Concerts and dramatic entertainments are common occurrences. There is always a great deal of fun obtained from the necessity of men assuming women’s parts in these comedies. The work of preparing for such entertainment is often very elaborate. Nothing is too much trouble that has enough fun in it. And you may be sure that the audiences at these shows, which are sometimes held in the wreck of a theater of a smashed French town or in a barn or again in a dug-out possibly 100 feet under ground, are rapturously appreciative. There are always many recalls. But the actors receive no reverence. They are yelled at by name and “kidded” extravagantly. In “Restville” are foot races, steeple-chases, catch-the-ring-on-the-bayonet races, dashes with gas masks, all manner of obstacle races invented on the spur of the moment. The “catch-the-ring” may be taken as a good example of the ingenuity in inventing games having a relation to the war game itself. The race begins with a dash and ends with a difficulty. The difficulty is presented by a series of small rings fixed in posts along the course. Each man in the race reaches for these rings and must pass the bayonet through them with a single stab. The winner, of course, is he who successfully pierces with a single motion the most rings. Air men fly over “Restville,” doing some of their fancy stunts for the amusement of the men below. Cavalrymen give exhibitions of hippodrome riding. Dances are encouraged in the hotels of these “Restvilles.” But whether in “Restville” or in action, one cannot help pay a tribute to the cheerfulness of the British soldier. Tommy sings, laughs and jokes when marching along the white dusty road in France even though he be dead fagged with the heaviness of his equipment. As the reinforcements move over the devastated territory and while shells fall all around him Tommy will sing, “Are we down-hearted?” “Are we fed up?” The reply will come: “_NO!_ _NO!_ NO!” During the suspense of waiting in the dug-outs and trenches and when the German heavies are sending forth a continuous hurricane of high explosives and shrapnel and those born to die on the battlefield are being blown to pieces, the others can be heard singing, “I wouldn’t leave my little wooden hut for you,” “Mother Machree,” “Home, sweet home,” “Tipperary,” and “Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag.” They--the men in “Restville”--talk a great deal among themselves regarding the wounds they wouldn’t mind getting. All wounds are known as “Blighty.” Some would not mind a nice little “Blighty” in the arm, others express preference to a “Blighty” in the leg, and others, more careless, say that any old “Blighty” would do. They all have a common opinion and that is that they would rather be blown to pieces than be blinded, gassed or taken prisoner.