Concert in the afternoon, the usual number of extremely good _diseurs_. In the Salle de Récréation, where it was held, are reclining-chairs and writing-tables. When I told one not very young _poilu_ that there _was_ such a heaven, he, too, answered, “_Alors la guerre va durer longtemps, si l’on fait tout cela pour ceux qui restent_.” Lieutenant Tonzin has converted those old railway sheds into something most artistic. The walls are painted cream with strips of pale blue; conventionalized fruit-filled baskets and designs of flowery wreaths decorate them at intervals. The great roof has drapings of white muslin, and square, engarlanded shades make the light shine softly on the blue-clad men coming and going, coming and going. On the counter are small green bushes. One homesick-eyed gardener _poilu_ from Marseilles, having felt them, wondered what they would do if watered. “_Les pauvres! Chez nous sont grands comme ça_,” and he raised his hand toward the roof. “_Toi, grand serin_,” remarked his comrade; “_tu vois tout toujours dix fois grandeur naturelle_.” Whereupon they began the inevitable dispute. I heard the words “_gueuleton_,” “_qu’est-ce que t’as au bec_,” and the Marseillais finally calling out, as they retreated, that he thanked God _he_ hadn’t been born at Caen. All is so orderly and the jokes mostly relatable. Only when they are somewhat _allumés_ do they get on the subject of the eternal feminine, and then the dots are put on the i’s, regarding her rôle on the natural plane. But even then there is generally some _copain_ to say, “_Ferme ta gueule_,” or “_Que veux-tu que les mees sachent de tout cela?_” The legend being that the canteens are served almost exclusively by vestals. When holding out their “quarts,” they often ask, longingly, “_Pas de cogneau; pas de gniole?_”[22] When I answered once, “_Pas de pinard[23] ici_,” the _poilu_ cried back, “_Mais le ‘whisk’! Vous en avez toujours chez vous!_” Another delicate Anglo-Saxon reference. Late, in between one of the train rushes, two men came in, violently disputing as they stood at the counter: “_C’est une guerre diplomatique, je te dis, cochon, va._” “_Qu’est-ce que tu dis là, moi, je te dis, sale type, que c’est une guerre qui ne mène à rien!_” “_C’est la même chose, nom de—— —nom de—— —t’es bête, espèce d’acrobate_,” etc., etc. Another comes in saying, loudly: “_Cette sacrée guerre, cette sacrée guerre! Qu’est-ce que cela me fait que je sois boche ou Français? Suis de Roubaix, moi, il me faut manger du pain sec le reste de mes jours—moi et ma femme et mes cinq enfants._” When I gave him his cup of steaming _jus_ (coffee), he poured into it, from his _bidon_, a few drops of _gniole_, and by the time he got to the door he was singing the well-known refrain: _Je fus vacciné,_ _Inoculé,_ _Quatr’ fois piqué ..._