Well--to cut this short--I forgot to tell you about the darkies! It was my first experience with them over here. Against the advice of a southern lieutenant, I went into their barracks one day and got to talking with them. "Don't any of you boys play or sing?" I asked. "Yes'm. Ah'm a musician mahself," modestly replied a coal black boy. "Are you? well what do you play?" "Oh, mos' anything, ma'am." "Do you play the guitar?" "Yes'm, we've got a guitar but the _strangs_ is broke." Of course I was able to remedy that, and gave them all the "strangs" they needed, in addition lending them my guitar, which they never failed to return to me in good condition at the specified time. They had a great time, sitting out on piles of lumber, twanging the guitars and singing. You could almost imagine you were down on the old Mississippi. Whenever I passed, some one would call out, "Miss, ain't you gwine to play for us?" And I would take the guitar and sing, while black, attentive faces packed close all around me. "Give us jes one mo', Miss," they would plead when I started to go. My greatest hit was "When Yankee Doodle learns to parley-vous français," and when I would come to "Ulala! Sweet Papa!" they would smack their knees, and giggle with delight. One evening they came down to our "Y" and one clogged, while another played the piano, and another evening they came and sang to us. On the whole the white boys were on good terms with the blacks, though they had one little row while we were there. The whites were playing the blacks at baseball. The game was a comic affair, and was proceeding with the utmost good nature, when one boy thoughtlessly called a darky a "nigger." Great outrage! The colored boys refused to play, the game was called off, and the black team retreated in sulky silence. However, they all made up the next day, and the game was resumed.