lcome.

We did not stay long in this billet, however, as we shifted the
following day to a farm on the Brielen road. It was well we did so, for
the enemy bombarded the town again and dropped one shell in our old
billet a few hours after we left.

The farm we moved into is worthy of a little description, as it was
typical of any farm in Flanders. The three buildings that constituted
the house, barn, and cowbyre were arranged in a hollow square around a
brick courtyard, the centre of which was graced by a large pile of
manure in an advanced stage of decomposition. Outside the square of
buildings was a moat full of green slime and mosquito larvae. Here the
men washed, and here, too, our buckets were filled each morning for the
"lick and a promise" that served as a substitute for a bath.

[Illustration: FIELD KITCHEN IN RESERVE BILLETS.]

Yet in spite of its unsanitary surroundings the house itself was
beautifully clean inside, and no one could be healthier than the two
buxom girls who formed part of the family that lived within. An exact
census of the family was never obtained, as they poured out from nooks
and crannies into the living-room occupied by us as sleeping quarters,
generally at such awkward moments as when we were dressing or
undressing. This was a matter of constant annoyance to Lyte, as the
people persisted in announcing themselves with a "Bon jour, monsieur,"
no matter what state of nudity they had caught you in.

We shared this room with an artillery officer, a young Irishman named
Lee, who had a battery hidden somewhere near. We saw little of him,
however, as we were generally falling in to move off when he came in for
the evening, and when we returned after a night dug in in rear of some
other troops, he was leaving to go up to his guns.

On some occasions we returned so late that the family were already up
and at work, and instead of unrolling our valises we popped right into
their beds. This was the subject of much joking of the simple peasant
sort on the part of the young ladies, and consequent blushing on the
part of poor Lyte. We all accused him of being their favourite, as he
had nicknamed them "Ox-eye" and "Freckleface," names much more
descriptive than the Marie and Jeanne their parents had chosen, and,
having taken "Ox-eye" into our confidence, told her that poor Lyte was
"_tres timide_." That was all she required, and from then on she
directed all her charms toward him.

The next morning