y a fast scout. He grabbed a Very's pistol
and fired at the Boche a succession of lights, red, white, and green.
The Boche, taking the rockets for a signal from a decoy machine, or from
some new form of British frightfulness, promptly retired.

Dinner over, the usual crowd settle around the card-table, and the
gramophone churns out the same old tunes. There is some dissension
between a man who likes music and another who prefers rag-time. Number
one leads off with the Peer Gynt Suite, and number two counters with
the record that choruses: "Hello, how are you?" From the babel of
yarning emerges the voice of our licensed liar--

"So I told the General he was the sort of bloke who ate tripe and
gargled with his beer."

"Flush," calls a poker player.

"Give us a kiss, give us a kiss, by wireless," pleads the gramophone.

"Good-night, chaps. See you over Cambrai." This from a departing guest.

Chorus--"Good-night, old bean."

A somewhat wild evening ends with a sing-song, of which the star number
is a ballad to the tune of "Tarpaulin Jacket," handed down from the
pre-war days of the Flying Corps, and beginning--

"The young aviator was dying,
And as 'neath the wreckage he lay (he lay),
To the A.M.'s assembled around him
These last parting words he did say:
'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys,
The connecting-rod out of my brain (my brain),
From the small of my back take the crank-shaft.
And assemble the engine again.'"

On turning in we give the sky a final scour. It is non-committal on the
subject of to-morrow's weather. The night is dark, the moon is at her
last quarter, only a few stars glimmer.

I feel sure the land needs rain. If it be fine to-morrow we shall sit
over Archie for three hours. If it be conveniently wet we shall charter
a light tender and pay a long-deferred visit to the city of Arriere.
There I shall visit a real barber; pass the time of day with my friend
Henriette, whose black eyes and ready tongue grace a book shop of the
Rue des Trois Cailloux; dine greatly at a little restaurant in the Rue
du Corps Nu Sans Tete; and return with reinforcements of Anatole France,
collar-studs, and French slang.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] This narrative first appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'

LETTERS FROM THE SOMME

_ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE

TO THE

OWNER OF THESE LETTERS, WHO HAS ALLOWED
ME TO REVISE FOR PUBLICATION WHAT
WAS WRITTEN FOR HER ALONE_