MY DEAR JERRY,--I am writing this from my position on top of a small hill,
while my devoted band of followers sits round me and waits for me to speak.
I always sit here, because if I wanted to go somewhere else I should have
to climb down this hill and then up another one. I hate hills. So does the
devoted band.
Behind another little hill a hundred yards away we believe there lurks an
army corps of Bulgars, but we are afraid to look and see. Instead, we fix
and unfix bayonets every ten minutes and make martial noises. This, we
hope, affects the enemy's _moral_, and having your _moral_ affected every
ten minutes is no joke, I can tell you.
The spirit of our troops remains excellent. You can see that this is true
from the fact that my joke still works. Every night for the last three
months, while administering quinine to my army, I have exhorted them not to
be greedy and not to take too much. They still laugh heartily, nay
uproariously. We are a wonderful nation.
Our chief source of combined instruction and amusement is still the antheap
beside us, and in this connection, Jeremiah, I must introduce to you
Herbert, a young officer in the ant A.S.C.
When we first knew Herbert (or "'Erb" as he was known in those days), he
was an impudent and pushful private. When his corps were engaged in
removing the larger pieces of straw out of their hole in the hill, many a
time I have seen him staggering manfully towards the entrance with an
enormous piece on his slender shoulders, against the tide of his comrades;
for he never could resist the temptation to replace the really big stalks
in the hole. As he knocked against one and another the older ants would
step aside, lay down their loads, and expostulate with him, always ending
by giving him a good clip on the ear; but 'Erb was never dismayed.
Now and again, during a temporary slackness in the stream, he would
disappear triumphantly into the hole, his log trailing behind him; but his
triumph was always short-lived. I would seem to hear a scuffle and two
bumps, and 'Erb would shoot gracefully upwards, followed by his burden, and
fall in a heap beside the door. However, as soon as he recovered he would
try again. On one sultry afternoon I noticed he succeeded in effecting an
entrance after twenty-three successive chuck-outs.
His persistence piqued my curiosity. I wondered why he should so
obstinately try to do a thing which was obviously distasteful to all his
seniors. And then, yesterday, there was a change.
'Erb was resting after his eighth chuck-out under a plank when a venerable
ant, heavy with the accumulated wisdom and weakness of years, approached
the exit from within and tried to get out, but in vain. He swore and
struggled in a futile sort of way, while his attendant subordinates stood
about helplessly. 'Erb saw his opportunity. He seized his plank, dashed
forward--you may not believe me, Jerry, but it is the gospel truth--saluted
smartly, and laid down his plank as a sort of ladder. Supporting himself
upon it the veteran crawled out. Then he spoke to 'Erb, and I think I saw
him asking someone the lad's name.
That is why Second Lieutenant Herbert is to-day in charge of a working
party. He is now engaged in clipping the ear of a larger ant. I imagine
there must have been some lack of discipline. Possibly his inferior had
addressed him as "Erb."
Well, all our prospects are pleasing and only Bulgar vile. I must now make
a martial noise, so _au revoir._
Thine,
PETER.
* * * * *
[Illustration: DISTRACTIONS OF CAMP LIFE.
_Tommy_ (_by roadside_). "OUT ON THE SPREE AGAIN? GOING TO THE PICTURES?"
_Highlander_. "NO. WE'RE AWA' TO SEE YOUR LOT CHANGE GUARD."]
* * * * *
"_The Motor Cycle_ says over 165,000 magnates have been made in Britain
for war purposes."--_Provincial Paper_.
And the New Year Honours List (political services) has yet to appear.
* * * * *
"We owed all this more to our splendid navy and its silent virgil than
to anything else."--_Provincial Paper_.
We suppose the CENSOR won't let him narrate the epic exploits of the Fleet,
but he might have allowed him a capital initial.
* * * * *
"Surbiton residents have supplied for British prisoners in Germany 800
waistcoats made from 2,100 old kid gloves." _Manchester Evening
News_.
A notable instance of large-handed generosity.
* * * * *