November 6.

[Sidenote:  COCQUEREL]

An extraordinary change.  Let me now give you an idea.

We are in a pretty little country village miles and miles away, and (although one of Fritz’s aeroplanes flew over the church as bold as brass just before we got in) the quiet and peace of the place is very refreshing.  And, droll to relate, I’m writing this in bed, with a touch of flu—­such a bed, too, all soft and billowy.  In ordinary life it would be condemned as a “feather” bed, but now it is a bed for princes.

And the room.  A rather dark old-fashioned paper, an old clock ticking, an old shining chest of drawers with a marble top, and clothes hanging on pegs.  Hale has arranged the pistol, and ammunition, and maps, and gas helmets, and steel helmet, and spare kit, with great elaboration, all over the room.  At the present moment he is “sweeping out” with the appropriate hissing noises.  The dust will, I hope, subside during the course of the day.

Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they will be warm and happy.

Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey pony browsing.  The leaves are yellow, and there’s no wind.

The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me in some little “remedes,” which Tim refuses to let me have.  One is what the old man (an ex-chemist) calls “salicite de metal,” and the other is what the old lady calls a “remede de bonne femme.”  You rub yourself with it all over every two hours!

Tick, tick, tick, tick.  Lovely!  The old clock is rumbling.  It is about to strike twelve.

It has struck twelve—­no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed twelve, like some old happy bee.

The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is rubbing himself against a tree.

All so cosy and delicious.  Now for a doze.

November 7.

[Sidenote:  DOZING]

Here’s a poem.  It’s called

HENS.

At the end of the war
(Ring, bells, merry bells!)
We intend
To keep hens,
Me and Helen. 
(Ring, bells!)
Such hens! 
(Merry bells!)
And though all our hens’ eggs be surrounded by shells,
We shall laugh and not care;
For there won’t be no war,
And no hell any more,
While Helen is there
With the hens.

I’ve just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again.  Such a lot of dozing!

November 12.

In to-day’s letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.

I’ve been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has been “na-poo.”  Leave?  Yes, leave will come in time.  Probably the first half of December.