choicest brand of Boche "hate."

And so on. But one day, when the War is over, and this mighty
trench-line is thrown open to the disciples of the excellent Mr.
Cook--as undoubtedly it will be--care should be taken that these
street-names are preserved and perpetuated. It would be impossible to
select a more characteristic and fitting memorial to the brave hearts
who constructed them--too many of whom are sleeping their last sleep
within a few yards of their own cheerful handiwork.


III

After this digression we at length reach the firing-line. It is quite
unlike anything of its kind that we have hitherto encountered. It
is situated in what was once a thick wood. Two fairly well-defined
trenches run through the undergrowth, from which the sentries of
either side have been keeping relentless watch upon one another, night
and day, for many months. The wood itself is a mere forest of poles:
hardly a branch, and not a twig, has been spared by the shrapnel. In
the no-man's-land between the trenches the poles have been reduced to
mere stumps a few inches high.

It is behind the firing-trench that the most unconventional scene
presents itself. Strictly speaking, there ought to be--and generally
is--a support-line some seventy yards in rear of the first. This
should be occupied by all troops not required in the firing-trench.
But the trench is empty--which is not altogether surprising,
considering that it is half-full of water. Its rightful occupants are
scattered through the wood behind--in dug-outs, in redoubts, or _en