the birth of yet another season of fruitfulness and natural
increase with some more than usually enthusiastic essays in mutual
extermination. Half the Mess caught colds in their heads.

Frankly, we are not sorry to see the end of winter. Caesar, when he
had concluded his summer campaign, went into winter quarters. Caesar,
as Colonel Kemp once huskily remarked, knew something!

Still, each man to his taste. Corporal Mucklewame, for one, greatly
prefers winter to summer.

"In the winter," he points out to Sergeant M'Snape, "a body can
breathe withoot swallowing a wheen bluebottles and bum-bees. A body
can aye streitch himself doon under a tree for a bit sleep withoot
getting wasps and wee beasties crawling up inside his kilt, and
puddocks craw-crawing in his ear! A body can keep himself frae
sweitin'--"

"He can that!" assents M'Snape, whose spare frame is more vulnerable
to the icy breeze than that of the stout corporal.

However, the balance of public opinion is against Mucklewame. Most
of us are unfeignedly glad to feel the warmth of the sun again.
That working-party, filling sandbags just behind the machine-gun
emplacement, are actually singing. Spring gets into the blood, even
in this stricken land. The Boche over the way resents our efforts at
harmony.

Sing us a song, a song of Bonnie Scotland!
Any old song will do.