Four by four in column of route,
By roads that the poplars sentinel,
Clank of rifle and crunch of boot—
All are marching and all is well.
White, so white is the distant moon,
Salmon-pink is the furnace glare,
And we hum, as we march, a ragtime tune,
Khaki boys in the long platoon,
Going and going—anywhere.

"The battalion will move to-morrow," said the Jersey youth, repeating the orders read out in the early part of the day, and removing a clot of farmyard muck from the foresight guard of his rifle as he spoke. It was seven o'clock in the evening, the hour when candles were stuck in their cheese sconces and lighted. Cakes of soap and lumps of cheese are easily scooped out with clasp-knives and make excellent sconces; we often use them for that purpose in our barn billet. We had been quite a long time in the place and had grown to like it. But to-morrow we were leaving.

"Oh, dash the rifle!" said the Jersey boy, getting to his feet and kicking a bundle of straw across the floor of the barn. "To-morrow night we'll be in the trenches up in the firing line."

"The slaughter line," somebody remarked in the corner where the darkness hung heavy. A match was lighted disclosing the speaker's face and the pipe which he held between his teeth.

"No smoking," yelled a corporal, who had just entered. "You'll burn the damned place down and get yourself as well as all of us into trouble."

"Oh blast the barn!" muttered Bill Sykes, a narrow chested Cockney with a good-humoured face that belied his nickname. "It's only fit for rats and there's 'nuff of 'em 'ere. I'm goin' to 'ave a fag anyway. Got me?"

The corporal asked Bill for a cigarette and lit it. "We're all mates now and we'll make a night of it," he cried. "Damn the barn, there'll be barns when we're all washed out with Jack Johnsons. What are you doin', Feelan?"

Feelan, an Irishman with a brogue that could be cut with a knife, laid down the sword which he was burnishing and glanced at the non-com.

"The Germans don't fire at men with stripes, I hear," he remarked, "They only shoot rale good soldiers. A livin' corp'ral's hardly as good as a dead rifleman."

Six foot three of Cumberland bone and muscle detached itself from the straw and looked round the barn. We call it Goliath on account of its size.

"Who's to sing the first song," asked Goliath. "A good hearty song!"

"One with whiskers on it!" said the corporal.

"I'll slash the game up and give a rale ould song, whiskers to the toes of it," said Feelan, shoving his sword in its scabbard and throwin' himself flat back on the straw. "Its a song about the time Irelan' was fightin' for freedom and it's called The Rising of the Moon! A great song entirely it is, and I cannot do it justice."

Feelan stood up, his legs wide apart and both his thumbs stuck in the upper pockets of his tunic. Behind him the barn stretched out into the gloom that our solitary candle could not pierce. On either side rifles hung from the wall, and packs and haversacks stood high from the straw in which most of the men had buried themselves, leaving nothing but their faces, fringed with the rims of Balaclava helmets, exposed to view. The night was bitterly cold, outside where the sky stood high splashed with countless stars and where the earth gripped tight on itself, the frost fiend was busy; in the barn, with its medley of men, roosting hens and prowling rats all was cosy and warm. Feelan cleared his throat and commenced the song, his voice strong and clear filled the barn:—

"Arrah! tell me Shan O'Farrel; tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush, my bouchal, hush and listen," and his cheeks were all aglow—
"I've got orders from the Captain to get ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon,
At the risin' of the moon!
At the risin' of the moon!
And the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon!"

"That's some song," said the corporal. "It has got guts in it. I'm sick of these ragtime rotters!"

"The old songs are always the best ones," said Feelan, clearing his throat preparatory to commencing a second verse.

"What about Uncle Joe?" asked Goliath, and was off with a regimental favourite.

When Uncle Joe plays a rag upon his old banjo—
("Oh!" the occupants of the barn yelled.)
Ev'rybody starts a swayin' to and fro—
("Ha!" exclaimed the barn.)
Mummy waddles all around the cabin floor!—
("What!" we chorused.)
Crying, "Uncle Joe, give us more, give us more!"

"Give us no more of that muck!" exclaimed Feelan, burrowing into the straw, no doubt a little annoyed at being interrupted in his song. "Damn ragtime!"

"There's ginger in it!" said Goliath. "Your old song is as flat as French beer!"

"Some decent music is what you want," said Bill Sykes, and forthwith began strumming an invisible banjo and humming Way down upon the Swanee Ribber.

The candle, the only one in our possession, burned closer to the cheese sconce, a daring rat slipped into the light, stopped still for a moment on top of a sheaf of straw, then scampered off again, shadows danced on the roof, over the joists where the hens were roosting, an unsheathed sword glittered brightly as the light caught it, and Feelan lifted the weapon and glanced at it.

"Burnished like a lady's nail," he muttered.

"Thumb nail?" interrogated Goliath.

"Ragnail, p'raps," said the Cockney.

"I wonder whether we'll have much bayonet-fightin' or not?" remarked the Jersey boy, looking at each of us in turn and addressing no one in particular.

"We'll get some now and again to keep us warm!" said the corporal. "It'll be 'ot when it comes along."

"'Ot's not the word," said Bill; "I never was much drawn to soldierin' 'fore the war started, but when it came along I felt I'd like to 'ave a 'and in the gime. There, that candle's goin' out!"

"Bunk!" roared the corporal, putting his pipe in his pocket and seizing a blanket, the first to hand. Almost immediately he was under the straw with the blanket wrapped round him. We were not backward in following, and all were in bed when the flame which followed the wax so greedily died for lack of sustenance.

To-morrow night we should be in the trenches.