The high courage of the younger girl was cracking under the strain of that ordeal by bombs. Kitty saw how it was with her, and for five long hours she gave a recital of song, dialogue, and dance--most of it improvised--while the bombs fell and the anti-aircraft guns screamed. In all probability she saved the younger girl's reason. When the last raider had dropped the last bomb, Kitty sank down, all but exhausted, and for long cried and laughed hysterically. Hers was not the least heroic part played upon that night.--_H. N., London, E._ Samson, but Shorn During the German attack near Zillebeke in June 1916 a diminutive Cockney, named Samson, oddly enough, received a scalp wound from a shell splinter which furrowed a neat path through his hair. The fighting was rather hot at the time, and this great-hearted little Londoner carried on with the good work. Some hours later came the order to fall back, and as the Cockney was making his way down the remains of a trench, dazed and staggering, a harassed sergeant, himself nearly "all in," ordered him to bear off a couple of rifles and a box of ammunition. This was the last straw. "Strike, sergeant," he said, weakly, "I can't 'elp me name being Samson, but I've just 'ad me perishin' 'air cut!"--"_Townie," R.A.F._ "What's Bred in the Bone----!" When we were at Railway Wood, Ypres Salient, in 1916, "Muddy Lane," our only communication trench from the front line to the support line, had been reduced to shapelessness by innumerable "heavies." Progress in either direction entailed exposure to snipers in at least twelve different places, and runners and messengers were, as our sergeant put it, "tickled all the way." In the support line one afternoon, hearing the familiar "Crack! Crack! Crack!" I went to Muddy Lane junction to await the advertised visitor. He arrived--a wiry little Cockney Tommy, with his tin hat dented in two places and blood trickling from a bullet graze on the cheek. In appreciation of the risk he had run I remarked, "Jerry seems to be watching that bit!" "Watching!" he replied. "'Struth! I felt like I was walking darn Sarthend Pier naked!"--_Vernon Sylvaine, late Somerset L.I., Grand Theatre, Croydon._ A Very Human Concertina In March 1918, when Jerry was making his last great attack, I was in the neighbourhood of Petit Barisis when three enemy bombing planes appeared overhead and gave us their load. After all was clear I overheard this dialogue between two diminutive privates of the 7th Battalion, the London Regiment ("Shiny Seventh"), who were on guard duty at the Q.M. Stores: "You all right, Bill?" "Yes, George!" "Where'd you get to, Bill, when he dropped his eggs?" "Made a blooming concertina of meself and got underneaf me blinkin' tin 'at!"--_F. A. Newman, 8 Levett Gardens, Ilford, Ex-Q.M.S., 8th London (Post Office Rifles)._ A One-Man Army