August 13th, 1914, was a memorable day for this historic and picturesque old French city. On that day, for the first time in the memory of living men, British soldiers, traditional enemies of France, landed on its quays and marched through its streets as friends, as allies. The reception given to them was delirious in its joy. All Boulogne rushed to the quays and raised a mighty cheer as the transports hove into sight. A British army was actually there to fight side by side with their own poilus! As it marched through the city, 90,000 strong, horse, foot, and artillery ; veterans from India, sturdy yeomen from their English shires, Highlanders in kilt and plaid, women showered them with flowers, young girls ran up to kiss their hands, men cheered until their throats were hoarse. For two whole days the khaki columns wound their way through the narrow streets of the ancient city, bands playing, bagpipes screeching, whole companies whistling the Marseillaise or striding blithely along to the tune of Tipperary. Brawny, powerful men they were, hardened and browned by months of training, for this was a part of Britain's regular army, a martial host. No regiment appeared more warlike to the French than the Highlanders we see before us, for the Scots are big-boned men, tall and muscular ; bonny soldiers in a fight, when their tempers become as hard as the granite rocks of their native hills.