But, as recorded above, the outstanding feature of this correspondence is an engaging frankness. For instance, Private Cosh, who under an undemonstrative, not to say wooden, exterior evidently conceals a heart as inflammable as flannelette, is conducting single-handed no less than four parallel love affairs. One lady resides in his native Coatbridge, the second is in service in South Kensington, the third serves in a shop in Kelvinside, and the fourth moth appears to have been attracted to this most unlikely candle during our sojourn in winter billets in Hampshire. Cosh writes to them all most ardently every week--sometimes oftener--and Bobby Little, as he ploughs wearily through repeated demands for photographs, and touching protestations of lifelong affection, curses the verbose and susceptible youth with all his heart. But this mail brings him a gleam of comfort. _So you tell me, Chrissie_, writes Cosh to the lady in South Kensington, _that you are engaged to be married on a milkman_.... ("Thank heaven!" murmurs Bobby piously.) _No, no, Chrissie, you need not trouble yourself. It is nothing to me_. ("He's as sick as muck!" comments Bobby.) _All I did before was in friendship's name_. ("Liar!") Bobby, thankfully realising that his daily labours will be materially lightened by the withdrawal of the fickle Chrissie from the postal arena, ploughs steadily through the letters. Most of them begin in accordance with some approved formula, such as-- _It is with the greatest of pleasure that I take up my pen_-- It is invariably a pencil, and a blunt one at that. Crosses are ubiquitous, and the flap of the envelope usually bears the mystic formula, S.W.A.K. This apparently means "Sealed with a kiss," which, considering that the sealing is done not by the writer but by the Censor, seems to take a good deal for granted. Most of the letters acknowledge the receipt of a "parcle"; many give a guarded summary of the military situation. _We are not allowed to tell you about the War, but I may say that we are now in the trenches. We are all in the pink, and not many of the boys has gotten a dose of lead-poisoning yet._ It is a pity that the names of places have to be left blank. Otherwise we should get some fine phonetic spelling. Our pronunciation is founded on no pedantic rules. Armentières is Armentears, Busnes is Business, Bailleul is Booloo, and Vieille Chapelle is Veal Chapel. The chief difficulty of the writers appears to be to round off their letters gracefully. _Having no more to say, I will now draw to a close_, is the accepted formula. Private Burke, never a tactician, concludes a most ardent love-letter thus: "_Well, Kate, I will now close, as I have to write to another of the girls_." But to Private Mucklewame literary composition presents no difficulties. Here is a single example of his terse and masterly style:--