gned to tents, which resembled a miniature Billy Sunday
tabernacle, we stretched our tired bodies on the soft pine boards and
listened intently for the "roar of cannon." Hearing nothing but the
songs of the birds, we decided that an armistice had been declared and
proceeded to make up for all the "couchey" we had lost.

We had always been told that England was famous for her bounteous feeds,
and after all the bully beef we had consumed for our "Uncle," we thought
we were entitled to one of those dinners of roast suckling pig and plum
pudding. But alas, we were badly disappointed, because in place of the
former we had a piece of cheese, the size of which wouldn't be an
inducement even to a starved rat, and in place of the latter, we ate a
bit of salt pork.

During our brief stay at Camp Woodley, we visited many historical
buildings and places. Among these was the old Abbey at Romsey, built in
the eleventh century, the walls of which plainly showed the ball marks
of Oliver Cromwell's siege against it. The pews in the Abbey were the
same old benches of old, and the altar was the work of an ancient
artist. Around the walls were carved the epitaphs and names of those who
were buried in its stately walls. Along with the tombs of the old
forefathers who had fought with the armor and lance were the tombs of
the late heroes, who fought with the methods of modern times. We signed
our names in the visitors book, along with King George and Ex-Kaiser
Wilhelm.

Our hikes in the morning were enjoyed by everyone, over well kept roads
shaded from the hot sun by large over-hanging trees, the same old trees
and the same old Sherwood forest that Robin Hood knew so well. But as
Roger Knight says, "You can't _eat_ scenery!"

After an enjoyable five days, spent in doing nothing much, we donned our
packs again and started for the Channel, a distance of twelve miles.
While walking thru the streets of Southampton, our throats parched and
our feet sore, we were cheered time and again by the women and children,
and many ran alongside of the marching column serving us cool water. We
sighed as we had to pass Ale Shops just as if they weren't there. About
noon we stopped at a Base Hospital to eat our picnic luncheon--(Bully
beef).

Our first big thrill of "La Guerre" came when we saw some real live
Boche prisoners working on the roads. We watched them as a little boy
watches the elephant at the circus. One of the boys asked them, in
German, how