The horses are all picketed out in a field, and we are in bivvies. Hale
has made me a bed out of some poles and wire netting, as he says it is a
clay subsoil and I mustn't lie on the grass. I suppose he knows.


_July 12._

[Sidenote: THE HORSES]

I'm writing this in a queer dilapidated mud cottage, inhabited by an
ancient ex-soldier aged eighty-three. He is very difficult to
understand. His language is quite foreign to me. But he owns the
quaintest little doll-like image of the Virgin in a glass case, and
several Bristol balls! I nearly fell flat when I saw them. His
grandfather, I think he says, was in England once. The cottage is quite
close to our present camp, and we go in for meals when it's very wet.

The bed Hale made me is growing into a house. He has discovered various
old sacks, bits of tarred felt, and planks, and the place is becoming a
most attractive little abode.

Then you must imagine an old wild-cherry tree, and lots of young oaks
and elders, etc., all round. Jezebel and Swallow live close by. Jezebel
has acquired a new trick. You know she doesn't like having her tummy
groomed. Well, now (especially, of course, when it's very muddy) she
waits till Hunt has finished dressing her, and then, as soon as his back
is turned, she lies down and rolls. Hunt is in despair. He used to be
really fond of her. But now I believe he'd kill her if he could,
sometimes. All his labour entirely and ridiculously in vain. I'm
convinced that she does it on purpose, because she always chooses just