here's a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams:

There's a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true;
Till the day when I'll be going down
That long, long trail with you."

You ought to be able to get it, and then you will be singing it when I'm
doing it.

No, I don't know what to ask from you for Christmas--unless a plum
pudding and a general surprise box of sweets and food stuffs. If you
don't mind my suggesting it, I wouldn't a bit mind a Christmas box at
once--a schoolboy's tuck box. I wear the locket, cross, and tie all the
time as kind of charms against danger--they give me the feeling of
loving hands going with me everywhere.

God bless you.
Yours ever,
CON.

XXII

October 23, 1916

Dearest All:

As you know I have been in action ever since I left England and am
still. I've lived in various extemporised dwellings and am at present
writing from an eight foot deep hole dug in the ground and covered over
with galvanised iron and sand-bags. We have made ourselves very
comfortable, and a fire is burning--I correct that--comfortable until it
rains, I should say, when the water finds its own level. We have just
finished with two days of penetrating rain and mist--in the trenches the
mud was up to my knees, so you can imagine the joy of wading down these
shell-torn tunnels. Good thick socks have been priceless.

You'll be pleased to hear that two days ago I was made Right Section
Commander--which is fairly rapid promotion. It means a good deal more
work and responsibility, but it gives me a contact with the men which I
like.

I don't know when I'll get leave--not for another two months anyway. It
would be ripping if I had word in time for you to run over to England
for the brief nine days.

I plan novels galore and wonder whether I shall ever write them the way
I see them now. My imagination is to an extent crushed by the
stupendousness of reality. I think I am changed in some stern spiritual
way--stripped of flabbiness. I am perhaps harder--I can't say. That I
should be a novelist seems unreasonable--it's so long since I had my own
way in the world and met any one on artistic terms. But I have enough
ego left to be very interested in my book. And by the way, when we're
out at the front and the battery wants us to