Then he went up to the camel, gave him a gentle prod, and grunted "Ooush, yer blighter, ooush" (i.e. rise). The camel turned gently over on his back, unshipping the whole cargo that Bert had worked so hard upon, and kicked his legs in the air. [Illustration: "Don't yer understand yer own langwidge, yer kitten?"] Poor old Bert looked at the wreckage and exclaimed, more in sorrow than in anger: "Blimey, don't yer understand yer own langwidge, yer kitten?"--_T. F. Chanter, 16 Atalanta Street, Fulham._ The First Twenty Years It was round about Christmas 1917, and we were resting (?) at "Dirty Bucket Corner." The Christmas present we all had in view was a return to the line in front of Ypres. On the day before we were due to return the Christmas post arrived, and after the excitement had abated the usual "blueness" settled in--the craving for home comforts and "Blighty." My partners in the stretcher-bearing squad included a meek and mild man (I believe he was a schoolmaster before the war) and a Cockney from Seven Dials. We used to call him "Townie." Although the ex-schoolmaster would have had cause in more normal times to rejoice--for the post contained a letter telling him that he had become the father of a bonny boy--the news made him morbid. Of course, we all congratulated him. Meanwhile "Townie" was busy with a pencil and writing pad, and after a few minutes handed to the new parent a sheet of paper folded in half. The recipient unfolded it and looked at it for several seconds before the rest of us became interested and looked over his shoulder. The paper was covered with lines, circles, and writing that appeared to us like "double-Dutch." "What's this?" the father asked. "That's a map I drawed fer yer kid. It'll show him where the old pot and pan is when he's called up," and he concluded with this afterthought: "Tell 'im ter be careful of that ruddy shell-hole just acrost there. I've fallen in the perishin' thing twice this week."--_"Medico" (58th (London) Division), Clapham Common, S.W.11._ Shell as a Hammer At one time the area just behind Vimy Ridge was plentifully sprinkled with enemy shells which had failed to explode. As these were considered a great source of danger they were indicated by "danger boards" nailed to pointed stakes driven into the ground. On one occasion, seeing a man engaged in so marking the resting-place of a "dud"--he was a cheerful Cockney, who whistled as he went about his job--I was much amused (though somewhat scared) to see him stop at a nearby shell, select a "danger board," pick up the shell, and proceed to use it as a hammer to drive the stake into the ground!--_H. S. A. (late Lieut., Suffolk Regt.), Glebe Road, Cheam._ Sore Feet After the first battle of Ypres an old driver, whom we called "Krongie," had very bad feet, and one day reported sick at the estaminet where the M.O. held office.