In the year that the Colonel died he took little Rupert to see the swallows fly away.

I can find no better beginning than that. When there devolved upon me as a labour of love the editing of Rupert Ray’s book, “Tell England,” I carried the manuscript into my room one bright autumn afternoon, and read it during the fall of a soft evening, till the light failed, and my eyes burned with the strain of reading in the dark. I could hardly leave his ingenuous tale to rise and turn on the gas. Nor, perhaps, did I want such artificial brightness. There are times when one prefers the twilight.

Doubtless the tale held me fascinated because it revealed the schooldays of those boys whom I met in their young manhood, and told afresh that wild old Gallipoli adventure which I shared with them.

Though, sadly enough, I take Heaven to witness that I was not the idealized creature whom Rupert portrays. God bless them, how these boys will idealize us!