appen to me again."--_The Motor._

He will either drink the Scotch first or not have one at all.

* * * * *

[Illustration: _Customer._ "I SAY, THIS CHICKEN'S A BIT TOUGH. WHERE DID
YOU GET IT?"

_Manager._ "THEY COME UP IN FRESH LOTS FROM THE COUNTRY THREE TIMES A
WEEK, SIR."

_Customer._ "WELL, THIS MUST BELONG TO GROUP 45!"]

* * * * *

THE FAUNA OF THE FRONT.

Chief among the fauna of the Front is, of course, the Bosch, a
subterranean animal of unpleasant habits, which is now classed as
vermin. He has been so thoroughly dealt with elsewhere that I shall
leave him on one side, and confine my few observations to smaller and
pleasanter creatures. The remaining fauna of the Front are (1) mice; (2)
rats; with a few interesting extras, furred and feathered, which deserve
more serious treatment than I can give them.

At home the mouse is regarded with contemptuous annoyance as a petty but
persevering thief; while the rat commits his grosser depredations in an
atmosphere tinged with horror. Out here it is different, for we are
perforce neighbours. Indeed, we bipeds are in a sense trespassers upon
the domain of the subterranean peoples. At home one seldom sees a rat or
mouse save from above, and to look down upon anything is invariably to
misjudge it. But here we share the hospitality of the underground and
meet its freehold tenants on a level.

From the earth walls of the sanctuary where this small tribute is
written mice look down upon our table with its newspaper cover,
diffidently waiting for us to finish our meal and permit them to dine.
We regard them as shy visitors--though are we not billeted on them?--not
as sneaking thieves, and by the light of our candles perceive how sleek,
bright-eyed, neat-handed and agile they are. In one dug-out I know a
certain mouse who will drop on your shoulder and sit there a while in
the friendliest manner, trying in his tiny modest way to play the host.
Up above, in the open air, they are to be seen in swarms sharing our
watchfulness. This gun-shaken valley is honeycombed with their little
round funk-holes, into which they flash at any sudden noise. It is
merely going downstairs where we are all at home.

The social instincts of the rat are less highly developed. His visible
visits to the mess are rarer, but we overhear his conversation in his
tunnels that open on our shelves, the patter of his pink feet across