ased keenness to scout around in the calories and make out
your own.

* * * * *

A little of my Balkan experience in the reducing line may not be amiss.
In Albania, where I was stationed most of the time, life is very
strenuous. We all had to work hard and expend a great deal of nervous
energy. Medical calls on foot in the scorching sun over unkind
cobblestones, long distance calls on unkinder mules, long hours in
nerve-racking clinics, ferocious man-eating mosquitos, scorpions,
centipedes, sandflies, and fleas, and other unspeakable animals kept us
hopping and slapping and scratching.

But there was one consolation to me. With this work, more intensive and
more strenuous than I had ever done before, I would not have to diet--I
would not have to watch my weight--I would not have to count my
calories! Oh, joy!

We lived a community life, we Red Crossers. We had plain blunt food,
American canned mostly, supplemented with the fare that could be eked
out of Albania, and cooked by an Albanese who could not be taught that
we Americans were not Esquimos and did not like food swimming in fat.
However, it tasted good to famished Red Crossers, and I ate three meals
a day, confident that I would retain my girlish middle-aged slenderness
and not have to diet. We had no scales and no mirrors larger than our
hand mirrors. Our uniforms were big and comfortable.

* * * * *

The French who are in charge of Scutari depart, the officers leaving to
us some of their furniture, including a full length French plate mirror.
Ordinarily when I look in a full-length mirror I don't hate myself so
much--so it is with some degree of anticipated pleasure that I
complacently approach, to get a life-size reflection of myself after
many months of deprivation of that pleasure.

"_Mon Dieu!_" I exclaim. "_Bogomi_!" (Serbian--'For the love of Allah!')
"This is no mirror," I mutter. "This is one of those musee things that
make you look like a Tony Sarg picture of Irvin Cobb."

"What's irritating you, Dockie?" asks one of the girls, coming up and
standing back of me. I look at her reflection. She does not look like
Irvin Cobb!

"Peggy," I say tragically, "Peggy, do I look like my reflection?"

"Yes, dear, we have all noticed how stout you have been getting. Aren't
you supposed to be some shark on the subject of ideal weight?"

And the bitter truth is borne in upon me--no matter how ha