_They drop upon the pastures wide,_ _That do in deserts lie;_ _The little hills on every side_ _Rejoice right pleasantly._ _With flocks the pastures clothed be,_ _The vales with corn are clad;_ _And now they shout and sing to Thee,_ _For Thou hast made them glad._ I am a soldier, and have been a soldier all my life, so when I encounter an assemblage of my fellow countrymen, I naturally scrutinise them from a recruiting sergeant’s point of view. (At least, Eve always said I did.) And what a sight that congregation presented! I have encountered many types in the course of my duty. I know our own Highlanders; I know the French Zouave regiments; a year or two ago—in nineteen-eleven I think it was—I saw the Prussian Guard march past the Emperor during Grand Manoeuvres; I have ridden with the Canadian North-West Mounted Police; I have seen a Zulu impi on the move in South Africa. All have their own particular incomparabilities—dash, endurance, resource, initiative—but for sheer physical solidity and fighting possibilities, commend me to the peaceful yeoman-farming stock of the Lowlands of Scotland. My own regiment is mainly recruited from this district, so perhaps I am prejudiced. Still, if ever the present era of international restlessness crystallises into something definite; if ever The Day, about which we hear so much and know so little, really arrives—well, I fancy that that heavily-built, round-shouldered throng down there, with their shy, self-conscious faces and their uncomfortable Sunday clothes, will give an account of themselves of which their sonsy, red-cheeked wives and daughters will have no cause to feel ashamed. *III*