“Say do you think that ought to be good for a _cartoon_ of cigarettes?” another one inquires. Of course there are many who, no matter what the effort, prefer to write their own. Sometimes when cleaning up the canteen tables I come upon specimens of such, first drafts discarded on account of blots. One such love letter, classic in its brevity, picked up the other day, ran: Dear Sweetheart, I am writing you a few interesting lines which I hope will be the same to you wishing you a merry Xmas and a happy New Year Your loving friend Pvt. —— Of late I have been moved to speculate wonderingly on the mental processes of the American public. I have been going through the stacks of magazines in the warehouse sent from the States for one cent per to provide amusement for the doughboys’ leisure moments. Among the rest I found the Upholsterer’s Monthly, The Hardware Dealer’s Journal, The Mother’s Magazine, Fancy Work and The Modern Needleworker. I showed some of these prizes to one of the boys; “Gee, but that’s the kind of snappy stuff to send a feller over the top!” was his comment. That numbers of the Undertaker’s Journal have also been discovered among the donations from home I have heard asserted on excellent authority, but as yet I have not personally come across any. Just as we were closing tonight, Pat came up to the counter, solemnly leaned across it: “Have you seen the new shoes they’re issuin’? he demanded. “They’ve got pitchers on them so a feller can’t see his own feet!” Bourmont, January 2, 1918. Once a week our peripatetic movie-machine makes its appearance among us. Louis, the sixteen year old French operator, unpacks the big cases, sets up the apparatus, and, if our luck holds, we have a show. Owing to the short range of the little machine the screen must be hung in the middle of the hut. This means that half the audience must view the pictures from the back, the essential difference being that the lettering is then reversed; “The Jewish Picture Show,” the boys call this. But then as half of us can’t read anyway, why should we mind? The joy of the show lies in the audience. Just as soon as the lights are put out the fun begins: “Everbody watch their pocketbooks!” goes up the shout and from that moment we are never still. The curly-headed heroine makes her coquettish entrance. “Ooo la la! Oooo la la!” rises the enthusiastic welcome. A bottle is displayed; “Cognac!” the yell shakes the roof. The neglected wife begins to waver in response to the tempter’s wiles; “Now don’t forget your general orders, little lady!” admonishes an earnest voice. Lovers indulge in a prolonged embrace; “Aw quit! Quit it! Yer make me homesick!” goes up the agonized appeal. The enraptured lover stands registering ecstasy; “Hit him again, he’s coming to!” comes the derisive shout. And so it goes. The actors aren’t on the screen, they’re in the house, and truly there isn’t a dull moment on the programme!