ed to be getting into
some sort of shape, so decided to test them.

"Right turn!" he cried. Then, before they had ceased to move, came
another order, "Left turn!"

One hoodlum left the ranks and started off toward the barracks-room.

"Here, you!" yelled the angry sergeant. "Where are you going?"

"I've had enough," replied the recruit in a disgusted tone. "You don't
know your own mind for two minutes runnin'!"

The day after the second draft quota had reached Camp Devens a rookie
strolled into camp after dark. As he was going past a sentry, he was
challenged.

"Who goes there?"

"Machine gun 301," answered the rookie.

"Advance to be recognized."

"Aw, you don't know me. I've only been here a coupla days."

"How did that private ever get in here?" asked a corporal of a captain
as he looked at a boy who seemed to be a physical weakling.

"Walked in backward," said the captain, "and the guard thought he was
going out."

"Remember, my son," said his mother as she bade him good-by, "when
you get to camp try to be punctual in the mornings, so as not to keep
breakfast waiting."--_Life_.

A young American artist who has just returned from a six-months' job
of driving a British ambulance on the war-front in Belgium brings this
back, straight from the trenches:

"One cold morning a sign was pushed up above the German trench facing
ours, only about fifty yards away, which bore in large letters the
words:

"'GOTT MIT UNS!'

"One of our cockney lads, more of a patriot than a linguist, looked at
this for a moment and then lampblacked a big sign of his own, which he
raised on a stick. It read:

"'WE GOT MITTENS, TOO!'"

"Who goes there?" the sentry challenged.

"Lord Roberts," answered the tipsy recruit.

Again the sentry put the question and received a like answer,
whereupon he knocked the offender down. When the latter came to, the
sergeant was bending over him. "See here!" said the sergeant, "why
didn't you answer right when the sentry challenged you?"

"Holy St. Patrick!" replied the recruit; "if he'd do that to Lord
Roberts, what would he do to plain Mike Flanagan?"

A mud-spattered dough-boy slouched into the "Y" hut where an
entertainment was in progress and slumped into a front seat.

Firm, kindly, and efficient, a Y.M.C.A. man approached him, saying:
"Sorry, buddy, but the entire front section is reserved for officers."

Wearily the youth rose.

"All right," he drawled, "but the