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arm; but that's not so bad as my back, which I cannot see and which
the wound is as long--"
I blotted the sheet and turned over, and Private Brown eyed the space
left for further cheerful communications.
"Shall I leave this for you to finish?" I suggested, thinking of
tender messages difficult to dictate. "Your fingers may be better
after tea, or perhaps to-morrow morning."
"That's all right, Miss. There's nothing more to put except my name,
if you'll just say, "Good-bye, dear wife, hoping this finds you well
as it leaves me at present."
* * * * *
FAIR WARNING.
"A POPULAR CONCERT WILL BE HELL IN THE PORTEOUS HALL, On
Friday, 2nd November."--_Scotch Paper_.
* * * * *
CURRAGH MEETING.
Judea . . . . . . . . . . . E.M. Quirke 1
Elfterion . . . . . . . . . . . M. Wing 2
Tut Ttlddddddrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr aY
Tut Tut . . . . . . . . . . . . J. Dines 3
_Provincial Paper_.
From which it is to be inferred
The angry printer backed the third.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "WELL, UPON MY WORD! AFTER ALL THE TROUBLE I HAD TO GET
A QUARTER OF A POUND OF BUTTER, THE COOK'S SENT UP MARGARINE. I SHOULD
HATE THE MAIDS TO GO SHORT, BUT I _DO_ THINK WE OUGHT TO _SHARE_
THINGS."]
* * * * *
THE ULTIMATE OUTRAGE.
I had a favourite shirt for many moons,
Soft, silken, soothing and of tenderest tone,
Gossamer-light withal. The Subs., my peers,
Envied the garment, ransacking the land
To find a shirt its equal--all in vain.
For, when we tired of shooting at the Hun
And other Batteries clamoured for their share
And we resigned positions at the front
To dally for a space behind the line,
To shed my war-worn vesture I was wont--
The G.S. boots, the puttees and the pants
That mock at cut and mar the neatest leg,
The battle-jacket with its elbows patched
And bands of leather, round its hard-used cuffs,
And, worst of all, the fuggy flannel shirt,
Rough and uncouth, that suffocates the soul;
And in their stead I donned habiliments
Cadets might dream of--serges with a waist,
And breeches cut by Blank (you know the man,
Or dare not say you don't), long lustrous boots,
And gloves canary-hued, bright primrose ties
Undimmed by shadows of Sir FRANCIS LLOYD--
And, like a happy mood, I wore the shirt.
It was a woven breeze, a melody
Constrained by seams from melting in the air,
A summer perfume tethered to a stud,
The cool of evening cut to lit my form--
And I shall wear it now no more, no more!
There came a day we took it to be washed,
I and my batman, after due debate.
A little cottage stood hard by the road
Whose one small window said, in manuscript,
"Wasching for soldiers and for officers,"
And there we left my shirt with anxious fears
And fond injunctions to the Belgian dame.
So it was washed. I marked it as I passed
Waving svelte arms beneath the kindly sun
As if it semaphored to its own shade
That answered from the grass. I saw it fill
And plunge against its bonds--methought it yearned
To join its tameless kin, the airy clouds.
And as I saw it so, I sang aloud,
"To-morrow I shall wear thee! Haste, O Time!"
Fond, futile dream! That very afternoon,
Her washing taken in and folded up
(My shirt, my shirt I mourn for, with the rest),
The frugal creature locked and left her cot
To cut a cabbage from a neighbour's field.
Then, without warning, from the empurpled sky,
Swift with grim dreadful purpose, swooped a shell
(Perishing Percy was the name he bore
Amongst, the irreverent soldiery), ah me!
And where the cottage stood there gaped a gulf;
The jewel and the casket vanished both.
* * * * *
Were there no other humble homes but that
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