some eight or ten miles, and just when they reached the northern heights
of the Aisne, and the whole town was visible, the Brigade sheered off to
the right, and clung to the river bank.

Soissons looked so particularly inviting, the whites and greys and
primroses of its walls flashing in the sun. The sight of a French town
(in the distance) is very pleasing to any one used to the terra-cotta
reds of England. The cobbles give the streets such a medieval air, the
green shutters seem so queer, and there is such a disdain of geometry.
But when one gets right into the town, a violent change comes over the
scene. The cobbles that were so pleasantly medieval in the distance
become, under one's feet, nothing but an ankle-turning plague. The
stuccoed walls look very clean in the distance, but near to, the filth
of the streets modifies one's admiration. A small French town generally
reminds one of the outhouses and styes of a farm. The air is diffuse
with the scent of manure. England, with all thy drainage system, I love
thee still!

The road now clung to the river, which was not actually crossed until
two or three o'clock in the afternoon. The bridge was a large and
substantial structure, and a section of Engineers were preparing to blow
it up. Before the hour's halt was over, the inevitable alarm occurred,
and two companies were detached to fight the usual rear-guard action,
under the Major, who was now second-in-command.

The remainder of the Battalion continued the march, this time along the
south bank of the river.

The heat was as usual intense, and to-day they missed the shady trees
that had so well protected them the day before. A couple of hours later