erformer:--

"We _have_ been and spoiled his entrance for him, haven't we?"

V

UNBENDING THE BOW

I

There is a certain type of English country-house female who is said to
"live in her boxes." That is to say, she appears to possess no home of
her own, but flits from one indulgent roof-tree to another; and owing
to the fact that she is invariably put into a bedroom whose wardrobe
is full of her hostess's superannuated ball-frocks and winter furs,
never knows what it is to have all her "things" unpacked at once.

Well, we out here cannot be said to live in our boxes, for we do not
possess any; but we do most undoubtedly live in our haversacks and
packs. And this brings us to the matter in hand--namely, so-called
"Rest-Billets." The whole of the hinterland of this great trench-line
is full of tired men, seeking for a place to lie down in, and living
in their boxes when they find one.

At present we are indulging in such a period of repose; and we venture
to think that on the whole we have earned it. Our last rest was in
high summer, when we lay about under an August sun in the district
round Bethune, and called down curses upon all flying and creeping
insects. Since then we have undergone certain so-called "operations"
in the neighbourhood of Loos, and have put in three months in the
Salient of Ypres. As that devout adherent of the Roman faith, Private
Reilly, of "B" Company, put it to his spiritual adviser--

"I doot we'll get excused a good slice of Purgatory for this, father!"

We came out of the Salient just before Christmas, in the midst of the
mutual unpleasantness arising out of the grand attack upon the British
line which was to have done so much to restore the waning confidence
of the Hun. It was meant to be a big affair--a most majestic victory,
in fact; but our new gas-helmets nullified the gas, and our new shells
paralysed the attack; so the Third Battle of Ypres was not yet. Still,
as I say, there was considerable unpleasantness all round; and we were
escorted upon our homeward way, from Sanctuary Wood to Zillebeke, and
from Zillebeke to Dickebusche, by a swarm of angry and disappointed
shells.

Next day we found ourselves many miles behind the firing-line, once
more in France, with a whole month's holiday in prospect, comfortably
conscious that one could walk round a corner or look over a wall
without preliminary reconnaissance or subsequent extirpation.

As for the holiday itself, unre