The crowd of soldiers about the bandstand grew, and little French
children playing about in their best Sunday clothes, stopped in
curious wonderment to hear "Les Anglais" sing. A few of their elders
strolled over and even though they could not understand, they listened
attentively.
Our thoughts flew thousands of miles over the ocean to other Sunday
evening services at our home in Canada. We could see the old family
pew; we could hear father and mother and the old friends singing that
same old hymn, while our youthful minds were likely busied with
recollections of a lacrosse match or baseball game that we had seen
the day before, or maybe of a visit to the old dam where we had had
the finest swim of the season. We could see women attired in spotless
white, and men in frock coats and silk hats, walking sedately to
church, and we longed with an intense longing for one more such Sunday
in the old home town. It seemed ages since we had been there; we
wondered whether we would ever visit the old scenes again, and we had
a premonition that we never would. The theme of the brief sermon was
the old, old story of Christ's coming to save sinners, and the guns
boomed and a belated aeroplane overhead buzzed homeward while the
speaker appealed earnestly to his hearers to serve Christ by following
his example in true living even as they were now, by offering their
lives, serving humanity.
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