ON LETTER-WRITING


Two soldiers, evidently brothers, stood at the door of the railway
carriage--one inside the compartment, the other on the platform.

"Now, you won't forget to write, Bill," said the latter.

"No," said Bill. "I shall be back at--tonight, and I'll write all round
to-morrow. But, lor, what a job. There's mother and the missus and Bob and
Sarah and Aunt Jane and Uncle Jim, and--well, you know the lot. You've had
to do it, Sam."

"Yes," said Sam, ruefully; "it's a fair teaser."

"And if you write to one and miss another they're offended," continued
Bill. "But I always mention all of 'em. I say 'love to Sarah,' and 'hope
Aunt Jane's cold's better,' and that sort of thing, and that fills out a
page. But I'm blowed if I can find anything else to say. I just begin
'hoping this finds you well, as it leaves me at present,' and then I'm
done. What else is there to say?"

"Nothing," said Sam, mournfully. "I just sit and scratch my head over the
blessed paper, but nothing'll come. Seems as though my head's as empty as a
drum."

"Same here. 'Tisn't like writing love-letters. When I was up to that game