_If you don’t like the nickname Sammy, If it’s not all a nickname should be, You can pick out Pat or Mike, Whatever name you like-- It won’t make no difference to me. Want a Thomas or Harry or Dick name? Dost prefer to be called Joe or Lou? You’ve a right to your choice of a nickname; Oh, Mr. Yank, it’s up to you._ V MY ADVENTURES AT THE BRITISH FRONT _Monday, September 3. Paris._ In this morning’s mail was a letter from Somewhere in London, replying favorably to my request to go to the British front. I was directed to take the letter to the assistant provost marshal, who would slip me a pass and inform me as to the details of the trip. At the A. P. M.’s I was given the pass and with it “an undertaking to be signed by all intending visitors to the front.” There are ten rules in the undertaking, and some of them are going to be hard to obey. For example: “I understand that it is impossible to arrange for me to see relatives serving with the fighting forces.” “I will not visit the enemy front during the present war.” But No. 6 is the tough one: “In no circumstances will I deliver a political or electioneering speech to troops.” I must pray for strength to resist natural impulses along this line. Wednesday morning, said the A. P. M., would be our starting time. And he told us when and where to take the train--“us” because I am to be accompanied by a regular correspondent, one who carries a cane and everything. Mr. Gibbons, the regular correspondent, informs me I must wear a uniform, and to-morrow morning I am to try on his extra one, which he has kindly offered. Another chore scheduled for to-morrow is the squaring of myself with the boss of the French Maison de la Presse, who invited me to visit the devastated territory Thursday and Friday. The invitation was accepted, but the British and French dates conflict, and I would rather see one real, live front than any number of broken-down barns and boched trees. _Tuesday, September 4. Paris._ I reported, after the French idea of breakfast, at the Maison de la Presse. This is situate on the fourth floor of a building equipped with an elevator that proves the fallacy of the proverb “What goes up must come down.” You can dimly see it at the top of the shaft, and no amount of button pushing or rope pulling budges it. During the long climb I rehearsed the speech of apology and condolence framed last night, and wondered whether monsieur would be game and try to smile or break down completely or fly into a rage. He was game, and he not only tried to smile, but succeeded. And his smile was in perfect simulation of relief. These French are wonderful actors.