WONDERFUL, Holmes, wonderful! Sherlock, you astonish me.” The Judge was a big man. He spoke and looked like Tom Reed, one time power in American politics. And he laughed like him. Laneham grinned the tight-lipped grin of challenged battle, as he worked the car through the snow-pyramided street.
IT was Netley, that great British military hospital, which received the largest part of the Canadian wounded after Ypres. It dropped its staff military formality for the nonce and as those men of Flanders trooped in through the open gate, mud-bespattered, soggy of shoe and with coats cut to suit all variety of barbaric taste, the whole staff—doctors, nurses and orderlies— pressed upon them, cheering and weeping, shaking them by the hand, even the stretcher cases, in a wild hysteria of gratitude for the men who had saved Ypres and the gate to England.
HE came up out of the wilderness like a victorious king from the field of battle. At the edge of the woods he stood, like Moses on Pisgah, and surveyed a land fairer than Canaan. The blazing autumnal glory of it no artist mind ever conceived. No canvas ever knew the brilliance of its bewildering riot of color, unimaginable shades of green, opulent, golden magnificence, blood-red crimsons, superbly massed in infinite variety of hue.
A MONTH ago we were able to point out that in Canada during the current twelve months no less than $610,000,000 will be expended on account of the war, either for the maintenance of the Canadian Expeditionary Forces or the making of ammunition for the Allies.
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