our childhood, in school and out, we are taught what WE can do, and not
what the other fellow can do. This belief in our own strength and this
ignorance of our neighbor's follows us through manhood, aye, and to the
grave.

It was this over-confidence which brought only thirty-three thousand
Canadian men to the mobilization camp at Valcartier, in answer to the first
call to arms, instead of the one hundred thousand there should have been.

Not many days passed before we boarded the train at Edmonton for our
journey to Valcartier. The first feeling of pride came over me, and I am
sure over all the boys on that eventful Thursday night, August 27, 1914,
when thousands of people, friends and neighbors, lined the roadside as we
marched to the station.

Only one or two of us wore the khaki uniform; the rest were in their oldest
and poorest duds. A haphazard, motley, rummy crowd, we might have been
classed for anything but soldiers. At least, we gathered this from remarks
we overheard as we marched silently along to the waiting troop-train.

Strangely enough no one was crying. Every one was cheered. Little did
hundreds of those women, those mothers, dream that this was the last look
they would have at their loved ones. Men were cheering; women were waving.
Weeping was yet to come.

On that same August night, not only from Edmonton, but from every city and
town in Canada men were marching on their way to Valcartier.

We traveled fast, and without event of importance. There were enthusiastic
receptions at each town that we passed through. There was Melville and