Here was a sight to make a Scots heart leap with pride!  Here, before me, was the flower of Scottish manhood.  These regiments had been through a series of battles, not so long since, that had sadly thinned their ranks.  Many a Scottish grave had been filled that spring; many a Scottish heart at hame had been broken by sad news from this spot.  But there they were now, before me—­their ranks filled up again, splendid as they stretched out, eager to welcome me and cheer me.  There were tears in my eyes as I looked around at them.

Massed before me were all the best men Scotland had had to offer!  All these men had breathed deep of the hellish air of war.  All had marched shoulder to shoulder and skirt to skirt with death.  All were of my country and my people.  My heart was big within me with pride of them, and that I was of their race, as I stood up to sing for them.

Johnson was waiting for me to be ready.  Little “Tinkle Tom,” as we called the wee piano, was not very large, but there were times when he had to be left behind.  I think he was glad to have us back again, and to be doing his part, instead of leaving me to sing alone, without his stout help.

Many distinguished officers were in that great assemblage.  They all turned out to hear me, as well as the men, and among them I saw many familiar faces and old friends from hame.  But there were many faces, too, alas, that I did not see.  And when I inquired for them later I learned that many of them I had seen for the last time.  Oh, the sad news I learned, day after day, oot there in France!  Friend after friend of whom I made inquiry was known, to be sure.  They could tell me where, and when, and how, they had been killed.

Up above us, as I began to sing, our airplanes were circling.  No Boche planes were in sight now, I had been told, but there were many of ours.  And sometimes one came swooping down, its occupants curious, no doubt, as to what might be going on, and the hum of its huge propeller would make me falter a bit in my song.  And once or twice one flew so low and so close that I was almost afraid it would strike me, and I would dodge in what I think was mock alarm, much to the amusement of the soldiers.

I had given them two songs when a big man arose, far back in the crowd.  He was a long way from me, but his great voice carried to me easily, so that I could hear every word he said.

“Harry,” he shouted, “sing us ‘The Wee Hoose Amang the Heather’ and we’ll a’ join in the chorus!”

For a moment I could only stare out at them.  Between that sea of faces, upraised to mine, and my eyes, there came another face—­the smiling, bonnie face of my boy John, that I should never see again with mortal eyes.  That had been one of his favorite songs for many years.  I hesitated.  It was as if a gentle hand had plucked at my very heart strings, and played upon them.  Memory—­memories of my boy, swept over me in a flood.  I felt a choking in my throat, and the tears welled into my eyes.