HE—­“I am accustomed to being addressed as ‘My Lord!’”

SHE—­“I am accustomed to being addressed as ‘My Lady!’”

Aunt Nancy was visiting an army camp and as she approached some rookies were sitting on their heels and then rising to a standing position in perfect unison.

“What are the boys doing now?” she asked.

“Why, those are the setting-up exercises,” explained an obliging sergeant.

“Humph,” remarked auntie.  “Looks to me more like settin’ down exercises.”

Passing a hand over his forehead, the worried drill-sergeant paused for breath as he surveyed the knock-kneed recruit.  Then he pointed a scornful finger.  “No,” he declared, “you’re hopeless.  You’ll never make a soldier.  Look at you now.  The top ‘alf of your legs is standin’ to attention, an’ the bottom ‘alf is standin’ at ease!”

A sergeant was trying to drill a lot of raw recruits, and after working hard for three hours he thought they seemed to be getting into some sort of shape, so decided to test them.

“Right turn!” he cried.  Then, before they had ceased to move, came another order, “Left turn!”

One hoodlum left the ranks and started off toward the barracks-room.

“Here, you!” yelled the angry sergeant.  “Where are you going?”

“I’ve had enough,” replied the recruit in a disgusted tone.  “You don’t know your own mind for two minutes runnin’!”

The day after the second draft quota had reached Camp Devens a rookie strolled into camp after dark.  As he was going past a sentry, he was challenged.

“Who goes there?”

“Machine gun 301,” answered the rookie.

“Advance to be recognized.”

“Aw, you don’t know me.  I’ve only been here a coupla days.”

“How did that private ever get in here?” asked a corporal of a captain as he looked at a boy who seemed to be a physical weakling.

“Walked in backward,” said the captain, “and the guard thought he was going out.”

“Remember, my son,” said his mother as she bade him good-by, “when you get to camp try to be punctual in the mornings, so as not to keep breakfast waiting.”—­Life.

A young American artist who has just returned from a six-months’ job of driving a British ambulance on the war-front in Belgium brings this back, straight from the trenches: 

“One cold morning a sign was pushed up above the German trench facing ours, only about fifty yards away, which bore in large letters the words: 

“‘GOTT MIT UNS!’

“One of our cockney lads, more of a patriot than a linguist, looked at this for a moment and then lampblacked a big sign of his own, which he raised on a stick.  It read: 

“‘WE GOT MITTENS, TOO!’”

“Who goes there?” the sentry challenged.

“Lord Roberts,” answered the tipsy recruit.

Again the sentry put the question and received a like answer, whereupon he knocked the offender down.  When the latter came to, the sergeant was bending over him.  “See here!” said the sergeant, “why didn’t you answer right when the sentry challenged you?”