Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/164

 the boys thought it was but they were not sure. They'd rather lost track of days during the last few weeks. If only that pudding had reached them. For a moment Enoch forgot the War, he was thinking of his mother. He stood up straight, unheedful of the bursting shells about him. Where was that pudding? Poor pudding lost in the jungle of War. And then a bit of shrapnel caught him in the forehead. It scarcely hurt but everything grew dim and blurred as he fell. The noise ceased. The horrors of battle rolled away in an echo. The smoke cleared and it seemed as though the sun had pierced the billows of clouds. Gone were the trenches, gone were the water and mud. He was lying in a field beneath a tree. His father was plowing. It was lovely to behold his father walking behind the plow once more across the fields. He was very tired. It was nice to be lying there drowsing beneath the tree. And he could hear his mother singing a bit of a song, the sweet voice of his mother. It was good to listen to her as he drifted into sleep.