The passion of the Devonport children for souvenirs in the shape of pennies and buttons became so violent in a few hours that our small coin was likely to become extinct and our buttons merely things that used to be. Every time a soldier appeared upon the street he was instantly surrounded by a bevy of insistent and persistent mendicants. Once we sought refuge in a cooling spot where glasses tinkle and the beer foams high—and children might not follow there. The pretty barmaid smiled. The second in command twirled his long moustache and fixed the maiden with his martial eye. "What will you have, sir?" she inquired sweetly. The senior major was always gallant to a pretty girl. He drew himself up to his full six feet, two, and saluted. A mellow line from "Omar Khayyám" dropped from his thirsty lips: _"A jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou_ _Beside me singing in the wilderness."_ How much further he might have gone one cannot say. The girl held up a reproving finger and exclaimed: "Ah, I see it is black coffee the gentleman requires." But the major’s poetic spirit was aroused. "Avaunt coffee," he cried. _"Shall I distress my ruddy soul_ _With dusky dregs from coffee urn?_ _Far sweeter, sweet, to quench its fire_ _With wine for which the ’innards’ yearn._ A glass of beer, please." The adjutant leaned over toward me and hazarded, in a hoarse whisper: "I presume they have no ice." The barmaid’s red cheeks dimpled and two straight rows of pearly teeth shone upon him, as she answered for me: "Your presumption is ill-founded, young man. We have plenty of ice with which to temper the hot young blood of the Canadians." The adjutant looked helplessly up, bereft of repartee; then apostrophised the ceiling: "And these are the stupid Englishwomen we have been led to expect!" Our education was going on apace. A few moments later we emerged and discovered ourselves in a veritable whirlpool of young monetary gluttons. "Penny, sir! penny! penny!" they shouted in staccato chorus. Our supply of pennies had long since been depleted. An idea struck me. "See here," I said in serious tone. "We’re only a lot of poor soldiers going to the war. We can’t always be giving away pennies. We need pennies worse than you do." A sudden hush fell upon the little circle. Some looked abashed, others curiously uncertain, a few sympathetic. The silence lasted a full minute. We all stood still looking at one another. "Can any little boy or girl in this crowd give a poor soldier a penny to help him along to the war?" I asked quietly. Again silence. Finally a little ragged tot of about eight years of age, carrying a baby in her arms, turned to her companions and said: "Here, hold the baby for me and I’ll give the poor fellow a penny." She dived deep in the pocket of her frock, brought out a penny, ha’penny (her total wealth) and held it out to me.