write her soon.  Thank her for the pajamas and the napkins.  Tell her I’m sorry a soldier has no use for either.

    This morning I did my washing of the past two weeks, and I was so
    busy that I didn’t hear the bugle blow, and thereby got on the
    “black book.”  Which means that I won’t get any time off soon.

Before I forget, Lenore, let me tell you that I’ve taken ten thousand dollars’ life insurance from the government, in your favor as beneficiary.  This costs me only about six and a half dollars per month, and in case of my death—­Well, I’m a soldier, now.  Please tell Rose I’ve taken a fifty-dollar Liberty Bond of the new issue for her.  This I’m paying at the rate of five dollars per month and it will be delivered to her at the end of ten months.  Both of these, of course, I’m paying out of my government pay as a soldier.  The money dad sent me I spent like water, lent to the boys, threw away.  Tell him not to send me any more.  Tell him the time has come for Jim Anderson to make good.  I’ve a rich dad and he’s the best dad any harum-scarum boy ever had.  I’m going to prove more than one thing this trip.

We hear so many rumors, and none of them ever come true.  One of them is funny—­that we have so many rich men with political influence in our regiment that we will never get to France!  Isn’t that the limit?  But it’s funny because, if we have rich men, I’d like to see them.  Still, there are thirty thousand soldiers here, and in my neck of the woods such rumors are laughed and cussed at.  We hear also that we’re going to be ordered South.  I wish that would come true.  It’s so cold and drab and muddy and monotonous.

My friend Montana fooled everybody.  He didn’t die.  He seems to be hanging on.  Lately he recovered consciousness.  Told me he had no feeling on his left side, except sometimes his hand itched, you know, like prickly needles.  But Montana will never be any good again.  That fine big cowboy!  He’s been one grand soldier.  It sickens me sometimes to think of the difference between what thrilled me about this war game and what we get.  Maybe, though—­There goes my call.  I must close.  Love to all.

    Jim.

    New York City, October—.

Dearest Lenore,—­It seems about time that I had a letter from you.  I’m sure letters are on the way, but they do not come quickly.  The boys complain of the mail service.  Isn’t it strange that there is not a soul to write me except you?  Jeff, my farm-hand, will write me whenever I write him, which I haven’t done yet.

I’m on duty here in New York at an armory bazaar.  It’s certainly the irony of fate.  Why did the officer pick on me, I’d like to know?  But I’ve never complained of an order so far, and I’m standing it.  Several of us—­and they chose the husky boys—­have been sent over here, for absolutely no purpose that I can see except to exhibit