The next morning we fought a swaying battle in front of Rheims, and for some few following mornings we skirmished about painlessly in the same vicinity.  Then came a sanguinary excursion to Flanders which nearly put me into blue overalls.

A few weeks of trench warfare gave me some respite and allowed my worst wounds to heal.

Then came the epic of Verdun.  At least it was to have come, but at the last moment I lost my nerve.

To hear the story of that heroic defence from the lips of one who was concerned so intimately with it is one of my greatest desires.  But I am a coward.  I cannot face the extravaganza that Alphonse would improvise, neither dare I approach him for a mere haircut and so confess to having deserted his other form of artistry.

Yesterday I purchased a safety-razor and a packet of new blades.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  Mary (stricken with remorse as minnow approaches her hook). “OH!  OH!  OH!  I DON’T WANT TO CATCH IT; ITS MUMMY WOULD MISS IT SO.”]

* * * * *

A LITTLE SUPPER WITH THE BORGIAS.

    “FRUIT SALAD.

    “Make some syrup by boiling three-quarters of a pint of water, 1/2
    lb. of castor sugar, and the juice from a tinned pineapple.  Lay the
    pineapple in a glass bowl cut in small slices.”—­Weekly Paper.

* * * * *

ART IN THE ARCTIC.

To know that you can’t draw and to be told so by your friends are two very different things.  Honnell can’t draw, but hates his inseparable Swan to tell him so.  Honnell’s sketches have hitherto been criticised only by people who also wanted their drawing flattered.  Swan learned bluntness on the Yukon.  So they are an odd pair to be chumming now in the Arctic circle.  They are so friendly that they will tramp together for half a day and exchange scarcely so much as a grunt of conversation.

Swan, of course, feels quite at home in North Russia and smiles at the people who call it cold and its distances big.  Honnell has lived in Edinburgh, so doesn’t notice the temperature, though he misses the tramway system.  Both can say about six words—­the same—­in Russian, and both have bought a pair of moccasins—­Swan because he likes them, and Honnell because he would like to.

Recently they set off together from Kola on the Murman Coast to try to find a village from which jolly little Laplanders and Laplanderesses come sliding and skidding to market behind their stout-hearted reindeer.  They left all their picturesque Arctic gear behind them except their moccasins, Swan being one of those trying people who don’t care how they look, if only they “mush” along fast enough.  Their provisions consisted of a tin of bully and four edible tiles or army biscuits, with some margarine in a Y.M.C.A. envelope.