others, so long as they put it short like.

``And another wanted to tell of the valleys beyond the wood, far
afield where the men went working; the women would remember the hay.
The great valleys he'd tell of. It was they that made Daleswood. The
valleys beyond the wood and the twilight on them in summer. Slopes
covered with mint and thyme, all solemn at evening. A hare on them
perhaps, sitting as though they were his, then lolloping slowly away.
It didn't seem from the way he told of those old valleys that he
thought they could ever be to other folk what they were to the
Daleswood men in the days he remembered. He spoke of them as though
there were something in them, besides the mint and the thyme and the
twilight and hares, that would not stay after these men were gone,
though he did not say what it was. Scarcely hinted it even.

``And still the Boche did nothing to the Daleswood men. The bullets
had ceased altogether. That made it much quieter. The shells still
snarled over, bursting far, far away.

``And Bob said tell of Daleswood itself, the old village, with queer
chimneys, of red brick, in the wood. There weren't houses like that
nowadays. They'd be building new ones and spoiling it, likely, after
the war. And that was all he had to say.

``And nobody was for not putting down anything any one said. It was
all to go in on the chalk, as much as would go in the time. For they
all sort of understood that the Daleswood of what they called the good
old time was just the memories that those few men had of the days they
had spent there together. And that was the Daleswood they loved, and
wanted folks to remember. They were all agreed as to that. And then