They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;

      Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown

      Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair.

      "We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care

      Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call

      Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!"

      "Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,

      A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word

      For those who stay at home and wait – the mothers and the wives.

      Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"

      The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;

      The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."

      He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,

      It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!

      And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.

      I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man.

      "Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;

      "Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying – dead;

      Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,

      The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!

      I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,

      "For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.

      Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-day

      With love and longing for the ones in danger far away."

      "They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;

      Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.

      God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,

      And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!"

      "Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,

      But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:

      "Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,

      Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!

      O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!

      The saddest sound in all God's world – a crying in the dark."

      Oh, a big broad-shouldered fellow was Ben,

      And homely as you would see,

      Such an awkward walker and stammering talker,

      And as bashful as he could be.

      The son of a lone, widowed mother was he,

      And right well did he act his part,

      A giant at sowing and reaping and mowing —

      His farm was the pride of his heart.

      His mother depended on his strong arm;

      In the cottage so neat and trim

      He kept the fires burning, did sweeping and churning —

      Oh, the odd jobs saved up for him!

      "My Ben's a comfort," she said every day,

      With pride that made his head whirl,

      "As handy at sweeping as he is at reaping —

      Ben is just as good as a girl!"

      "A six-foot fellow to work round the house!

      We'll call him 'Miss Ben,'" said the girls;

      But Ben, heaven bless him, never let this distress him

      Till there came a day when the curls

      And blue eyes of Gladys, the prettiest girl,

      And the proudest in all the place,

      His young heart set beating at every chance meeting —

      Though she only laughed in his face.

      "I'll have none but a gay and a gallant man" —

      Her lips took a scornful curl —

      "Your pride is in hearing your mother declaring,

      'Ben is just as good as a girl!'"

      But sweet little Marjory laughed not at Ben;

      He was homely, awkward, shy,

      But she liked the fellow whose voice was so mellow,

      And she smiled as she passed him by.

      He went to the front when the war broke out,

      And filled his post like a man;

      The good-natured giant was bold and defiant

      As soon as the battle began.

      You'd never have thought of the broom and the churn,

      Nor of the nickname "Miss Ben,"

      Had you heard his voice cheering, seen his arm clearing

      A path for his own gallant men.

      Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding home

      When the war was over and done,

      As homely and backward, as shy and as awkward,

      As tender and loyal a son.

      Now Gladys gave him her sunniest smile —

      On heroes she ever did dote —

      And the proud little beauty felt it her duty

      To be kind to this young man of note.

      But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best;

      He knew her lips did not curl

      When mother said sweetly, "Ben does work so neatly —

      He is just as good as a girl!"

      So he wooed and won this Marjory true,

      And made her his loving bride,

      While Gladys she fretted, bemoaned and regretted

      The goal she had missed by her pride.

      To-day Ben is filling a prominent place,

      A statesman, honest and bold;

      He frees the opprest, and he helps the distrest,

      Wins love, which is better than gold.

      For the very grandest men you can find

      In this great world's busy whirl

      Are men like my farmer – no praise need be warmer

      Than "he's just as good as a girl."

      The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle store

      On ancestry, acres, and siller,

      Nor cared to remember the good days of yore,

      Nor grandfather Allan, the miller —

      The honest old miller.

      "We're