_Dere wife, if you could make the next postal order a trifle stronger, I might get getting an egg to my tea.--Your loving husband_, JAS. MUCKLEWAME, _No_. 74077. But there are features of this multifarious correspondence over which one has no inclination to smile. There are wistful references to old days; tender inquiries after bairns and weans; assurances to anxious wives and mothers that the dangers of modern warfare are merely nominal. There is an almost entire absence of boasting or lying, and very little complaining. There is a general and obvious desire to allay anxiety. We are all "fine"; we are all "in the pink." "This is a grand life." Listen to Lance-Corporal M'Snape: _Well, mother, I got your parcel, and the things was most welcome; but you must not send any more. I seen a shilling stamp on the parcel: that is too much for you to afford_. How many officers take the trouble to examine the stamp on their parcels? And there is a wealth of homely sentiment and honest affection which holds up its head without shame even in the presence of the Censor. One rather pathetic screed, beginning: _Well, wife, I doubt this will be a poor letter, for I canna get one of they green envelopes to-day, but I'll try my best_--Bobby Little sealed and signed without further scrutiny. V One more picture, to close the record of our trivial round. It is a dark, moist, and most unpleasant dawn. Captain Blaikie stands leaning against a traverse in the fire-trench, superintending the return of a party from picket duty. They file in, sleepy and dishevelled, through an archway in the parapet, on their way to dug-outs and repose. The last man in the procession is Bobby Little, who has been in charge all night. Our line here makes a sharp bend round the corner of an orchard, and for security's sake a second trench has been cut behind, making, as it were, the cross-bar of a capital A. The apex of the A is no health resort. Brother Bosche, as already explained, is only fifty yards away, and his trench-mortars make excellent practice with the parapet. So the Orchard Trench is only occupied at night, and the alternative route, which is well constructed and comparatively safe, is used by all careful persons who desire to proceed from one arm of the A to the other. The present party are the night picket, thankfully relinquishing their vigil round the apex. Bobby Little remained to bid his company-commander good-morning at the junction of the two trenches. "Any casualties?" An invariable question at this spot. "No, sir. We were lucky. There was a lot of sniping." "It's a rum profession," mused Captain Blaikie, who was in a wakeful mood. "In what way, sir?" inquired the sleepy but respectful Bobby.