For, alas, he is one of those dear overzealous fellows whom in moments of depression we stigmatise as "hearty." He has even been known to be hearty at breakfast; to come trampling into the dug-out with that blinking old smile on his face, expressing immense satisfaction with life in general at the top of a peculiarly robust voice; to tread on his captain's toes and slap his next-door neighbour heartily on the back, and then to explain to a swearing and choking audience how splendidly he has slept, and what a topping day it is going to be. Never has Gilbert been known to spend a bad night; he is one of those fortunate animals who can go to sleep standing and at five minutes' notice, and start snoring at once. If you try to sleep anywhere near him, you dream of finding yourself in Covent Garden station, trying to board endless trains which roar through without stopping--that's the kind of snore it is. And now it is time I told my story. It happened many years ago, when the War was young and the Bosch comparatively aggressive; when our big guns fired once every other Sunday and we lived precarious lives in holes in the ground. Our Brigadier, a conscientious soldier of the old school, was dodging round our line of trenches, and had just reached the sector allotted to my company, which was also Gilbert's, when the distant buzz that generally means an aeroplane overhead made itself distinctly heard. "Can you spot him?" said the General to his Brigade-major; "one of theirs, I suppose?" Now it is as much as a Brigade-Major's job is worth to confess ignorance at such a crisis. So, after sweeping the skies fruitlessly with his glasses and listening intelligently to the steady drone, he said, "Yes!" with as much conviction as possible. "Heads down," said the General sharply, "and don't move. Pass it down." And by way of example he sat heavily on my periscope and stayed gazing at the ground like a fakir lost in meditation. Meanwhile the message was passed along, and the trench became silent as the grave. I was informed a few days later that it reached the outer battalion of the next brigade later on in the morning, and was popularly supposed to have reached Switzerland the same evening. For about five minutes the droning continued ("Having a good look at us," said the Brigade-major in a sepulchral whisper) and then suddenly ceased with what I can only describe as an appalling snort. Almost simultaneously a tousled head was thrust out of a dug-out almost into the great man's face, and Gilbert's cheerful roar was heard by a scandalised company. "Had a topping sleep. What's the time, someone?" * * * * * "Best milch cows have been sold recently for £60 in the Isle of Wight. At a meeting of the Cowes Council it was stated that at Chichester cows had sold for £73 each."--_Times_. And now that the Isle of Wight milkers have held their indignation meeting it is expected that the anomaly will be removed.