came out here. We get it served us whenever we're wet. It's the one
thing which keeps a man alive in the winter--you can sleep when you're
drenched through and never get a cold if you take it.

At night, by a fire, eight feet underground, we sing all the dear old
songs. We manage a kind of glee--Clementina, The Long, Long Trail, Three
Blind Mice, Long, Long Ago, Rock of Ages. Hymns are quite favourites.

Don't worry about me; your prayers weave round me a mantle of defence.

Yours with more love than I can write,

CON.




XXIV

October 31st, 1916.
Hallowe'en.

Dearest People:

Once more I'm taking the night-firing and so have a chance to write to
you. I got letters from you all, and they each deserve answers, but I
have so little time to write. We've been having beastly weather--drowned
out of our little houses below ground, with rivers running through our
beds. The mud is once more up to our knees and gets into whatever we
eat. The wonder is that we keep healthy--I suppose it's the open air. My