ere.

Nov. 20.

The Prince of Wales visited us yesterday. We are billeted in a cafe,
and he came in rubbing his hands with the cold. He looked jolly well,
and has a fine, healthy, clear complexion. We have been living in the
lap of luxury lately. Yesterday was just like Christmas Day. We were
inundated with parcels from home, and the room is one litter of all
sorts of comforts, and any amount of sweets, shortbread, cake, &c. I
cannot recollect two such happy days as these have been. You can have
no idea how all these luxuries are appreciated after living on "bully"
and biscuits. We have a perfect avalanche of cigarettes and tobacco.
We had a bit of a panic this morning, as we were under orders to move
at any moment, but by good luck it did not come off, and we are
looking forward to a few more days' rest. Our last week in the
trenches was a picnic compared with our first experience. This is a
grand, free life, a sight better than mooching around the city. I'm
just going to have a tot of rum now and turn in--it warms the cockles
of one's heart and makes one sleep like Rip Van Winkle.

Nov. 29.

I never felt so fit in my life and never had such a good time before.
This is simply a splendid life, and I am very glad, indeed, I did not
miss my chance of being here. We were inspected today by Sir John
French, who is tremendously pleased with us. Rumor has it that we are
still to be here a few days, which is giving us a fine long rest. Then
we may be wanted again. One of our fellows has just gone past the
window with a huge sack on his back. It is most laughable to see
immaculate city chaps out here doing all sorts of "orra" jobs. We have
been served out with fur coats, no less; what on earth will they give
us next, I wonder? We are still living in the lap of luxury and are a
most happy family. We have a march every morning, which in this fine
cold weather is delightful.

French Amenities

[From The London Times, Dec. 18, 1914.]

_An officer in the R.A.M.C. writes:_

Figure to yourself (as Wells says, isn't it?) a country of flat plowed
field, pollard willows and deep muddy ditches. Then we come along, and
in military parlance "dig ourselves in." That is, with the sweat of
the brows of hundreds of Tommies working by night deep narrow trenches
five feet deep and at least with the earth thrown up another two and a
half feet as a bank on top. These trenches are one and a half to two
feet wide, and curl and twis