It is strange how often scenes and sounds of war and peace are intermingled. It is a common sight to see men and women going unconcernedly about their work, and children playing in towns that are habitually shelled or bombed. Stranger still is it to note the habits of the wild birds, constructing their nest amid scenes of war and in localities subject to constant bombardment. The Y.M.C.A. hut in Ploegsteert Wood was destroyed during a three hours' bombardment in May 1916, but whenever there came a few seconds' pause in the booming of the guns, the nightingales sang as unconcernedly as in the piping times of peace. We once heard, near Hersin, a sort of duet between a cuckoo and a big gun; the bird punctuating with its call the thunder of the guns, and, as stated elsewhere, whilst the barrage was in full swing the thrushes on Kemmel, only a few hundred yards behind the guns, sang as sweetly and merrily as in the lanes and gardens of England. In the course of a brief visit to the American front in France we called at a little Y.M.C.A. shanty, badly strafed, within a mile or so of the enemy. Through the open window from which all glass had long since vanished, a swallow entered, and, perching on a wire stretched across the room, carolled joyously its simple little song--a message truly of peace and eternal hope! * * * * * The 'Walthamstow' hut at Remy had to be temporarily abandoned during the German offensive. The leader in charge transferred operations to a dug-out across the way, which adjoined a clearing station. The inevitable caterer's boiler enabled him to keep up a constant supply of hot tea and coffee for the wounded. An Australian terribly mutilated was brought in. A happy smile, a few cheery words, and a cup of steaming hot cocoa made the Australian feel he had met a friend--and speaking slowly, in a voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper, he said, 'I wonder why I am allowed to suffer like this,' 'I know why,' replied the Y.M.C.A. man; 'you are suffering like this so that two women I love--my mother and my sister--may live in peace and safety in the north of London. If it were not for the sacrifices you and thousands of other boys are making out here, that would be impossible.' The soldier lad was quiet for some time, and then whispered to his new-found friend--'I'm glad to go on suffering!' * * * * * The same secretary tells an interesting story of one of the bitter fights round Passchendaele. The wounded were being brought in on stretchers, and he was on the spot with hot drinks for the boys. The guns were quiet for a moment and a voice was heard singing clearly and distinctly: 'Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on. The night is dark, and I am far from home; Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me.'