I have not read “The Tree of Heaven,” to which you refer in a recent letter. But I have read Carnival--and if when I get back to the States I find that you really think such books are “fine,” as you say in your letter, I’ll grab a baby (probably young Michael) and start for whatever South American Republic or other bellicose land has need of the services of a ranting, roaring, slashing, dashing young Sergeant, fresh from the ranks of the quarrelsome Irish, veteran of the Great War. JOYCE. * * * * * May 27, 1918. Dear Aline: I enclose three bits of verse by various hands. “A Nun’s Prayer for a Soldier” is by dear old Sister Mary Leo. The flattering sonnet was sent to me by Sr. Mary Emerentia, having been copied from a paper published by the girls of St. Mary’s College, Notre Dame, Indiana. I destroyed Sr. Emerentia’s letter before I copied down the author’s name, so I couldn’t write to thank her, unfortunately. “The Green Estaminet” I want carefully preserved, for it must go in every anthology made by you or me or anybody we know. I like it better than any war poem I’ve read since I became a soldier, and I deeply regret that I didn’t write it. Many and many a jovial evening I have spent in just such bistrals as the poet describes. Dear old Madame--she always has that “strange disease,” and she finds that white bread is good for it--and in exchange for that white bread (from army kitchens) she gives the delicious soft-crumbed brittle-crusted war-bread, better than any bread in the States. “The great round songs begin”--they do, indeed! “Bing Bang Bingen on the Rhine!” “Down in the Heart of the Gas House District,” “Sidewalks of New York,” and always “Madelon,” in which the French soldiers in the corner enthusiastically join. Cecil Chesterton told me he always judged a country by its drinking-places. Well, here are the merriest, bravest drinking places in the world. If the States go dry, I’m going to bundle all you young critters over here to live--a comfortable, humorous, Catholic country. Honestly, the only drawback to living in this country is the absence of you and your gang. I’d like a house on the very mountain top I now inhabit, and I know you’d enjoy it tremendously. I’m perfectly serious about this, and look forward to bringing you here. Write oftener, and longer! I love you. JOYCE. * * * * * June 1, 1918. Dear Aline: