Having led them into the village, the shepherd proceeds to deliver them to their respective owners. He stops in front of a house, plays a certain tune on his horn, and the sheep or sheeps belonging to that house step out of ranks and sheepishly retire for the night, or perhaps sit up a while in the parlor and talk war with the family.
There must be a lot of intermarrying among the sheeps of one village. A great many of those in the flock we saw looked enough alike to be cousins or something.
Somebody suggested a poker game for this evening’s entertainment, but I got all I wanted of that great sport coming across the bounding blue.
It has rained only an hour in two days, and the boys say we’ll get it good to-morrow.
Saturday, September 1. In an American Camp.
As exclusively predicted by everybody, it was pouring when we arose this morning, but rain doesn’t keep you indoors in France. If it did, you would live indoors.
We splashed the thirty miles to the other end of the camp and inflicted ourselves on a major of marines. He seemed deliberately unfriendly at first, but it was only his manner. After five minutes of awkward monosyllabic dialogue he gave us the usual refreshments and took us out to see the town, the name of which should be Mud if it isn’t.
“This is a grand climate,” he said. “They must have had conscription to get people to live here.”
He took us to the camp kitchen, of which he was evidently and justly proud. It was a model of convenience and cleanliness. He spoke to the cook.
“Are you very busy?” he asked.