It was a joy now and then to get a horse and ride away from the camp to where the Jacques Cartier river comes down from the mountains, and to dream of the old days when the world was at peace and we could enjoy the lovely prospects of nature, without the anxious care that now gnawed at our hearts.

The place had been a favorite haunt of mine in the days gone by, when I used to take a book of poems and spend the whole day beside the river, reading and dozing and listening to the myriad small voices of the woods.
Still, the centre of interest now was the camp, with its turmoil and bustle and indefinite longing to be up and doing.

The officer commanding my battalion had brought his own chaplain with him, and it was plainly evident that I was not wanted.

This made it, I must confess, somewhat embarrassing.

My tent, which was at the corner of the front line, was furnished only with my bed-roll and a box or two, and was not a particularly cheerful home.