Soon the road to the next village is exposed to the Boche’s view.  Therefore canvas screens about 20 feet high have been erected, so that, if necessary, troops, and even lorries, can hurry by.  It is most curious.  “But for that thin bit of canvas, my good Swallow, you would get something into your tummy you wouldn’t like,” I remarked.  At that moment the sun came out.  We were keeping to the side of the road where it is soft going.  Suddenly Swallow leaped like a stag into the middle of the road all over the pave.  Panic terror.  He had seen the shadow of a starling flit across his path!

Jezebel was tittuping along behind, thinking only of her next feed.  I cannot get her to take any interest in these thrilling spots.  Sometimes a soldier or two would emerge from a cellar, the entrance to which would be piled up with sand-bags.  And once or twice bang! bang! goes a gun quite close by.

Well, so we go through the next deserted and wrecked village, again out of sight of the Boche, because of the ruins and a few trees.  Then into a very famous town indeed, and across a river three times by three different bridges—­not the old bridges, which are broken down, but sapper-built bridges.  Here is a party going into the trenches just on the far side of the town.  They look distinctly cheery, and are all of the same ripe brown.  Thence right-handed again and gradually back to civilization, or, rather, to life first and civilization some way behind.  Eventually people strolling about and shops.  I bought a pair of those jolly French-tartan stockings for little Bun.  With a grey dress they will look most charming, I think.

[Sidenote:  ARMENTIERES]

Again masses of soldiers with their field-kitchens in muddy fields from which all traces of grass have been stamped long ago.  And the everlasting mule.  There are mules everywhere out here.

Such attractive cottages, white with green shutters, and sometimes little Dutch gardens.  Many windmills, several pigeons always fluttering round each.  A lorry in a ditch.  A roadside canteen, with perhaps an A.S.C. camp near by.  Fields and fields of corn and every other crop under the sun.  I long to sketch, but feel slightly nervous of so doing so far from camp.  I don’t want to be arrested as a spy.  We are practically out of the danger area by now, but you never know.  Some boring A.P.M. might pounce on the sketch and create a botheration.

Meantime I have been laboriously making pretty maps to present to Sir John, coloured maps showing where such and such a rise of ground could be held, or where such and such a road offers difficulties to transport, etc.  But it’s not easy to do, and we don’t get back to camp till five minutes before stables, having covered about thirty miles.  Besides, we had to stop and feed ourselves and the horses.