"Seeing you've been carrying it upside down for the last twenty-four hours it isn't to be wondered at," said my Troop Sergeant; "blood's run to its head, that's what." "Turn it the other way up for a bit and run the blood back again," I suggested. "Exercise is what it wants," said my sergeant firmly. "By all means exercise it, then," said I. The carrier demurred. "Very good, sir--but how, sir?" "Ask the sergeant," said I. "Sergeant, how do you exercise a pigeon? Lunge it, or put it through Swedish monkey motions?" The sergeant rubbed his chin stubble. "Can't say I remember the official method, sir; one might take it for a walk at the end of a string, or----" "These official pigeons," I interposed, "have got to be treated in the official manner or they won't work; their mechanism becomes deranged. We had a pigeon at the Umpteenth Battle of Wipers and upset it somehow. Anyway, when we told it to buzz off and fetch reinforcements, it sat on a tree licking its fluff and singing, and we had to throw mud at it to get it to shift. Where it went to then goodness only knows, for it has never been seen since. I am going to do the right thing by this bird." I thereupon sent a galloper to the next outpost, occupied by the Babe and Co., asking him the official recipe for exercising pigeons. The answer came back as follows:-- "Ask Albert Edward. All I know about 'em is that you mustn't discharge birds of opposite sex together as they stop and flirt. P.S.--You haven't got such a thing as a bit of cold pudden about you, guv'nor, have you? I'm all in." I sent the galloper galloping on to Albert Edward's post. "Don't discharge birds after sunset," ran his reply; "they're afraid to go home in the dark--that's all I recollect. Ask the Skipper. P.S.--Got a bit of bully beef going spare? I'm tucked up something terrible." I sighed and sent my messenger on to the Skipper, inquiring the official method of exercising pigeons. Half an hour later his answer reached me-- "Don't know. Try eating 'em. That's what I'm doing with mine." While on the subject of carrier-pigeons, I may mention that one winter night I was summoned to Corps H.Q. Said a Red Hat: "We are going to be rude to the Boche at dawn and we want you to go over with the boys. When you reach your objectives just drop us a pigeon to say so. Here's a chit, take it to the pigeon loft and get a good nippy fowl. Good night and good luck." I found the pigeon-fancier inside an old London omnibus which served for a pigeon-loft, spoon-feeding a sick bird. A dour Lancastrian, the fancier studied my chit with a sour eye, then, grumbling that he didn't know what the army was coming to turning birds out of bed at this hour, he slowly climbed a ladder and, poking his head through a trap in the roof, addressed himself to the pigeons.