ed out of sheer anguish of soul, and I can't justly blame
him. It's hard lines to have a nice fat extra duty party go dead on
your hands.

But with Eli it was different. When I was a homeless rookie he took me
in and I fed him--cigarette butts--and I'll honestly say that he
showed more genuine appreciation than many a flapper I have plied with
costly viands. He was a good goat, Eli. Not a refined goat, to be
sure, but a good, honest, whole-souled goat just the same. He did his
share in policing the grounds, never shirked a cigar end or a bit of
paper and amused many a mess gear line. He was loyal to his friends,
tolerant with new recruits and a credit to the service in general.
Considering the environment in which he lived, I think he deported
himself with much dignity and moderation. I for one shall miss Eli.
Some of the happier memories of my rookie days die with him. He is
survived by numerous dogs.

_April 25th._ Yesterday I wandered around Probation Camp in a very
patronizing manner and finally stopped to shed a tear on the humble
grave of Eli.

"Poor sinful goat," I thought sadly, "here you lie at last in your
final resting place, but your phantom, I wonder, does it go coursing
madly down the Milky Way, butting the stars aside with its
battle-scarred head and sending swift gleams of light through the
heavens as its hoofs strike against an upturned planet? Your horns,
are they tipped with fire and your beard gloriously aflame, or has the
great evil spirit of Wayward Goats descended upon you and borne you
away to a place where there is never anything to butt save
unsatisfactorily yielding walls of padded cotton? Many changes have
taken place, Eli, since you were with us, much adversity has befallen
me, but the world in the large is very much the same. Bill and Mike
have been shipped to sea and strange enough to say, old Spike Kelly
has made the Quartermasters School. I alone of all the gang remain
unspoken for--nobody seems anxious to avail themselves of my services.
My tapes are dirtier and my white hat grows less "sea-going" every day
and even you, Eli, are being forgotten. The company commander still
carols sweetly in the morning about "barrackses" and fire
"distinguishers," rookies still continue to rook about the camp in
their timid, mild-eyed way, while week-old sailors with unwashed
leggins delight their simple souls with cries of 'twenty-one days.'
New goats have sprung up to take your place in the lif