I think I _must_ be going mad to-day."

* * * * *

THE MUD LARKS.

If there is one man in France whom I do not envy it is the G.H.Q.
Weather Prophet. I can picture the unfortunate wizard sitting in his
bureau, gazing into a crystal, _Old Moore's Almanack_ in one hand, a
piece of seaweed in the other, trying to guess what tricks the weather
will be up to next.

For there is nothing this climate cannot do. As a quick-change artist
it stands _sanspareil_ (French) and _nulli secundus_ (Latin).

And now it seems to have mislaid the Spring altogether. Summer has
come at one stride. Yesterday the staff-cars smothered one with mud
as they whirled past; to-day they choke one with dust. Yesterday the
authorities were issuing precautions against frostbite; to-day they
are issuing precautions against sunstroke. Nevertheless we are not
complaining. It will take a lot of sunshine to kill us; we like it,
and we don't mind saying so.

The B.E.F. has cast from it its mitts and jerkins and whale-oil,
emerged from its subterranean burrows into the open, and in every wood
a mushroom town of bivouacs has sprung up over-night. Here and there
amateur gardeners have planted flower-beds before their tents; one of
my corporals is nursing some radishes in an ammunition-box and talks
crop prospects by the hour. My troop-sergeant found two palm-plants in
the ruins of a chateau glass-house, and now has them standing sentry