After the horror of the first two months of imprisonment, when many of us knew no other feeling than that of hunger—hunger by day and by night, the hunger that keeps a man awake and gnaws like an ulcer—now that winter has come we are having a fairly agreeable time. Our bodies have become accustomed to the regimen. The monotony of life is broken by happy events, by the arrival of parcels, money orders, and letters. The work we have had to do at Ingolstadt, Hepperg, and Wegstetten has widened the bounds of our prison. Every one has made a circle of friends. Some of the casemates, with their tables for bridge or poker, have now the aspect of clubs. We have learned how to circumvent German discipline. Our service for the supply of smuggled victuals works smoothly, so that we are at least able to provide ourselves with chocolate and tobacco. Some have purchased books; numerous French works belonging to the Fayard, Nelson, and Flammarion libraries have made their way through the gates, across the ditches, and over the walls; they pass from hand to hand until they fall to pieces. Some of the prisoners are learning German. My big dictionary is, as it were, an ever open mill, where all can make themselves at home. Every room has its writers of topical songs. Stretched on their palliasses, paper and pencil in hand, they cudgel their brains for rhymes. I cannot say that the outcome is sublime, but the verses, caustic without ill-nature, peppered with puns, and stuffed with allusions to the point of unintelligibility, amuse us all. The following stanzas dealing with the “ministerial council,” written by Cormarie and sung by Saint-Lanne of Agen at the Saturday concerts in No. 7, go to the air of the _Paimpolaise_: Nos deux majors veulent extraire Du beau riz si blanc et si sain Une huile pure limpide et claire Qu’ils appel’ront l’huil’ de riz-sain Pour avoir le _Ri_ _Où_ s’adresseront-ils? Chambre 17 ou aux cuisines! Il écrit toute la journée! A chaque repas, drôl’ de combine! On lui sert des figaro-thés. Il porte pour la circonstance L’habit vert d’Académicien; Les palmes en sont restées en France Pour les canards de son quotidien; Car je les ai vu Et même à _fon lupt_. Je dis: ne crois pas ces canards sauvages Car ils s’ébattent soir et matin Avant d’être envoyés aux sages Dans une mar’ d’eau de _Laubin_.