ther. The soldier
of to-day is rough of exterior, rough of speech and rough of bearing, but
underneath he has a heart of gold and a spirit of untold gentleness.

We play poker, and we play with the sky the limit. Why not? Active service
allowance is thirty francs a month--five dollars. Why put on any limit? You
may owe a man a hundred, or even two hundred dollars, but what's the
difference?--a shell may put an end to you, him and the poker board any old
minute. There is no knowing.

Weeks pass and no letters. We play more wildly, squatting down in the mud
with the board before us. I have sometimes seen a full house, a straight,
three of a kind, or probably four big ones. "I raise you five," says Bill.
Bang!--a whiz bang explodes twenty yards away. "I raise you ten." Bang!--a
wee willie takes the top off the parapet. "There's your ten, and ten
better." Crash!--and several bits of shrapnel probably go through the
board. "You're called. Gee, but that was a close one! Deal 'em out, Peat."

Suddenly down the trench will pass the word that the officer and sergeant
are coming with letters and parcels. We kick the poker board high above the
trench, cards and chips flying in all directions. No one cares, even though
he's had a hand full of aces. The letters are in, and every man is dead
sure there will be one for him.

We crowd around the officer with shining eyes like so many schoolboys.
Parcels are handed out first, but we throw these aside to be opened later,
and snatch for the letters. But luck is not always good to all of us, and
possibly it will be old Bill who has to turn away empty-handed and alone.
No letter. Are they all well, or--no letter.

But Bill is not left alone very long. A pal will notice him, notice him
before he himself has had more than a glimpse of the heading of his own
precious letter, and going over to Bill, will slap him a hearty blow on the
shoulder and say: "Say, Bill, old boy, I've got a letter. Listen to this--"
And then, no matter how sacred the letter may be, he will read it aloud
before he has a chance to glance at it himself. If it is from the girl, old
Bill will be laughing before it is finished--girls write such amusing
stuff; but, no matter whom it is from, it is all the same. It is a pleasure
shared, and Bill forgets his trouble in the happiness of another.

Kindness, unselfishness and sympathy are all engendered by trench life.
There is no school on earth to equal the school of generou