cient paper or book. As a result of a morning's work in
that line, I am luxuriously reclining on my overcoat and reading a
_Spectator_, after which I shall regale myself on the lighter and less
solid contents of _Tit-Bits;_ later, I shall go round and swap them for
other papers or magazines. A lot of us are dreadfully afraid of doing
strange things when we get back to civilised life, such as asking for
the "---- ---- salt" at dinner, diving our hands or knives into the
dishes _immediately_ on their appearance and securing the best pieces
after the manner of the Israelite priests with the hooks in the
flesh-pots, commandeering fruit, fowls, eggs, or vegetables from our
neighbours' gardens, wiping our knives and hands on our breeches or
putties after a course, or a hundred other habits which have become so
natural to us now. My greatest fear is that in a moment of
absent-mindedness I shall, if tired, throw myself down on some cab rank
where the horses are standing still and with my head pillowed on my arm
and a foot twisted in a rein take a forty winks, so accustomed have I
become to the close proximity of 'osses, waking and sleeping.

Thursday, October 25th. This time two months hence it will be Christmas,
and it looks as if, after all, I shall be spending it out here "far from
home," cheerfully grumbling like a true British soldier, while the
waggon crowd and sergeants' mess are enjoying most of _our share_ of the
Christmas tucker and other luxuries which are sure to be sent out. And
you away in dear old Merrie England in be-hollyed and be-mistletoe'd
homes enjoying your turkeys, puddings, and all that goes to make
Christmas the festive season of goodwill, when families and friends
re-unite for a short while, and eat, drink, and gossip generally, will,
I am sure, amidst the festival, pause now and again to think of the
wanderers on the veldt, and more than likely toast them in champagne,
port, sherry, elder, or orange wine. That is if we are not home. If we
are, we shall show ourselves thoroughly capable of doing the above
ourselves; and as for gossip, heaven help ye, gentles! I suppose the
Christmas numbers are out already, with the usual richly-coloured
supplements of the cheerful order, such as a blood-stained khaki wreck
saying good-bye to his pard, or the troop Christmas pudding (I s'pose I
ought to say duff) dropped on the ground. But a truce to all such
thoughts, perhaps we shall get home after all, and again p'r'