summer's night, and the night full of noises, not many of them, but
what there is, strange, and coming from a great way off, through the
quiet, with nothing to stop them. Dogs barking, owls hooting, an old
cart; and then just once a sound that you couldn't account for at all,
not anyhow. I've heard sounds on nights like that that nobody 'ud
think you'd heard, nothing like the flute that young Booker had,
nothing like anything on earth.''

``I know,'' said the Private.

``I never told any one before, because they wouldn't believe you. But
it doesn't matter now. There'd be a light in the window to guide me
when I got home. I'd walk up through the flowers of our garden. We had
a lovely garden. Wonderful white and strange the flowers looked of a
nighttime.''

``You bring it all back wonderful,'' said the Private.

``It's a great thing to have lived,'' said the Sergeant.

``Yes, Sergeant,'' said the other, ``I wouldn't have missed it, not
for anything.''

For five days the barrage had rained down behind them: they were
utterly cut off and had no hope of rescue: their food was done, and
they did not know where they were.

Shells

When the aëroplanes are home and the sunset has flared away, and it is