One by one, from the farthest corners of the Dominion, the magic magnet of the war drew us to the plains of Valcartier, and one by one it dropped us side by side. Why some came or why they are still here God knows! Man may merely conjecture. Divers forces helped to speed us from our homes: love of adventure, loss of a sweetheart, family quarrels, the wander-spirit, and, among many other sentiments—patriotism. But only one force held us together: our Colonel! Without him, as an entity, we ceased to exist. His broad-minded generosity and liberal forbearance closed many an angry breach. His love of us finds its analogy only in the love of a father for his prodigal son. Long after we reached France, when the dull monotony of daily routine had somewhat sobered us, one early morning the sweet but disturbing note of the bugle sounding the _reveille_ brought me back from dreams of home. I lay drowsily listening to its insistent voice. The door of my room opened softly, and the orderly stole in. He was a red-cheeked, full-lipped country lad, scarce seventeen years of age. He knelt down before the fireplace and meditatively raked the ashes from its recess. He was a slow lad; slow in speech, slower in action, and his big dreamy blue eyes belied his military bearing. I turned over in bed to get a better view of him. "What freak of fancy brought you so far from home, Wilson?" I queried. "Dunno, zur," he drawled. "Not much fun hustlin’ coals in the mornin’ nur pullin’ teeth in the afternoon." For Wilson, among his multitudinous duties, was dental orderly too. "There’s such an air of farm and field about you, Wilson, that sometimes, at short range, I imagine I get a whiff of new-mown hay." He sat up on his haunches, balancing the shovel upon his outstretched hand. The pool of memory was stirred. A hazy thought was struggling to the surface. He looked dreamily toward me for a moment before he replied. "I wuz born an’ raised in the country, zur," he said. "When the war broke out I wuz pickin’ apples on dad’s farm. I didn’t like my job. Gee! I wish’t I’d stayed an’ picked ’em now." How we ever taught Wilson to say "Sir," or even his corruption of the word, must remain forever shrouded in mystery; but it was accomplished at last, just like many other great works of art. The Canadian spirit of democracy resents any semblance of a confession of inferiority, and the sergeant-major’s troubles were like unto those of Job. Military discipline commenced in earnest when the ship left the harbour at Quebec, and has hung over us like a brooding robin ever since. It was an eventful morning to us (and to England) when our fleet of thirty ocean liners, with its freight of thirty-three thousand soldiers, steamed slowly into the harbour at Plymouth and dropped anchor.