The other day he brought back a small hunting carbine. He also managed to procure the whole paraphernalia required for making snares and traps. He is away for hours at a time, prowling about the woods, risking a court-martial a score of times, all to bring back a few tom-tits. On his return, blood and feathers are sticking to his fingers. "You savage!" exclaims Verrier. "Doesn't war provide you with sufficient opportunities to satisfy your bloodthirsty instincts? Why should you go and kill tiny birds like these?" "Don't cry over it; I am going to cook them for you, along with a few slices of bacon...." To-day, thanks to Jules, we are _en famille_ with the Achains. The little girl, ten years of age, has pretty blue eyes and light hair, confined in a black shawl, like her mother's. She looks at haversacks, rifles, and _musettes_, and asks in drawling accents-- "Do you really carry all these things on your back?" Indeed, the haversacks do look of a respectable size: on the top the cover, rolled in the sleeping-bag; to the left, a tent canvas; to the right, a rubber mantle; in the middle, a cooking utensil; inside, linen and tobacco, a thread and needle-case, slippers, a large packet of letters, and reserve provisions. The whole weighs nearly thirty-five pounds. The _musettes_, too, are of enormous bulk, swollen with provisions, toilet utensils, a ball of bread, evidently so called because it is flat, spirit-flask, knife, fork, and spoon, a tin plate, and lastly a few packets of cartridges. At the bottom is a confused mass of tobacco and matches, bread-crumbs, and earth. Sergeant Chaboy announces _en passant_-- "Be ready at five o'clock, my boys. It is the section's turn to act as artillery support at the Montagne farm." The Germans are beginning to fire upon the village. At four o'clock the bombardment is at its height. Impossible to remain in the streets. The light begins to fade, and the projectiles become fewer and fewer. The section musters. The Montagne farm is isolated right in the centre of a plain which overlooks Bucy, and on which several batteries of our 75's have been installed. Every day the Germans pour showers of projectiles on to the position. This evening their shells set fire to a straw-rick. The flames illumine the whole summit, throw into relief the desolate outlines of the trees, and project their lurid reflections on to the surrounding buildings. We hear the crackling of the straw as the flaming sprays are carried away in the distance. The section slowly advances towards the farm in columns of twos. We halt on reaching a stable, where we find a quantity of thick litter. All the better, for it is bitterly cold; several degrees below zero.