ration-lorry would dash up to the battery, amidst a tempest of shot and shell, and unload numberless cases of things of which we already had a superfluity. Box after box was dumped upon us, packed tight with tins of cold and sodden fruit, of strange cereal foods, of desiccated and strange-tasting soups. Who, in a country where food is treated as a fine art, would wish to live upon such things? Yet our stern tyrant, his mind rebelling at the mere thought of waste, ordained that it must be so, and so it was. Alas, for the flesh-pots of France, the omelettes and coffee of _Madame_! How tragic that you must vanish to appear no more! Of sleeping quarters much might be written. What in theory could be more delightful than to sleep in one's valise in the open air--the thing is supposed to be waterproof--to wake up fresh in the early morning and roll on the dewy grass by way of a bath? What indeed? The romance of the proceeding appeals to the man allured by the specious prospect of campaigning, and he invariably attempts it for a few nights, until he grows strangely silent towards bed-time and furtively steals away to some billet he has found. After that he fluctuates between spreading his valise in a chicken-run (it was night when we spread out our valises, and the major's language on discovering in the morning that he had been trying to hatch out a likely-looking brood of chickens was, to put it respectfully, bracing) and crawling luxuriously, in the full glory of pyjamas, between real sheets. The valise itself is all right, there is nothing more comfortable, the only trouble is that it is bed and portmanteau combined, so that one's night's rest is shared by all one's belongings, including one's spare pair of boots. And I never met a pair of boots in such circumstances that had not the power of being in several places at once, till one's valise, whichever way one turned, did not seem to be as closely packed with boots as a cobbler's shop. I repeat, the valise is all right, that is if one's servant knows how to fold the blankets in it, and how to dispose the softer of its contents under one's head. But the occasional luxury of a real bed is very welcome, only--treat the casual mattress with caution until you know it thoroughly. If etymology means in Flanders the study of the language of the trenches, entomology is likewise the study of a doubtful mattress, and both sciences are often more extensive than it would appear. Better in most billets is the bare floor with a valise upon it than the most tempting bed. Usually, however, one has to use both. For many nights two of us occupied a room exactly six feet by eight, more than half of which was occupied by the bed. Our process of turning-in was interesting and extremely scientific. We had tossed up for the bed, and my friend had won it, so he retired to rest first. When he was safely in bed, I came in, put all the remaining furniture outside the door, shut it, laid down my