This barber understands not a syllable of English, which fact has added much to young America’s enjoyment. The boys, in the midst of a hair cut, say to him politely: “You realize that you’re a damn rotten barber?” And he answers smilingly: “Oui, oui, monsieur.” Yesterday, I am told, a young shavee remarked: “You make me sick.” The barber replied as usual, and the customer was sick all last night. To-morrow afternoon there is to be a “concert” and I’m to speak a piece, O Diary! _Monday, August 13._ The concert was “au profit du Secours National de France. Œuvre fondée pour répartir les Secours aux Victimes de la Guerre.” Ten minutes before starting time they informed me that I was to talk on “The American National Game,” and I don’t even know how the White Sox came out a week ago to-morrow. The afternoon’s entertainment opened with a few well-chosen remarks by our congressman. The general, designated on the program as “chairman,” though his real job was toastmaster, talked a while about this, that and the other thing, and then introduced the cornet player, using his real name. This gentleman and I blew at the same time, so I have no idea what he played. I got back in time for some pretty good harmonizing by three young Americans and a boy from Cincinnati. Then there was a Humorous Recitation (the program said so) by a gent with a funny name, and some really delightful French folk songs by the lady novelist. After which came a Humorous Speech (the program forgot to say so) by myself, necessarily brief, as I gave it in French. The French songbird followed with one of those things that jump back and forth between Pike’s Peak and the Grand Cañon, and a brave boy played a ukelele, and the quartette repeated. In conclusion, we all rose and attempted _La Marseillaise_. Some of the programs had been illustrated by the lady novelist’s artist husband, and these were auctioned off after the show. I made my financial contribution indirectly, through better card players than myself. My bridge partner, I noticed, had recovered from his attack of the Bids. _Tuesday, August 14._ The concert, by the way, was given in the salon de conversation, which, I think, should be reserved for the Gentleman from Louisiana. He has now told me two hundred times that he won his election to the State Senate by giving one dollar and a half to “a nigger.” One of our young field-service men spoiled the forenoon poker game with a lecture on how to catch sharks. His remarkable idea is to put beefsteak on a stout copper wire and troll with it. He has evidently been very intimate with this family of fish, and he says they are simply crazy about beefsteak. Personally, I have no desire to catch sharks. There are plenty aboard. But I do wish he had not got to the most interesting part of his theory at the moment the dealer slipped me four sixes before the draw. Everybody was too busy listening to stay.