Yesterday he got a stick and put a cap on it so that it peeped up above the trench just like a man, and then the Germans kept shooting away at it until they must have used up tons of ammunition. But Mike Clancy was not the only practical joker in the trenches, as the following from a wounded soldier shows: Our men have just had their papers from home, and have noted, among other things, that "Business as Usual" is the motto of patriotic shopkeepers. In last week's hard fighting the Wiltshires, holding an exposed position, ran out of ammunition, and had to suspend firing until a party brought fresh supplies across the open under a heavy fire. Then the wag of the regiment, a Cockney, produced a biscuit tin with "Business as Usual" crudely printed on it, and set it up before the trenches as a hint to the Germans that the fight could now be resumed on more equal terms. Finally the tin had to be taken in because it was proving such a good target for the German riflemen, but the joker was struck twice in rescuing it. A wounded private of the Buffs relates how an infantryman got temporarily separated from his regiment at Mons, and lay concealed in a trench while the Germans prowled around. Just when he thought they had left him for good ten troopers left their horses at a distance and came forward on foot to the trench. The hidden infantryman waited until they were half way up the slope, and then sprang out of his hiding place with a cry of "Now, lads, give them hell!" Without waiting to see the "lads" the Germans took to their heels. HIGHLAND KILT A POOR UNIFORM. Why Highland kilts are not the ideal uniform for modern warfare is concisely summed up by Private Barry: Most of the Highlanders are hit in the legs. * * * It is because of tartan trews and hose, which are more visible at a distance than any other part of their dress. Bare calves also show up in sunlight. Private McGlade, writing to his aged mother in County Monaghan, bears witness to the oft-made assertion that the German soldiers object to a bayonet charge: I am out of it with a whole skin, though we were all beat up, as you might expect after four days of the hardest soldiering you ever dreamed of. We had our share of the fighting, and I am glad to say we accounted for our share of the German trash, who are a poor lot when it comes to a good, square ruction in the open. We tried hard to get at them many times, but they never would wait for us when they saw the bright bits of steel at the business end of our rifles. Some of our finest lads are now sleeping their last sleep in Belgium, but, mother dear, you can take your son's word for it that for every son of Ireland who will never come back there are at least three Germans who will never be heard of again.