Sing us a song, a song of Bonnie Scotland! 
    Any old song will do. 
  By the old camp-fire, the rough-and-ready choir
    Join in the chorus too. 
  “You’ll tak’ the high road and I’ll tak’ the low road”—­
    ’Tis a song that we all know,
  To bring back the days in Bonnie Scotland,
    Where the heather and the bluebells—­

Whang!

The Boche, a Wagnerian by birth and upbringing, cannot stand any more of this, so he has fired a rifle-grenade at the glee-party—­on the whole a much more honest and direct method of condemnation than that practiced by musical critics in time of peace.  But he only elicits an encore.  Private Nigg perches a steel helmet on the point of a bayonet, and patronisingly bobs the same up and down above the parapet.

These steel helmets have not previously been introduced to the reader’s notice.  They are modelled upon those worn in the French Army—­and bear about as much resemblance to the original pattern as a Thames barge to a racing yacht.  When first issued, they were greeted with profound suspicion.  Though undoubtedly serviceable,—­they saved many a crown from cracking round The Bluff the other day,—­they were undeniably heavy, and they were certainly not becoming to the peculiar type of beauty rampant in “K(1).”  On issue, then, their recipients elected to regard the wearing of them as a peculiarly noxious form of “fatigue.”  Private M’A. deposited his upon the parapet, like a foundling on a doorstep, and departed stealthily round the nearest traverse, to report his new headpiece “lost through the exigencies of military service.”  Private M’B. wore his insecurely perched upon the top of his tam-o’-shanter bonnet, where it looked like a very large ostrich egg in a very small khaki nest.  Private M’C. set his up on a convenient post, and opened rapid fire upon it at a range of six yards, surveying the resulting holes with the gloomy satisfaction of the vindicated pessimist.  Private M’D. removed the lining from his, and performed his ablutions in the inverted crown.

“This,” said Colonel Kemp, “will never do.  We must start wearing the dashed things ourselves.”

And it was so.  Next day, to the joy of the Battalion, their officers appeared in the trenches selfconsciously wearing what looked like small sky-blue wash-hand basins balanced upon their heads.  But discipline was excellent.  No one even smiled.  In fact, there was a slight reaction in favour of the helmets.  Conversations like the following were overheard:—­

“I’m tellin’ you, Jimmy, the C.O. is no the man for tae mak’ a show of himself like that for naething.  These tin bunnets must be some use.  Wull we pit oors on?”

“Awa’ hame, and bile your held!” replied the unresponsive James.

“They’ll no stop a whish-bang,” conceded the apostle of progress, “but they would keep off splunters, and a wheen bullets, and—­and—­”

“And the rain!” supplied Jimmy sarcastically.