INDOOR SPORTS
SATURDAY NIGHT.
First you take a basin,
Place it on the stove,
Wait about an hour or so,
Shoo away the drove
Of your jeering billet mates
Betting you won't dare;
Then you spread a slicker
On the floor with care.
Next you doff your O. D.,
And your undershirt.
Wrap a towel 'round your waist,
Wrestle with the dirt;
Do not get the sponge too wet—
Little drops will trickle
Down a soldier's trouser legs—
Golly! How they tickle!
Then you clothe yourself again—
That is, to the belt;
Strip off boots and putts and trou,
Socks—right to the pelt;
Send the gooseflesh quivering
Up and down your limbs—
Gosh! You aren't in quite the mood
For singing gospel hymns.
Then you wash, and wash and wash,
Dry yourself once more,
Put on all your clothes again,
Go to bed and snore,
Wake up at the bugle's call
With a cold, and sore
Truly, baths in France are—well,
What Sherman said of war!
FOOLING THE FLEA.
You'll march in the flea parade and be glad of the chance after you've lived a week in an old French sheep shed.
"Say, I'll be glad to get back to the mosquitoes," said a young hand-grenadier from Dallas, Tex., as he dumped his "other clothes" in the flea-soup cauldron. "These babies chew you to death day and night. A mosquito's a night-rider only."