the
stage in singing one of my most famous and successful songs, "I Love
a Lassie."

But in the trenches, of course, the Hieland troops all look alike.
They cling to their kilts--or, rather, their kilts cling to them--but
kilts and jackets are all of khaki. If they wore the bright plaids of
the tartans they would be much too conspicuous a mark for the
Germans, and so they have to forswear their much loved colors when
they are actually at grips with Fritz.

I wear the kilt nearly always, myself, as I have said. Partly I do so
because it is my native costume, and I am proud of my Highland birth;
partly because I revel in the comfort of the costume. But it brings
me some amusing experiences. Very often I am asked a question that
is, I presume, fired at many a Hieland soldier, intimate though it is.

"I say, Harry," someone will ask me, "you wear the kilt. Do you not
wear anything underneath it?"

I do, myself. I wear a very short pair of trunks, chiefly for reasons
of modesty. So do some of the soldiers. But if they do they must
provide it for themselves; no such garment is served out to them with
their uniform. And so the vast majority of the men wear nothing but
their skins under the kilt. He is bare, that is, from the waist to
the hose--except for the kilt. But that is garment enough! I'll tell
ye so, and I'm thinkin' I know!

So clad the Highland soldier is a great deal more comfortable and a
great deal more sanely dressed, I believe, than the city dweller who
is trousered and underweared within an inch of his life. I think it
is a matter of medical record, that can be verified from the reports
of the army surgeons, that the kilted troops are among the healthiest
in the whole army. I know that the Highland troops are much less
subject to abdominal troubles of all sorts--colic and the like. The
kilt lies snug and warm around the stomach, in several thick layers,
and a more perfect protection from the cold has never been devised
for that highly delicate and susceptible region of the human anatomy.

Women, particularly, are always asking me another question. I have
seen them eyeing me, in cold weather, when I was walkin' around,
comfortably, in my kilt. And their eyes would wander to my knees, and
I would know before they opened their mouths what it was that they
were going to say.

"Oh, Mr. Lauder," they would ask me. "Don't your poor knees get cold--
with no coverings, exposed to this bitter cold?"

Well, the