Your letters come daily, which saves me much anguish. At each distribution of the mail there is much quiet disappointment, which later is very likely to express itself in the tent. Said Reardon today, the silent man of the squad, "I'm going to write a letter home that will raise hell." Bannister, whose wife had missed a day, remarked gravely, "I'll have to say something to her." And Pickle came into the tent mad, savagely remarking, "If I don't get a letter next mail, I'm going home." Luckily it came. But yet the men don't always sympathize with each other. Clay was bitterly complaining of his luck. Said Knudsen, "But man, you can't expect an answer to your letter yet. It had to go to Maryland." Then Bannister, taking his mind from his own disappointment, added, "And great Scott! look at the letter you writ. It was so long that she would need three whole days to read it in, before she could begin her answer. And as to your writing such an amount to your mother--!" "It was only eight pages," said handsome Clay, blushing. Bannister had no mercy. "Only eight pages? Man, it was a young novel! To your mother? Your grandmother, more likely." Clay was silenced. Our fourth blankets are served out, and we sleep very snug. Food is the same, wholesome but not delicate. David and Pickle, having each a sweet tooth, buy rather freely outside, and David occasionally slips away for a hotel meal. As a consequence, they sometimes need doctoring. The rest of the squad, whether from economy or on principle, stick to the daily mess and are well. Love from DICK. TELEGRAM FROM PRIVATE RICHARD GODWIN TO HIS MOTHER AT HOME Plattsburg, Wednesday, Sep. 13. is you know who at plattsburg and why i thought i saw her here today am well love DICK. LETTERS FROM THE SAME Postscript, written at the top of the first sheet of the letter I have just sent you off this telegram: Is You-know-who at Plattsburg, and why? I thought I saw her here today. Am well. Love. Second postscript, written in the margin I find I have written you a letter that will show you my difficulties in getting time to write. It is merely typical of my usual day. DEAR MOTHER:-- I begin this letter in the tent at about 5.30 in the morning, expecting the first assembly, yet trying to snatch a little time while the rest of the camp is still dressing. My hand no longer aches, but the wrist is plain stiff from yesterday's exercise at trail. I have just conned over fifty paragraphs of the drill book, getting up early for the purpose.