For several months in 1917 matches were rationed in a Y.M.C.A.
rest-camp canteen, somewhere in France. There entered during this time
a war-worn Cockney, a drawn, tired look still in his eyes, and the mud
of the trenches on his uniform and boots. He asked for cigarettes and
matches, and was told there were no matches.
"Wot, no matches? 'Ow am I goin' ter light me fags, miss?"
"You see matches are rationed now," I said, "and the few we are allowed
run out at once."
With a weary sigh, as if a great truth had dawned upon him, he said
pathetically:
"Lumme, that do bring the war 'ome to a bloke, don't it, miss?"--_Miss
H. Campbell, Pennerly Lodge, Beaulieu, Hants._