ong suspected of
being a Don Juan, had by one mail written exactly the same letter to five
different girls in England, altering only the addresses and the
affectionate beginnings.

The village in which I am now was visited last September by twelve German
officers who came through in motor cars; the villagers cried, "Vivent les
Anglais," for not having seen an English soldier they took it for granted
that the "Tommy" had come.

Everybody goes armed to the teeth. I have my belt, a regular Christmas
tree for hanging things on, with revolver and cartridges on even while I'm
writing this. We carry a lot, but we soon get used to it.

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The corn is being cut now. Through the window opposite I can see it
standing in newly-stacked sheaves. These places are the favorite sketching
grounds of artists in normal times, and I often wonder if they ever will
be again.

We return salutes with all the French and Belgian officers. It is
difficult sometimes to distinguish them. I got fooled by a Belgian
postman, and then went to work and cut a French general.

The nearer we get to the firing line the finer the type of soldier. They
are the magnificent Britishers of Kitchener's First Army. It makes you
proud to see them marching by, dirty and wet with sweat. I watched two
battalions come through; they had marched twenty miles through the sun
with new issue boots; a few of them had fallen out, and other men and
officers were carrying their equipment and rifles; many of the officers
carried two rifles.

I am now well within sound of the guns. A German Taube was shelled as it
came over our firing line yesterday. One man was lying on his back asleep
with his hat over his eyes, when a piece of shrapnel from one of the
"Archies" hit him in the stomach--result: one blasphemous, indignant
casualty. From the road I can see one of the observation balloons, a queer
sausage-shaped airship. We may be moved up into the thick of it at any
time now.

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I have been over into Belgium to-day: crossed the frontier on my motor
bike; the roads are terrible, all this beastly "pave" cobblestones; awful
stuff to ride over on a motor cycle. Shell holes on both sides of the
road, and I saw three graves in the corner of a hop garden. All along the
road there were dozens and dozens of old London motor buses, taking men to
the trenches. They still have