but nothing grows where the strafing is. Overhead the martins flicker
and swoop, and starlings sail by in circling clouds, while the colossal
noises crash and boom away merrily.

Ought I, perhaps, not to talk of these things? Does it worry you to
think of crumps bursting and so on? But, really, it seems quite ordinary
and in the day's work here. Men talk of crumps as you would talk of
bread and butter. That is, perhaps, why letters from home that talk
about homely things--cows and lavender and the new chintz--are so
welcome.

Besides, good heavens! don't you know that there's not a man in France
but knows that the best-beloved ones at home are having a far worse time
than we are having here? Wet clothes? Mud? Shells a-bursting, guns
a-popping? Even a wound, perhaps? Pish! No one _thinks_ at all out
here. There isn't time. Most of the people out here are perfectly happy
and merry, really. The sort of "long-drawn-out-agony" touch is, I think,
rare.

I'm writing this in a jolly Boche dug-out, all panelled and cosy.
Jezebel and Swallow and a new pack mare I've got are in a valley that's
hardly ever touched, and in fine, all's well.


_September 24._

[Sidenote: TEAR SHELLS]

Tear shells or "lachrymatory shells." They haven't been putting many
over lately, apparently. But they put some over the other day, and they