Yesterday several cases of free tobacco from the Sun Tobacco Fund arrived in camp. The boys in the orderly room opened the cases last night and hunted through and through them, trying to find packages which bore the names of unmarried lady donors. Unfortunately the Misses who contributed were few and far between, but hope dies hard.
“Say, mightn’t Asa be a girl?” the lads are asking me eagerly today.
“Lucien ain’t a man’s name, is it?”
Enclosed in each package is a postal-card on which one may, if so inclined, return thanks to the giver. The boys who are taking the trouble to write are doing it frankly with the hope that this may encourage the recipient to repetition. How to tactfully suggest this without seeming greedy is a problem whose delicacy proves difficult.
“You tell me how to say it,” they tease.
“Say, won’t you write it for me, please ma’am?”
I saw one postal-card accomplished after an evening of concentrated effort; “Your precious and admired gift,” it began.
Already Santa Claus in the person of Mr. Gatts has presented me with a beautiful white silk apron embroidered with large bunches of life-like violets.
Bourmont, Christmas Day.
Joyeux Noël!