til it comes and has been
kept burning several days we can't think of moving in. I have my heart
set on making it the brightest and warmest spot in town. Wine and
cognac shops are my strong competitors. I must get busy.

How would you like to send all your copies of "Life" and any other
magazines to me instead of to the great unknown? They would be
greatly appreciated in Pouillenay. And here's a novel suggestion from
a "highbrow Shortall." Papa, (I exempt Mamma), won't you invite H. and
M. to every musical comedy that comes along, and whenever you hear a
song that is new and good and snappy, send me the music "toot sweet"
as the boys say.

Feb. 14th.

On the other side of this card I have marked my present home on "Main
Street." If you follow this road over the hills you come to the
heights where Vercingetorix of the Gauls made his last stand against
Julius Caesar. This is historical country. Where javelins and arrows
once flew thick, hordes of Americans are now living, the latest
liberators of these old vineyards. And almost on the site of a pagan
temple stands the Y.M.C.A. tent where a twentieth century priestess
from Chicago hands out cigarettes and plays ragtime. We are in our
tent and drawing crowds.

One of these streets is called "La rue des Quatres Ponts." It is as
pretty as its name, but the American boys don't see any beauty in any
of it, and I can't blame them. All they care about is "God's own
country." I do hope for their sakes that the Division will be ordered
to move soon.

I am happy and well, and spring is in the air.

Feb. 18th.

Here is another view of our tiny town. Just at present everything is
buried under most fearful and wonderful mud. I never stir without my
arctics. I am glad I brought two pairs.

Yesterday being Sunday, I made about forty gallons of hot chocolate
which I served in the tent all the afternoon. It was a rainy day and
you should have seen the men pile in and gather round the huge army
caldron with their cups. The tent was warm and cheerful and it was all
very jolly.

The day before I had a new experience. I rode over to Semur in a
side-car or "wife-killer" as they call them; you know, those little
basket affairs attached to a motor-cycle. The Catholic chaplain who is
also a young lieutenant, drove it, and we went about forty miles an
hour over hill and dale. He was o