When I next visit Campion, I will teach you (in addition to “The Boston Burglar”) an admirable song called “Down in the Heart of the Gas-House District.” I sing it beautifully. Its climax is, “If you would meet good fellows face to face, Just hang around Jimmy Cunningham’s place, For it’s down in the heart of the Gas-house district, In Old New York.” I received two most welcome letters from you recently. One had to do with the case of ----. It contains excellent advice, and I am carrying it in my pocket, intending to clip your name and the name of the college from it and to give it to him. I am deeply grateful, my dear Father, for your great and characteristic kindness in this matter. I think we’ll yet see him practicing and teaching philosophy. You see, in his veins is a dangerous mixture of bloods--like my own--German and Irish, perhaps that accounts for his troubles. Gaelic impetuosity and Teutonic romanticism--no, sentimentality--no, self-pity--no, what is it that makes Germans German? I mean Sturm und Drang, Sorrows of Werther and that sort of thing. Well, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. But all people with any German blood have a bit of it. And highly diluted it’s rather nice. Which reminds me that Father Duffy says I’m half German and half human. I wrote a poem called “Rouge Bouquet.” I’ll ask Aline to send you a copy--it’s long--and you remind her. It will tell you of an incident which will indicate to you that handling statistics in Regimental Headquarters isn’t the dry task you imagine it. The statistics aren’t dry--they’re wet--and red. Also, I’m attached to the Regimental Intelligence Section, which is exciting. I had a very thrilling week not long ago--I’m not allowed to write about it yet. I’ll tell you about it some day. By the way, it was at that time--Feb. 26, that you wrote to me. I wasn’t in the office then, I was out working as an observer--finest job in the army! By the way, I’m a Sergeant now. I’ll never be anything higher. To get a commission I’d have to go away for three months to a school, and then--whether or not I was made an officer--I’d be sent to some outfit other than this. And I don’t want to leave this crowd. I’d rather be a Sergeant in the 69th than a Lieutenant in any other regiment in the world. Get Aline to send you a copy of “Holy Ireland”--it will explain, somewhat. Please give my love to anybody who will accept it. Remember me with special fervour to Sister Eugene and Sister Stanislaus. I enjoy reading the Campion, and am glad to see the newspaper has become a reality. You speak of French anti-clericals in your letter. They all must be in Paris. I haven’t found any in my rather extensive wanderings around France. As a common soldier, I have the privilege of intimacy with the French peasants--and I find them edifyingly good Catholics. Pray for me, dear Father James.