The soldier is a strange creature; a migratory animal whose chief delight in life is moving. Put him in one place for months, be it ever so cheery and comfortable—he frets like a restless steed; but give him the rein, permit him to go, he cares not whither—he is happy. It may be from sunshine to shadow; it may be from château to trench; it may be from heaven to hell—he cares not if he but moves, and, moving, he will whistle or sing his delight. The road was lined with envious Tommies who came to see us start. "Yer colonel muster had _some_ pull with Kitch’ner t’ git ye away so soon," said one of the envious to Tim, the colonel’s batman. Tim was quite the most unique of all our motley tribe. He was born in Ireland, educated (or rather remained uneducated) in the Southern States, and for the past ten years had lived in Canada. He was a faithful servant, true to his master and to all his friends. Like many another "original," he was permitted to take liberties which shocked all sense of military discipline, as well as every other sense; but he amused us and was forgiven. He was a prize fighter, too, of no mean ability, and carried the scars of many a hard-fought battle. No other being in the world used a dialect like Tim’s. It was a language all his own, and negroid in character. "Pull wit’ Kitch’ner!" he replied disdainfully. "Wit George hisself, ye means. D’ye s’pose my kernel hobnobs wit’ anyt’ing lessen royalty? De king sent fer him, an’ he goed to Lunnon a’ purpose." "’Wot is yer Majesty’s command?’ sez de kernel. "’Kernel,’ sez he, ’when I seed yer men on p’rade las’ Sunday, I turned to Lord Kitch’ner an’ sez: "Kitch’ner, it ain’t right t’ keep men as good as dat in England; dere place is at de front!"’" "You was sure needed there," Tim’s vis-à-vis interjected sarcastically; "good thick-headed fellers t’ stop a bullet." Tim ignored the remark, and continued: "So he sez, ’Kernel, yer unit ’ull be de first t’ leave fer France, an’ good luck t’ ye!’ Wit dat de kernel comed back, an’ now we’re goin’ to see de Pea-jammers." "Wot’s them?" the other growlingly inquired. "Don’t ye know wot Pea-jammers is yet? Ye muster bin eddicated in night school. Pea-jammers is Frenchmen." By what process of exclusion Tim had arrived at this strange decision with reference to the French, none but himself knew; and he never by any chance alluded to them otherwise. "All in, men!" shouted the sergeant-major, and each man scrambled to his allotted place. To look at the rough exterior of our men one would not suppose that music lurked within their breasts—nothing more unlikely seemed probable; and yet, listen to the vibrant harmony of their chorus as they sit upon their bags and boxes! It rolls in melodious waves over the camp, and crowds of soldiers come running toward the road to listen. Oh, you may be sure they had their good points, those lads of ours—so many good points, too!