“Wuzzy,” or to give him his proper name, “Gerald,” came into existence about this time.  He arrived from Peuplinghe a fat fluffy puppy covered with silky grey curls.  He was of nondescript breed, with a distinct leaning towards an old English sheep dog.  He had enormous fawn-coloured silky paws, and was so soft and floppy he seemed as if he had hardly a bone in his body.  We used to pick him up and drop him gently in the grass to watch him go out flat like a tortoise.  He belonged to Lean, and grew up a rather irresponsible creature with long legs and a lovable disposition.  He adored coming down to the ambulance trains or sitting importantly on a car, jeering and barking at his low French friends in the road, on the “I’m the king of the castle” principle.  Another of his favourite tricks was to rush after a car (usually selecting Lean’s), and keep with it the whole time, never swerving to another, which was rather clever considering they were so much alike.  On the way back to Camp he had a special game he played on the French children playing in the Petit Courgain.  He would rush up as if he were going to fly at them.  They would scream and fall over in terror while he positively laughed at them over his shoulder as he cantered off to try it on somewhere else.  The camp was divided in its opinion of Wuzzy, or rather I should say quartered—­viz.—­one quarter saw his points and the other three-quarters decidedly did not!

A priceless article appeared in one of the leading dailies entitled, “Women Motor Drivers.—­Is it a suitable occupation?” and was cut out by anxious parents and forwarded with speed to the Convoy.

The headlines ran:  “The lure of the Wheel.”  “Is it necessary?” “The after effects.”  We lapped it up with joy.  Phrases such as “Women’s outlook on life will be distorted by the adoption of such a profession, her finer instincts crushed,” pleased us specially.  It continued “All the delicate things that mean, must mean, life to the feminine mind, will lose their significance”—­(cries of “What about the frillies you bought in Paris, Pat?”) “The uncongenial atmosphere”—­I continued, reading further—­“of the garage, yard, and workshops, the alien companionship of mechanics and chauffeurs will isolate her mental standing” (shrieks of joy), “the ceaseless days and dull monotony of labour will not only rob her of much feminine charm but will instil into her mind bitterness that will eat from her heart all capacity for joy, steal away her youth, and deprive her of the colour and sunlight of life” (loud sobs from the listening F.A.N.Y.s, who still, strangely enough, seemed to be suffering from no loss of joie de vivre!) When the noise had subsided I continued:  “There is of course the possibility that she will become conscious of her condition and change of mind, and realize her level in time to counteract the ultimate effects(!).  The realization however may come too late.  The aptitude for happiness