Oh, the sailor man is a rugged man,
   The master of wind and wave,
   And poets sing till the tea-rooms ring
   Of his picturesque, deep sea grave,
   And they likewise write of the “Storm at Night”
   When the numerous north winds roar,
   But more profound is the dismal sound
   Of a sea-going sailor’s snore.

   II

   Oh, mothers knit for their sailor sons
   Socks for their nautical toes,
   But mothers should list to the frightful noise
   Made by their innocent sailor boys
   By the wind they blow through their nose.

   Oh, life at sea is wild and free
   And greatly to be admired,
   But I would sleep both sound and deep
   At night when I’m feeling tired.

   So here we go with a yo! ho! ho! 
   While the waves and the tempests soar,
   An artist can paint a shrew as a saint,
   But not camouflage on a snore.

   III

   Oh, mothers, write to your sons at sea;
   Write to them, I implore,
   A letter as earnest as it can be,
   Containing a delicate, motherly plea,
   A plea for them not to snore.

     Oh, I take much pride in my trousers wide,
     The ladies all think them sweet,
   And I must admit that I love to sit
     In a chair and relieve my feet. 
     Avast!  Belay! and we’re bound away
     With our hearts lashed fast to the fore,
   But when mermaids sleep
     In their bowers deep,
     Do you think that the sweet things snore?

Our company commander spoke to us this morning in no uncertain terms.  He seems to be such a serious man.  There is a peculiar quality in his voice, not unlike the tone of a French 75 mm. gun.  You can easily hear everything he says—­miles away.  We rested this afternoon.

March 3d. Sunday—­a day of rest, for which I gave, in the words of our indefatigable Chaplain, “three good, rollicking cheers.”  Some folks are coming up to see me this afternoon.  I hear I must moo through the fence at them like a cow. (Later.) The folks have just left.  Mother kept screaming through the wire about my underwear.  She seemed to have it on her brain.  There were several young girls standing right next to her.  I really felt I was no longer a bachelor.  Why do mothers lay such tremendous stress on underwear?  They seem to believe that a son’s sole duty to his parents consists in publicly announcing that he is clad in winter flannels.

[Illustration:  “MOTHER KEPT SCREAMING THROUGH THE WIRE ABOUT MY UNDERWEAR”]

Polly drove up for a moment with Joe Henderson.  I hope the draft gets hold of that bird.  They were going to have tea at the Biltmore when they got back to the city.  I almost bit the end off of a sentry’s bayonet when I heard this woeful piece of news.  Liberty looks a long way off.

I made an attempt to write some letters in the Y.M.C.A. this evening but gave up before the combined assault of a phonograph, a piano, and a flanking detachment of checker players.  Several benches fell on me and I went to the mat feeling very sorry for myself.