BLANCHE'S LETTERS.
Land-Ladies.
A Farm,
Somewhere in the Country.
Dearest Daphne,—I'm on the land! Several of us are on the land! No one need worry any more about agriculture and rotation of crops and all that sort of thing being stopped by the War. We're going to see to it. It is positively enthralling work! Lady Manœuvrer wrote me an agonised letter the other day, asking me if I thought there'd be any season in London, and if it would be worth her while to take a house and give some parties for Bluebell. And I wrote back: "Please—please don't talk to me about London and seasons and parties! I know absolutely nothing of such matters. I'm on the land!" And I wound up with, "This comes hopping," in real farmers' style.
Recruit (much perturbed). "If you please, Sergeant, the other fellows say I've got to grow a moustache."
Sergeant. "Oh, there's no compulsion about growing a moustache, my lad; but you mustn't shave your upper lip."
I wish you could see me ploughing, dearest. My ploughman's pinny, big soft hat and leggings are a dream. (À propos, the "ploughman's pinny" is going to be the summer coat this year.) Oh, my Daphne, I plough such an adorable furrow! Yesterday, when I was at it, the oldest inhabitant came and leaned on a gate to watch me—one of those fearful creatures, you know, who've lived through six reigns and can read small print and smoke six pipes a day, and end by getting into the daily papers.
"Be you one o' they fine Lunnon ladies wot 'ave come to these parts to blay at varmin'?" he asked.