouldn’t you like to talk about things for a bit the way you remember them?” “Oh, no, Sergeant,” said the other, “you go on. You do bring it all back so.” “I used to bring her home,” the Sergeant said, “to her father’s house. Her father was keeper there, and they had a house in the wood. A fine house with queer old tiles on it, and a lot of large friendly dogs. I knew them all by name, same as they knew me. I used to walk home then along the side of the wood. The owls would be about; you could hear them yelling. They’d float out of the wood like, sometimes: all large and white.” “I knows them,” said the Private. “I saw a fox once so close I could nearly touch him, walking like he was on velvet. He just slipped out of the wood.”