The British trench newspapers have also their particular charm—intermingling Tommy’s robust cheerfulness with the shy pathos of homesick islanders, but printed on fine paper, in good type, they lack a little the winsome appeal of those tiny hand-written sheets, sometimes no bigger than a sheet of foolscap, that are produced in the very atmosphere of war, and which are nearly always dainty, and represent in some subtle way the aroma of France: the wit and tenderness, the heroism, the grand virtues of the fighting man, and yet his simplicity of soul. Obviously, they have been born in war, and yet unaffected by the crash of metal, the horrid jar and thud of falling earth, the ruin of defences, the crashing, crazy effects of heavy fire. Here is another paper bearing the title of _La Félix Potinière_. Every one who has kept house in Paris knows that "Félix Potin" is the name of a large provision stores; but the word _potin_ is the slang term for a piece of gossip, and gossipy indeed are the contents of this amusing little sheet. What tranquillity of mind is revealed by these jokes and _jeux d’esprit_; one would imagine the Boches were many miles off instead of just round the corner! and, moreover, these stimulators to gaiety have the professional touch: the cuisine is perfect; the man of the _métier_ has been at work, and "news," with its accompanying comment, is served up with _sauce piquante_. _La Guerre Joviale_ does not belie its excellent title; it shows us war under its most agreeable aspect; at least it is heartening if not strictly true. And _L’Indiscret des Poilus_, the _Lapin à plume_ ("The Feathered Rabbit") and _Notre Rire_ (the organ of the artillery) are brimful of laughter and the joy of living, even though sometimes, in their surroundings, there is little laughter, a festival of Death rather than of Life.