Still, though our variegated pelts cause us to resemble an
unsuccessful compromise between Esau and an Eskimo, they keep our
bodies warm. We wish we could say the same for our feet. On good days
we stand ankle-deep; on bad, we are occasionally over the knees.
Thrice blessed then are our Boots, Gum, Thigh, though even these
cannot altogether ward off frost-bite and chilblains.

Over the way, Brother Boche is having a bad time of it: his trenches
are in a worse state than ours. Last night a plaintive voice cried
out--

"Are you dere, Jock? Haf you whiskey? We haf plenty water!"

Not bad for a Boche, the platoon decided.

There is no doubt that whatever the German General Staff may think
about the war and the future, the German Infantry soldier is "fed-up."
His satiety takes the form of a craving for social intercourse with
the foe. In the small hours, when the vigilance of the German N.C.O.'s
is relaxed, and the officers are probably in their dug-outs, he makes
rather pathetic overtures. We are frequently invited to come out
and shake hands. "Dis war will be ober the nineteen of nex' month!"
(Evidently the Kaiser has had another revelation.) The other morning a
German soldier, with a wisp of something white in his hand, actually
clambered out of the firing-trench and advanced towards our lines. The
distance was barely seventy yards. No shot was fired, but you may be
sure that safety-catches were hastily released. Suddenly, in the tense
silence, the ambassador's nerve failed him. He bolted back, followed
by a few desultory bullets. The reason for his sudden panic was never