Once more the chaplain steps forward, and a new funeral service is commenced. Again great, powerful men weep. Some grow faint, some pray, some curse. "Oh, God! oh, God!" is the cry which comes from bursting hearts as comrades are recognised, and soil is sprinkled over them by hard, rough hands, which tremble now as they never trembled in the face of a foe. Then the burial parties get to work, gently as a sweet woman tucks the bedclothes round her sleeping child. The soft soil falls kindly upon the shreds of humanity beneath. Men cease to weep, and catch something of the "rapture of repose" of which a poet has sung. Mother Earth has claimed her own, and the brave are sleeping their last sleep in her kindly embrace. Again the dirge of the pipes, and the sweet strains of "Lochaber no more" fill the evening air. The Highland Brigade is burying its dead. Meanwhile, the cable has carried its budget of sad messages to the old land. There, in a wee cottage by the bonnie burn side, the bereaved mother bows her aged head and says, "Thy will be done." There also the heart-broken once wife, newly-made widow, pours out the anguish of her soul as she clasps her fatherless bairn to her warm bosom. Her man comes no more. For the Highland Brigade has buried its dead. _AUSTRALIA'S CALL TO ARMS._ BY JOHN B. O'HARA, M.A. (_By kind permission of the Author._) Sons of ocean-girdled islands, Where the southern billows sigh, Wake! arise! the dread Bellona Speeds her chariot through the sky; Yea, the troubled star of danger On Britannia shineth down-- Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown! In the hour of Britain's peril Shall we falter, while the fires Still are glowing on our altars From the ashes of our sires? Ho! brave hearts, for Britain's honour, For the lustre of her crown, Wake! arise! maintain her glory And renown, and renown! Ye are children of a nation, Ye are scions of the sires That of old were in the vanguard Of the world's wide empires! With the spirit of your fathers, With the fulness of their fame, Wake! arise! maintain the honour Of her name, of her name! Long to Britain may "the crimson Thread of kinship" bind our wings!-- Crimson thread that slowly slackens As the newer race upsprings: Sons of heroes, men of courage That reverse could never tame, Wake! arise! maintain the glory Of her name, of her name! See! the star of ancient Britain, That hath never known decline, By your valour lit up newly, With a glow of fiercer shine, O'er the burning sands of Afric, With your loyalty aflame; Once again maintain the glory Of her name, of her name! _GOOD NEWS._