Clerks scribble ceaselessly, rolls and nominal rolls, nominal lists and lists. By the time they have finished one list it is long out-of-date. Then they start the next. Everything happens at the same time; nobody has time to finish a sentence. Only a military mind, with a very limited descriptive vocabulary and a chronic habit of self-deception, would call the place orderly. The Adjutant speaks, hoarsely; while he speaks he writes about something quite different. In the middle of each sentence his pipe goes out; at the end of each sentence he lights a match. He may or may not light his pipe; anyhow he speaks:-- "Where is that list of Wesleyans I made? And what are all those people on the stair? Is that my pencil? Well, they _can't_ be paid. Tell the Marines we have no forms to spare. I cannot get these Ration States to square. The Brigadier is coming round, they say. The Colonel wants a man to cut his hair. I think I _must_ be going mad to-day. "These silly questions! I shall tell Brigade This office is now closing for repair. They want to know what Mr. Johnstone weighed, And if the Armourer is dark, or fair? I do not know; I cannot say I care. Tell that Interpreter to go away. Where is my signal-pad? I left it there. I think I _must_ be going mad to-day. "Perhaps I should appear upon parade. Where is my pencil? Ring up Captain Eyre; Say I regret our tools have been mislaid. These companies would make Sir DOUGLAS swear. A is the worst. Oh, damn, is this the _Maire?_ I'm sorry, Monsieur--_je suis desole_-- But no one's pinched your miserable chair. I think I _must_ be going mad to-day. ENVOI. "Prince, I perceive what CAIN'S temptations were, And how attractive it must be to slay. O Lord, the General! This is hard to bear. I think I _must_ be going mad to-day." * * * * * THE MUD LARKS. If there is one man in France whom I do not envy it is the G.H.Q. Weather Prophet. I can picture the unfortunate wizard sitting in his bureau, gazing into a crystal, _Old Moore's Almanack_ in one hand, a piece of seaweed in the other, trying to guess what tricks the weather will be up to next. For there is nothing this climate cannot do. As a quick-change artist it stands _sanspareil_ (French) and _nulli secundus_ (Latin). And now it seems to have mislaid the Spring altogether. Summer has come at one stride. Yesterday the staff-cars smothered one with mud as they whirled past; to-day they choke one with dust. Yesterday the authorities were issuing precautions against frostbite; to-day they are issuing precautions against sunstroke. Nevertheless we are not complaining. It will take a lot of sunshine to kill us; we like it, and we don't mind saying so.