th of singers, no bashful hanging back, no waiting
for polite pressure. Every one who can sing, or thinks he can, is
eager to display his talent. There is no monotony. A boisterous comic
song is succeeded by one about summer roses, autumn leaves, and the
kiss of a maiden at a stile. The vagaries of a ventriloquist are a
matter for roars of laughter. A song about the beauties of the rising
moon pleases us all equally well. An original genius sings a song of
his own composition, rough-hewn verses set to a familiar tune, about
the difficulty of obtaining leave and the longing that is in all our
hearts for a return to "Blighty, dear old Blighty." Did ever men
before fix such a name on the country for which they fight?

Now and again some one comes forward with a long narrative song, a
kind of ballad chanted to a tune very difficult to catch. It is about
as hard to keep track with the story as to pick up the tune.
Words--better singers fail in the same way--are not easily
distinguished, though the man does his best, clears his throat
carefully between each verse and spits over the edge of the platform
to improve his enunciation. No one objects to that.

About manners and dress the audience is very little critical. But
about the merits of the songs and the singers the men express their
opinions with the utmost frankness. The applause is genuine, and the
singer who wins it is under no doubt about its reality. The song
which makes no appeal is simply drowned by loud talk, and the
unfortunate singer will crack his voice in vain in an endeavour to
regain the attention he has lost.

Encores are rare, and the men are slow to take them. There is a man
towards the end of the evening who wins one unmistakably with an
inimitable burlesque of "Alice, where art thou?" The pianist fails
to keep in touch with the astonishing vagaries of this performance,
and the singer, unabashed, finishes without accompaniment. The
audience yells with delight, and continues to yell till the singer
comes forward again. This time he gives us a song about leaving home,
a thing of heart-rending pathos, and we wail the chorus:

"It's sad to give the last hand-shake,
It's sad the last long kiss to take,
It's sad to say farewell."

The entertainment draws to its close about 8 o'clock. Men go to bed
betimes who know that a bugle will sound the reveille at 5.30 in the
morning. The end of the entertainment is planned to allow time for a
fina