THE DRAMA OF 365 DAYS
us as had choking throats) played and sang "For Auld Lang Syne." Was the spirit of our mighty old Drake in his Tavistock town that day?
"Come on, gentlemen, there's time to finish the game, and beat the Spaniards, too!"
A GLIMPSE OF THE KING'S SON
One glimpse at the end of my little motor tour
seemed to send a flash of light through the drama
of the past 365 days. It was of our young Prince
of Wales, home for a short holiday from the front.
I had seen the King's son only once before—at
his investiture in Carnarvon Castle. How long
ago that seemed! In actual truth "no human
creature dreamt of war" that day, although the
shadow of it was even then hanging over our
heads.
Some of us who have witnessed most of the great pageants of the world thought we had never seen the like of that spectacle—the grey old ruins, roofless and partly clothed by lichen and moss, the vast multitude of spectators, the brilliant sunshine, the booming of the guns from the warships in the bay outside, the screaming of the seagulls overhead, the massed Welsh choirs singing "Land of my Fathers," and, above all, the boy of eighteen, beautiful as a fairy prince in his blue costume, walking hand in hand
