HOME NEWS FOR THE TRENCHES.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVII, Issue 7912, 28 July 1917, Page 2 (Supplement)

HOME NEWS FOR THE TRENCHES.

BEING THE LETTER OF A DISCURSIVE PARENT TO HIS SON AT THE FRONT. (“Da% Mail.”) My dear Mum bo, —Three cheers for the regiment and your news, and my best thanks for the Hun helmet. Your young comrade brought it on Sunday. A nice lad, and the reverent way in which he spoke of you pleased me very much. You will be glad to know that your trophy is serving a useful purpose by increasing the home production of food. Irene hats hung it upside down in the conservatory, and is growing mustard and cress in it. I have no home news for you that you will not get in the eight sheets of typewritten letter which she is sending you bjy this post. Don’t be sarcastic when you write to her, for it is only by assiduous practice that she can gain skill in the use of that instrument which is a necesbary qualification for patriotic service as an assistant Food Controller. She has only you to practise on, and her present speed, I understand, is seven words per minute gross without allowance for altering and rubbing out. So if you count, or get one of the subalterns to count, the number of words on one folio, •multiply it by eight, and divide the product by seven, you will realise that the quiet, homekeeping English middle classes.are beginning to feel the strain of war. I regret that the mysterious allusion to a telescope in your letter beat us ia(LL I knew, of course, that it conveyed some hint of your whereabouts, but for the life of me I could not fathom it. ..or could your gav young comrade, although he pointed out on the map the exact position, and told us the u'aimes of all the places around and in front of 1 you. Beware of being super-subtle, old boy. Either he more explicit or tell me nothing at all. With Irene’s typewriter clicking incessantly in the diningroom, my poor brain cannot cope with puzzles.

Your cousin Reggie, although he has only got his second star, is not nearly so obttoure in his topographical references. In his last letter home lie 6aid ho often thought of that part of Shakespeare where Polonius gets it in the neck, and even your Aunt Mary guessed it at once. “I know,” she said; “behind the Arras!”

A crony of mine got a letter from his boy with rather a nea<t one. It was something about ageing so rapidly under the strain of having to say everything in French that he felt approaching 50. His little sister, 'ajged 14, looked up 50 in the French dictionary, and was on it like a hawk. “Cinquante!” she said; “what la (rotten pun! Why, he means that he will soon bo in St. Quentin.”

You remember that jolly old barrister bqy we used to meet at Baadelot. I had a chat with him the other day. He pretended to pull a long face, and said the war wHs hitting his trade terribly hard. I said I was surprised, a® the Old Bailey seemed to be carriyng on as usual. “Yes,” he said, “but, you see, so many of the fine young fellows that I used to defend a/re now defending me.”

Old Dr. Baxter got in rather a good ono at the club. A miserly old dnypochondriac that bores everybody stiff tried to get a gratis prescription out of him. Ho said he could not understand the dreadful feeling of depression ho was suffering from, and wondered' whether the atmosphere in the “tubes” that he was obliged to travel by now had anything to do with it. “ Very possibly.” said the old doctor with a grin, "for the lifts are so lowering.” The only other event of importance that occurs to me at the moment is a tea-table conversation among a. party of women swanking about their distinguished military relatives. One referred to her brother the colonel, and another remarged that her daughter’s husband wnts about to be gazetted brigi dier-general, and another casually disclosed the fact that her family included a major-general. Your aunt Constance —you know lie? dry way—put the cap on this talk by saving she was afraid she would have to hurry away, as she was dining with an old friend who had a cook-general. Keep well, old boy.' I will write again the next time that Irene lias an evening out. All my love. Your affectionate FATHER,