PIPING OUT THE DAY.

14th November.

It is just before sunset—the most impressive moment of the day in these British lines. Now, wherever the British soldiers meet their bands, the following picture may be seen.

We were returning from the trenches, a few evenings ago, at about four o'clock. The sky was cloudy; the ground heavy. As the night fell, a cold, penetrating fog enveloped the whole countryside. We were walking thoughtfully along, our minds busy with those impressions of the war which had greeted us, without pause, since morning. We said little, for we were very ready for our beds.

Suddenly, as we were entering the village, the sound of music reached our ears. It was the bagpipes. Music in this poor village, at this time of day, and in such weather! Here's a bit of luck! Hurry up, there! We hurry up; nay, we run. At last we reach the scene of action, where a most pleasant sight awaits us.

In front is the principal street of the village, with its double row of whitewashed houses. At the distance of a few hundred yards the fog swallows it up. That is the town hall, hardly bigger than the biggest of the houses, there where you see the Journal Officiel posted, and Abel Faivre's picture, "On les aura!"

The band is halted in the very middle of the road, facing the East. In front, twelve pipers; behind, eight bugles and side drums; between them, the big drum. The men wore the kilt flapping above their bare knees, the khaki tunic closely belted at the waist, the plaid on their shoulders, and the plumed tam-o'-shanter. They are magnificent men, with deeply-bronzed faces; and they are as grave as sphinxes.

At a word from the bandmaster the four bugles leave the ranks, and two by two, with measured steps, fall in at the head of the procession. Slowly and in perfect time they put their instruments to their lips and sound a retreat, or something of the kind. The air is very much the same as the "lights out" of our own infantry regiments. The bugles having gone back to their places with a repetition of their ceremonial, it is the pipers' turn. The twelve Scotsmen blow like one. What are they playing?

The unaccustomed ear of a Frenchman is puzzled to put a name to such music. Is it a dance? Is it a lament?

The song of the pipes swells out louder, and now the bugles and drums are to give it their support. But before touching their drums, the drummers, with the derision of automata, bring their heels together, throw out their chests, and then, raising their elbows face high, cross the drumsticks behind their necks.

Only then may they begin to play.

The Scotsman who handles the big drum hits it first on one side and then on the other, and each time whirls his free drumstick like a windmill. He is not perhaps a musical virtuoso, but there can be no question about his ability as a juggler.

And now the bandsmen, who have stood, hitherto, motionless in the middle of the village, bestir themselves, and, marking time to their own music, move forwards with a slow and majestic step.

The sadness of the music, the gravity of the Scotsmen, the falling night, the homeliness of the place, and a certain indefinable flavour as of some pagan rite, stir one's heart strangely.

Meanwhile, the village street has become filled with soldiers.

Various detachments, just back from their work, fall in along the sides of the roadway. The men, with their steel helmets and leather coats, their breasts exposed to the wind, look like the legionaries of Rome. Nothing is lacking to this picture but the incense and the altar and the victims.

The short, sharp words of command and the clink of weapons mingle with the wailing of the pipes, while at their cottage doors the lonely wives of French soldiers look on calmly at all this bustle in their street. A little fair-headed girl beats time to the music with her left hand.

The night has been saluted by the armies of Britain.

The night may now come.