to-day.

Our P.O. is a very terrifying character. He is a stern but just man, I
take it.

He can tie knots and box the compass and say "pipe down" and
everything. Gee, it must be nice to be a real sailor!


[Illustration: "THIS, I THOUGHT, WAS ADDING INSULT TO INJURY"]


_March 2d._ Fell out of my hammock last night and momentarily
interrupted the snoring contest holding sway. I was told to "pipe
down" in Irish, Yiddish, Third Avenue and Bronx. This, I thought, was
adding insult to injury, but could not make any one take the same view
of it. I hope the thing does not become a habit with me. I form habits
so readily. In connection with snoring I have written the following
song which I am going to send home to Polly. I wrote it in the
Y.M.C.A. Hut this afternoon while crouching between the feet of two
embattled checker players. I'm going to call it "The Rhyme of the
Snoring Sailor." It goes like this:

I

The mother thinks of her sailor son
As clutched in the arms of war,
But mother should listen, as I have done,
To this same little, innocent sailor son
Sprawl in his hammock and snore.