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since the shots were heard. This is the explanation of the sentry (apparently selected from the transport section) who caused it:—"I sees a suspicious bloke walking along be'ind the lines. I ses to 'im, Alt! 'oo are yer?' He making no response I lets off me rifle, not taking any particuler aim like." "But did you shoot high or low?" he was asked. "Mostly low like, Sir, whereupon down drops the horse." "But what about the subsequent shots?" he was asked. "Well, Sir," he says, "I takes me rifle hunder me harm, in the horthodox fashion, and presses down the leaf, whereupon off it goes again, so I ses to the other———" "What other?" "The suspicious-looking bloke; he'd run up to see what the trouble was. ''Ere, Bill,' I ses, 'for 'eaven's sake take this gun off me; it's going off of its own.'"

And if it interests you to study the native method of speech you will also like to hear of my servant who has just brought me a tidy little canvas bag, officially issued and technically known as an Emergency Ration Carrier. But he has no use for technical terms. "What's this, Joseph?" I ask him. "To put summat in t'eat," says he.

Lastly a quotation from a slightly better educated member of my platoon. He is writing to a quondam friend, and is entering into the field to take part in a serious conflict between that friend and his family at home in the matter of a certain passing in the street with never_so much as a nod of recognition. (You will observe that this jolly little tour abroad hasn't altogether suppressed the more serious quarrels of home life). "For my part," he writes, and I simply must divulge it, however indiscreet, "for my part," he writes in an extremely dignified conclusion, "I value our friendship very highly, but I regret to say that, unless some steps are taken by you in the matter, that friendship will not continue when I return to England, an event which, judging from the infernal noise going on in the distance, is never likely to happen."

I have received an unexpected response to the touching appeal for oddments contained in one of my recent letters. It took the happy shape of a neat box containing the soap, candles, sweetmeats and toothpicks, and labelled "From Charles to Henry." I have my reasons for knowing it was not yourself, but someone masquerading under your name who sent it. Emboldened by this success, I venture now to indent on the same source for a dozen saddles of real mutton, five hundred real bundles of asparagus, a fifty-gallon cask of iced champagne cup and a hot bath; carriage, if you please, prepaid.

In the matter of parcels our Signal officer has just taken a toss, at which we are all secretly pleased since he has hitherto achieved a perfection, almost priggish, in his Private Supply Department. For instance within forty-eight hours of the first foul gas being used by the first foul German, he was supplied by relatives with no fewer than twenty-seven respirators, all for his personal use and of different design; that supplied by his paternal grand-mother was of such solid worth that no wearer of it could possibly ever breathe chlorine, bromine or anything else. This time, a niece, hearing of our want of fresh meat and vegetables in the trenches, sends him, neatly and thoughtfully packed in blue paper and pink ribbons, a Maconochie Meat and Vegetable ration (one tin). No doubt she had scoured all London for it; but out here in Flanders you can have a million of them thrown at you anywhere for the asking.

Yours ever, Henry.

Farmer (visiting "War Fund Sale of Work" in strange village). "And who be that parson working his hands like a furriner?"

Friend. "That's our curate. They do say he's had more wool wound on him than anyone in the country."

Molly has been staying with her uncle. There had been a slight shower of bombs near her home, and as the barometer still indicated "Fair to Zeppeliny," her mother thought it best to remove temptation out of the way of the Germans.

Molly's uncle lives a retired life with his liver. He is on speaking terms with most of his internal organs, knows the name, position and for what noted of each, and takes a tablespoonful after every meal.

As for Molly, well, she is fifteen, and she has blue laughing eyes with imps in them, and usually a hole in one or other of her stockings. Whenever she chases the hole from her stockings she always finds it again in her gloves, also the other way about.

You know when a cyclone blows open the front-door, slams all the other doors in the house and distributes things? Well, in such wise was the coming of Molly to her uncle's house; she just blew in. She left the door wide open, gave her uncle two lyddite kisses, hung her hat and cloak on the floor, and placed the mud from her boots on the brass fender to dry.

All her uncle's internal immediately organs jumped up and told him to "Shut that door," which he did, and then he inquired after her mother. Molly said her mother was busy catching rheumatism in the cellar, thank you. She had fitted a shade to the nightlight and was quite cheerful.

How did she pass the time? Well, sometimes she sits and thinks and sometimes she sits. Oh, no! not all day; she comes out when she thinks the Germans are not looking.

Next day Molly's uncle was a little late for breakfast, so she put his lightly-boiled egg into his table-napkin to keep warm. Unfortunately he was not in the best of humours and when he testily flicked open the napkin he was quite surprised at the pattern the lightly-boiled egg made on the wall. He looked at it as if he expected it to speak first.

As Molly said, it is extraordinary how much of an egg there is when you spread it out. Her uncle rang the bell to show it to the maid. She seemed