_March 21st._ A fellow in our bay asked last night how much an
admiral's pay was a month and when we told him he yawned, turned over
on his side and said, "Not enough." He added that he could pick up
that much at a first-class parade any time. We all tightened our wrist
watches. Been blinking at the blinker all evening. Can't make much
sense out of it. The bloomin' thing is always two blinks ahead of me.
It's all very nice, I dare say, but I'd much rather get my messages on
scented paper. I got one to-day. She called me her "Great, big, cute
little sailor boy." Those were her exact words. How clever she is. I'm
going to marry her just as soon as I'm a junior lieutenant. She'll
wait a year, anyway.


_March 22d._ I made up verses to myself in my hammock last night.
Perhaps I'll send some of them to the camp paper. It would be nice to
see your stuff in print. Here's one of the poems:


_THE UNREGENERATE SAILOR MAN_

I

I take my booze
In my overshoes;
I'm fond of the taste of rubber;
I oil my hair
With the grease of bear
Or else with a bull whale's blubber.