A valued contributor writes: "Would you like this new Scotch reel, inspired by the pipes of the bonny Highlanders, who for a week made a little Scotland of Melun? On Wednesday, the 2nd, I was in the town and saw the good women rush from the streets into their houses, crying in dreadful voices, 'Les Allemands!' And there, by the old church, round the corner, came the Highlanders! I stood still on the pavement and sang 'Scots wha hae' at the top of my old cracked voice, and they, appreciating the welcome, and excusing the minstrelsy, waved their hands to me. The Staff was here, the Flying Corps, three regiments, English and Scottish--such brave, bright, orderly, kind young men. On September 6 the cannon sounded very near. I went into the street and said to a demure, douce young Highlander, 'Do ye think the Germans are coming?' And he replied, 'I'fe been hearing, Matam, that the Chermans will hafe been hafing a pit of a set-pack.' It was in this modest manner that I heard of the victory of the Marne." A NEW SCOTCH REEL [Sidenote: _From the "Times" Sept. 24, 1914_] Dance, since ye're dancing, William, Dance up and doon, Set to your partners, William, We'll play the tune! See, make a bow to Paris, Here's Antwerp-toon; Off to the Gulf of Riga, Back to Verdun-- Ay, but I'm thinking, laddie, Ye'll use your shoon! Dance, since ye're dancing, William, Dance up and doon, Set to your partners, William, We'll play the tune! What! Wad ye stop the pipers? Nay, 'tis ower-soon! Dance, since ye're dancing, William, Dance, ye puir loon! Dance till ye're dizzy, William, Dance till ye swoon! Dance till ye're dead, my laddie! We play the tune! DESPATCHES [Sidenote: _"Touchstone" in the "Daily Mail"_] Swift as a bullet out of a gun He passed me by with an inch to spare, Raising a dust-cloud thick and dun While the stench of lubricant filled the air. I must admit that I did not like The undergrad on his motor-bike. I have seen him, too, at the wayside inn, A strapping lad scarce out of his teens, Grimy, but wearing a cheerful grin; A young enthusiast, full of beans, While his conversation was little better Than pure magneto and carburetter. Now he has got the chance of his life, The chance of earning glorious scars, And I picture him scouring a land of strife, Crouching over his handle-bars, His open exhaust, with its roar and stench, Like a Maxim gun in a British trench. Lad, when we met in that country lane Neither foresaw the days to come, But I know that if ever we meet again My heart will throb to your engine's hum, And to-day, as I read, I catch my breath At the thought of your ride through the hail of death!