Soldier Silhouettes on Our Front

submarine zone, a terrific storm beating from the west against its prow, a

re two to each gun, two standing by, with telephone pieces to their ears, and six sleeping on the deck, ready for any emergency. The greatcoats made them look like gaunt men of the sea as they huddled against their guns, watching, waiting. I wondered what they could

ine, buoyant, happy American lads, full of pranks and play and laughter, but they were strangely silent to-night as the ship ploughed through the stor

ow me. I think that it was big, raw-boned "Montana" who started it. It was low at first and, with the storm and the vibrations of the ship, I could not catch the words. The music was strangely familiar

Saviour,

's tempes

aves befo

and treach

ompass came

aviour,

nsciously, in that storm-tossed night were singing the old hymn of their memories, and I think that I never heard that wonderful

her still

hush the

waves ob

yst to them,

overeign o

aviour,

the other and to say that I for one heard a crowd of American gunners singing "Jesus, Saviour, Pilot Me Over Life's Tempestuous Sea." The mothers and fathers of America must know that the average American boy will have the lighter songs at the end of his lips, but b

n, at the invitation of General Byng, he addressed, under the auspices of the Y. M. C. A., a great regiment of the Scottish Guards. That night, in a shell-destroyed stone theatre, he spoke to them on "How Men Die." In a week from that night more than

e old hymns, too, and memories of nights "down the line," when I have heard them in small groups and in grea

tone buildings, with a great cathedral tower standing like a gaunt ghost above the ruins, were tragically beautiful under that mellow light. One almost forgot there was war under the charm of that scene until "plunk! plunk! plunk!" the big shells fell from time to time. But the thing that impressed me most that

hymn, isn

," was his l

church back ho

resbyterians

old hymns?

ms like home

a few minutes, for he had to sto

dn't think much of them then, but liked to sing. But they mean a lot to me over here, especially when I'm on guard at nights on th

t have been a thousand of them. I was to speak to them on "Lincoln Day." I remember how their white teeth shone through the semida

e expression. It was an adaptation of that old melody which t

curt "Sam, set up a tune," from the

rdly hear him at first. Then a few boys near him took up the music. Then a few more. Then it gradually swept back over that crowd of

for a worl

for a world

for a world

good enou

old-time

old-time

old-time

good enou

d for my o

d for my o

d for my o

good enou

these songs grew from the beginning. They extemporized a verse for the day, and they did it on

d for ole A

d for ole

d for ole

good enou

ble,' is certainly a most appropriate one for thes

r of the religion of the Christ, it does now; an' if ever this pore ole wo

ome, nor of the millions of our boys over there that I do not hear the

for a worl

for a world

for a world

good enou

er, as thousands of boys who have sailed from New York have done. I never remember to have been so unutterably lonely and homesick. It was cold in the city, and I was alone. I turned to a church. Thousands of boys have done the same, ma

tood up mechanically, but there was no song in my throat. There was a great lump of loneliness only. But suddenly I listened to the words they were singing.

perfec

ed ones

ing, we are sa

asked me to write him a copy of that verse to stick in his note-book. It seemed to give a sense of comfort to the lads, for their loved ones, too, wer

st light from shore flash out through the darkness of night? Who shall forget the red and green and white lights that began to twinkle, and gleam, and flash, and signal, and call? How beautiful those lights looked after the long, dangerous, eventful, and dark voyage, without a single light showing on the ship! And who shall forget the man along the railing who said, "I never knew before the meaning of that old song, 'The Lights Along the

s yelling up a word of welcome to the crowded railings of the great transports. The boats were not "cleared" as yet. It would ta

when it sounded so significant and so sweet in its mighty volume as it sounded coming from that great khaki-lined transport, which had just landed an hour before in France. I stood beside the song-leader there on the docks looking up at that great mass of American humanity, a hundred feet above us, so far a

y listening for every sound that comes from that crowd of boys. Yes, the folks back

s going and coming, and boys lying in white robes everywhere. My friend the song-leader had gone with me to hold the vesper service in

ad them singing. At first they took to it awkwardly. Then more courageously. Th

e neighbors, "My daddy is the prettiest man in the world," and be

we had a sort of club formed; and another guy had a baby boy, and then I just thought they'd like to s

re' song you sang is the sweetest thing I've heard in France, and it will h

luttered a beautiful silk service flag. It was starred in the shape of a letter "S." In the circle of each "S" was a red cross. The church had two members in the Red Cros

l the pride, all the hope of the folks at home, their reverence, their loyalty, was summed up in that flag. I stood to sing, my eyes brimming with tears

our sple

m safe h

ave o

em vict

and ch

e so de

ave o

our own

ry stain

eep o

an would

ted, keep

protect

eep o

our pre

them to

old o

hine arms

they all

er be o

ld our

and she had to stop. Then I had to stop, too, and we looked at each other through our tears and smiled and understood, so that when she swee