Just behind the Somme front, May 31.—Somewhere in the tangle of smashed walls there was a steely jingle. At first the sound was hard to identify, so odd are acoustics in this which was once a little town. There were stub ends of walls here and there—bare, raw snags of walls sticking up—and now and then a rooftree tilted pathetically against a ruin, or a pile of dusty masonry that had been a house. A little path ran through this tangle, and under an arched gateway that by a miracle remained standing and down the steps of a dugout. The jingling sound became recognizable. Some one was trying to play on a mandolin: “Jesus, Lover of My Soul.” It was grotesque and laughable. The grand old hymn refused its cadences to this instrument of a tune-loving bourgeoise. It seemed to stand aloof and unconquered. This is a hymn for the swelling notes of an organ or for the great harmonies of a choir. It was not made to be debased by association with this caterwauling wood and wire, this sounding board for barbershop chords, this accomplice of sick lovers leaning on village fences. Then there came a voice: “By gollies, brother, you’re getting it! I actually believe you’re getting it, brother. We’ll have a swell meeting to-night.” I went down the steps into the Salvation Army man’s dugout. A large soldier, cigarette depending from his lower lip, unshaven, tin hat tipped on the back of his head, was picking away at the wires of the mandolin with fingers that seemed as thick and yellow as ears of corn. As I came in he stated profanely, that these dam’ things were not made to pick out condemn’ hymn tunes on. The Salvation Army man encouraged him: “You keep on, brother,” said he, “and we’ll have a fine meeting for the Brigadier when he comes in to-night.” Taking His Chances. Another boy was sitting there, his head rather low. The mandolin player indicated him with a jerk. “He got all roughed up last night,” said he. “We found a bottle of some sweet stuff these Frogs left in the house where we’re billeted. Tasted a good deal like syrup. But it sure put Bull out.” Bull turned a pair of inflamed eyes on the musician. “You keep on a-talkin’, and I’ll hang somep’n on your eye,” said Bull, hoarsely. Then he replaced his head in his hands. The Salvation Army man laughed at the interlude and then returned to the player. “See,” said he, “it goes like this——” He hummed the wonderful old hymn. The floor of the dugout was covered with straw. The stairs which led to it were wide, so that at certain hours the sun shone in and dried out the walls. There were few slugs crawling slimily on the walls of the Salvation Army’s place. Rats were there, of course, and bugs of sorts, but few slugs. On the whole it was considered a good dugout, because of these things. The roof was not a strong one, it seemed to me. A 77-shell would go through it like a knife through cheese. I said so to the Salvation Army man.