man could turn his face upward, has been the symbol of the thing
called love. And now all over that long line slashed across the
face of Europe, the moon is the herald of death. Men see it rise
in terror, for they know that the season of the moon is the season
of slaughter. Yet there they walked in the hospital yard, two
unknown lovers, who were true to the moon.

Henry's next remark was: "Bill, fancy when you were young doing
your courting out there where a shell is liable to wipe you out
any second. We at least had the advantage of elm trees to protect
us from the shafts of death."

"Do you suppose, Henry," answered his friend, "that they miss the
drip of oars, the shade of the overhanging willows, the suggestive
whisper of waters frisking over the ripples at the ford? How can
they make love in such a place?"

"'Gold,'" replied Henry, quoting from Solomon, who was wise, "'is
where you find it!'" Then we heard the insistence of the lovers'
babble drawing near us again. As they turned a corner, Henry heaved
a sigh at the perversity of youth in the flaunting neglect of sleep
and death, which ever are vital to middle years. We both looked out
to the white courtyard, heard the snarl of another plane, obviously
French, but still disconcerting, saw the slow even pace of the
lovers, unaffected by the approaching growl of the plane, and it
came to me to quote one wiser even than Solomon: "O death, where
is thy sting!"

We took but a cat-nap that night, and in the morning set down the
score on our love affair. The record indicates that during the