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And the battered bags and the down-at-the-heel walking sticks and the still-damp steamer rugs and the trunks creaking down the hallway and the rattle of the "L" trains fade out of my eyes and ears and again dear little Hulda is with me under the Linden trees poor dear little Hulda who ever in the years to come shall bring back to me the starlit romance of youth and again I feel her so soft hand in mine and again I hear her whisper the auf wiederseh'n that was to be our last good-bye and I am three thousand miles over the seas.
One of them was singing an ancient German soldier song: "Die Vöglein im Walde Sie singen so schön In der Heimat, in der Heimat, Da gibt's ein Wiederseh'n." "The relief patrol!" I whispered to Francis, as soon as they were past. "The other lot they relieve will be back this way in a minute. We must get across quickly."
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