March 25th. Man!  Man!  How I suffer!  I’m so weary I could sleep on my company commander’s breast, and to bring oneself to that one must be considerably fatigued, so to speak.  Who invented liberty, anyway?  It’s a greatly over-rated pastime as far as I can make out, consisting of coming and going with the middle part omitted.

One man whispered to me at muster this morning that all he could remember of his liberty was checking out and checking in.  He looked unwell.  My old pal, “Spike” Kelly, I hear was also out of luck.  His girl was the skipper of a Fourteenth Street crosstown car, so he was forced to spend most of his time riding, between the two rivers.  He nickeled himself to death in doing it.  He said if Mr. Shonts plays golf, as no doubt he does, he has “Spike” Kelly to thank for a nice, new box of golf balls.  And while on the subject, “Spike” observes that one of those engaging car signs should read: 

“Is it Gallantry, or the Advent of Woman Suffrage, or the Presence of the Conductorette that Causes So Many Sailors to Wear Out Their Seats Riding Back and Forth, and So Many Unnecessary Fares to Be Rung Up in So Doing?”

His conversation with “Mame,” his light-o’-love, was conducted along this line: 

“Say, Mame.”

“Yes, George, dear (fare, please, madam).  What does tweetums want?”

“You look swell in your new uniform.”

“Oh, Georgie, do you think it fits? (Yes, madam, positively, the car was brushed this morning, your baby will be perfectly safe inside.)”

“Mame.”

“George! (Step forward, please.) Go on, dear.”

“Mame, it’s doggon hard to talk to you here.”  “Isn’t it just! (What is it lady?  Cabbage?  Oh, baggage!  No, no, you can’t check baggage here; this isn’t a regular train.) George, stop holding my hand!  I can’t make change!”

“Aw, Mame, who do you love?”

“Why, tweetums, I love—­(plenty of room up forward!  Don’t jam up the door) you, of course. (Fare, please!  Fare, please!  Have your change ready!)”

“Can’t we get a moment alone, Mame?”

“Yes, dear; wait until twelve-thirty, and we’ll drive to the car barn then. (Transfers!  Transfers!)”

“Spike” says that his liberty was his first actual touch with the horrors of war.

Another bird that lived in some remote corner of New York State told me in pitiful tones that all he had time to do was to walk down the street of his home town, shake hands with the Postmaster, lean over the fence and kiss his girl (it had to go two ways, Hello and Good-by), take a package of clean underwear from his mother as he passed by and catch the outbound train on the dead run.  All he could do was to wave to the seven other inhabitants.  He thought the Grand Central Terminal was a swell dump, though.  He said:  “There was quite a lot of it,” which is true.