HENS.
At the end of the war
(Ring, bells, merry bells!)
We intend
To keep hens,
Me and Helen.
(Ring, bells!)
Such hens!
(Merry bells!)
And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells,
We shall laugh and not care;
For there won't be no war,
And no hell any more,
While Helen is there
With the hens.
I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!
November 12.
In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.
I've been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has been "na-poo." Leave? Yes, leave will come in time. Probably the first half of December.
How maddening it is for poor old Tom! It's most damnable hard luck being kept there without leave such a long time. And I expect that he also has rather lost interest. At first the men were a great source of interest, and the horses and everything. Then France and the front were very interesting. Lastly, being under fire was very interesting. But now that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go through it again. And Tom has had so much of it. Yes, he ought to come home.
The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter chrysanthemums in their gardens. Don't you like them?
Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven't been on a horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself, which consists of one street and a side-lane.
November 14.