One could elaborate this idea still further and make one’s sea bag look like a clump of poison ivy, so that no inspecting officer would ever care to become intimate with its numerous defects in cleanliness.  One might even go so far as to camouflage oneself into a writing desk so that when visiting the “Y” or the “K-C” and unexpectedly required to sing one would not be forced to rise and scream impatiently and threateningly “Dear Mother Mine” or “Break the News to Mother.”  Not that these songs are not things of rare beauty in themselves, but after a day on the coal pile one’s lungs have been sufficiently exercised to warrant relief.  This is merely an idea of mine, and now that everybody knows about it I guess there isn’t much use in going ahead with it.

Aug. 8th. “This guide i-s l-e-f-t!” shouted the P.O., and naturally I looked around to see what had become of the poor fellow.

“Keep your head straight.  Eyes to the front!  Don’t move!  Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“I was looking for the guide that was left,” says I timidly.  “It seems to me that he is always being left.”

“Company dismissed,” said the P.O. promptly, showing a wonderful command of the situation under rather trying circumstances, for the boo-hoo that went up from the men after my remark defied all restraints of discipline.

“Say, Biltmore,” says the P.O. to me a moment later, “I’m going to see if I can’t get you shipped to Siberia if you pull one of them bum jokes again.  You understand?”

“But I wasn’t joking,” I replied innocently.

“Aw go on, you sly dog,” said he, nudging me in the ribs, and for some strange reason he departed in high good humor, leaving me in a greatly mystified frame of mind.

Speaking of getting shipped, I have just written a very sad song in the style of the old sentimental ballads of the Spanish war days.  It’s called “The Sailor’s Farewell,” and I think Polly will like it.  I haven’t polished it up yet, but here it is as it is: 

   A sailor to his mother came and said, “Oh, mother dear,
     I got to go away and fight the war. 
   So, mother, don’t you cry too hard, and don’t you have no fear
     When you find that I’m not sticking ’round no more.”

   “My boy,” the sweet old lady said, “I hate to see you go. 
     I’ve knowed you since when you was but a kid,
   But if the question you should ask, I’ll tell the whole world so—­
     It’s the only decent thing you ever did.”

       A tear she brushed aside,
       And then she sadly cried: 

   CHORUS

   “I’m proud my boy’s a sailor man what sails upon the sea. 
     I’ve always liked him pretty well although he is so dumb. 
   For years he’s stuck around the house and disappointed me. 
     I thought that he was going to be a bum.”

   He took her gently by the hand and kissed her on the bean
     And said, “When I’m about to fight the Hun
   You shouldn’t talk to me that way; I think it’s awfully mean—­
     I ain’t agoin’ to have a lot of fun.”