The River Marne will ever be memorable because it was along the line of that river that the great battle—a battle which may later be regarded as one of the decisive battles of the war—took place, which turned the Germans back upon their long journey home. Tens of thousands on both sides were slain in attempts to cross and recross this stream.
The River Nethe, a tributary of the Scheldt, formed one of the main obstacles to the Germans in their great assault upon Antwerp. Time and time again the Germans succeeded in getting a pontoon bridge completed and came down to the river bank in solid masses to cross it. As they came every Belgian gun that could be turned upon the spot was concentrated upon them and they were blown away and the bridge destroyed, until the river literally ran with blood. Similar destructions of pontoon bridges burdened with their living freight of men and horses and guns have occurred on all the many rivers which this war has brought into the terrible limelight of battle.
“Jones, the captain wants you, matey. Whatcher bin doin’?”
“It’s that dog!” ejaculated Private Jones, as he made ready to appear before his superior officer.
“Jones,” said that worthy, frowningly, “this gentleman complain that you have killed his dog.”
“A dastardly trick,” warmly interrupted the owner of the dog, “to kill a defenseless animal that would harm no one!”
“Not much defenseless about it,” chimed in the private, heatedly. “He bit pretty freely into my leg while I was on sentry duty, so I ran my bayonet into him.”
“Nonsense!” answered the owner, angrily. “He was such a docile creature. Why did you not defend yourself with the butt of your rifle?”
“Why didn’t he bite me with his tail?” asked Private Jones, humbly.
A visitor to a West-end restaurant in London, being waited on by a particularly tall and fine-looking waiter with a foreign accent, asked the man his nationality.
“How comes it, then, that a big, strong fellow like you is not in the firing line?” asked the visitor.
“Vell, sir, it’s like this,” replied the knight of the napkin, pointing to a brother waiter a few tables off; “you see that man? Vell, he’s a Serb, and we have vat you call paired.”
The recruit walked into the barrack-room and inadvertently left the door open. An old soldier immediately yelled:—
