fired
seventy-five shells into it in seventy-five minutes on one memorable
occasion, and then only killed one man. The building, which had been the
scene of fierce fighting even before our battalion arrived on the scene
of action, still bore the sign "Estaminet," and so we could safely
conclude that it had been the village "pub," or wine lodge. There were a
few bottles of wine still in the cellar, which the Germans must have
overlooked when they were in possession, or had not time to take away.
We found many articles, some useful, some otherwise; amongst them a
large warming-pan, which caused amusement. The article we put to the
best use was the dinner bell. This was turned to great account. In front
of the estaminet was our "listening post," where we kept watch and guard
at night. Well, by aid of the dinner bell we installed our own brand of
telephone system. This was to connect the bell by string to the wrists
of those out on the watch. Whenever they saw anyone approaching or any
other indication of possible danger they gently pulled the string, the
bell tinkled, it was heard by our companions in the trench, word was
passed along, and everyone prepared for emergencies.

"CHICKEN FARM."

[Illustration: "CHICKEN FARM."]

Here something really like a little bit of sport came in our way. When
we arrived there the farm was deserted, its lawful owners having found
the situation too hot for them. Cows roamed about at random, and so did
pigs. But after we had dug ourselves in and made our position secure,
the chickens were what interested us most. There were two hundred and
fifty of these at the least, and they used to parade on the strip of
ground shown in the picture and the bolder spirits peep over the edge of
our trench. Catching them was good sport, but eating them was something
finer. What a nice change from bully beef and biscuit! Cooking not quite
a la Carlton or Ritz, but more on prehistoric principles. So many fowls
were caught, killed and plucked for cooking and eating that the wet mud
was completely covered with feathers, and resembled a feather bank. As
for ourselves, the feathers, sticking to the wet mud on our uniforms and
equipments, turned us into Zulus, wild men of the woods, or Chippeway
Indians. The enemy presumably did fairly well also with a poultry farm
in the distance. They appeared to have a portable kitchen. We often
watched the funnel moving about their trench. One day a line was
stretched fro