we started in to arrange it. The boys entered into
the idea with enthusiasm. One volunteered to wire it for electric
lights, others put down a floor, and everybody helped decorate it with
flags, and bright chintz which the Y.M.C.A. gave us. A lieutenant lent
me a truck, and through a stroke of luck I obtained a piano which was
the finishing touch. We soon had a gay, festive pavilion, and how
those boys, who were just sick with boredom, flocked there! Again I
felt that this work was immeasurably worth while. Miss B. and I
worked together pretty well, luckily. We had dances and stunt shows,
and singing all the time, and lemonade always on tap, both at the
railway station and at our "Y," so you see our hands were full. Most
of the men were westerners, and enlisted, not drafted, and I couldn't
help compare them with my boys of the 78th. As a class, I believe they
are more forceful and more responsive. It is the independent, tall
ranch owner or cow puncher, in comparison with the small storekeeper
or factory hand. Don't think I am forgetting for a moment my friends
in my dear battalion who stood above the average, but they _did_ stand
above the average. As a crowd, the western boys sing better, dance
better, talk better, and swear louder! But everywhere in the United
States is the respect for the American woman the same, and everywhere
our soldiers are our devoted, helpful brothers.

Well--to cut this short--I forgot to tell you about the darkies! It
was my first experience with them over here. Against the advice of a
southern lieutenant, I went into their barracks one day and got to
talking with them. "Don't any of you boys play or sing?" I asked.
"Yes'm. Ah'm a musician mahself," modestly replied a coal black boy.
"Are you? well what do you play?" "Oh, mos' anything, ma'am." "Do you
play the guitar?" "Yes'm, we've got a guitar but the _strangs_ is
broke." Of course I was able to remedy that, and gave them all the
"strangs" they needed, in addition lending them my guitar, which they
never failed to return to me in good condition at the specified time.
They had a great time, sitting out on piles of lumber, twanging the
guitars and singing. You could almost imagine you were down on the old
Mississippi. Whenever I passed, some one would call out, "Miss, ain't
you gwine to play for us?" And I would take the guitar and sing, while
black, attentive faces packed close all around me. "Give us jes one
mo', Miss," they would plead wh