old piano, to become friends instead of deadliest
enemies. Nothing but implicit faith in the ultimate triumph of harmony
over discord has enabled me to survive the shrieks and grunts and
clashings of our rehearsals. I have had to orchestrate and write out
all the music myself, and incidentally I am acquiring some interesting
and practical knowledge of "the brasses." It is great fun. As soon as
they are good enough I will annex them to our string orchestra. Indeed
I have already promoted one clarinet player, a cunning little Italian,
who now ripples away among the violins.

Our Sunday afternoon chocolate parties are very gay now. We bring over
the rattle-top piano from the mess hall to the tent and the orchestra
plays all afternoon. The tent is packed with soldiers, most of whom I
know pretty well by this time. Near the entrance am I in my blue
Y.M.C.A. apron, and my assistants, making kettleful after kettleful of
_delicious_ chocolate. I am very careful to have it delicious. The
boys line up and we hand them out cupfuls, and cakes, which they take
back to the tables and drink at their leisure while listening to the
music or playing checkers. All the little French boys in town
congregate round the chocolate caldron and all are eager to help in
any way, well knowing what their reward will be. I keep them busy too,
and before the afternoon is over each one has a "chocolatey" little
mouth and a broad smile and nothing but "kind feelings" for the
Americans. I am good friends with these little fellows in their
pinafores and wooden shoes. Yesterday I played tag with them, and what
a clatter they made in their ungainly sabots, which nevertheless did
not prevent their running outrageously fast when I was "it."

Spring is coming. Every morning I listen to the unfamiliar songs of
strange birds. Yet they speak the sweet message that needs no
interpreting. Occasionally we have a fair day between the rainy ones,
and how fair it is! On one of these days I went for a wonderful
horseback ride with a fine young artillery lieutenant about Hy's age.
We cantered gloriously over open fields. We climbed up a high hill.
There we were among rocks and ferns and pines, birds warbling about
us, skylarks singing out of sight, the warm sun on us, and behind and
beyond the graceful, harmonious view of the long valley with the
canal, fringed with poplars, glinting through it, and the cultivated,
nicely outlined fields, each a different shade of gree