Darling mother, here is a calm in the noise of that barrack-life which
must now be ours. As there are none here but non-commissioned officers,
they are all ordered to hard jobs, and I shall renew my acquaintance
with brooms and burdens. We have been warned; we shall have to work with
our hands. And so we learn to direct others.


_March 7_ (another letter).

Soft weather after rain. Bells in the evening; flowing waters singing
under the bridges; trees settling to sleep.


_March 11._

DARLING MOTHER,--I have nothing to say about my life, which is filled up
with manual labour. At moments perhaps some image appears, some memory
rises. I have just read a fine article by Renan on the origins of the
Bible. I found it in a _Revue des Deux Mondes_ of 1886. If later I can
remember something of it, I may be able to put my very scattered
notions on that matter into better order.

I feel as though I were recovering from typhoid fever. What I chiefly
enjoy is water; the running and the sleeping waters of the Meuse. The
springs play on weeds and pebbles. The ponds lie quiet under great
trees. Streams and waterfalls. On the steep hillsides the snow looks
brilliant and visionary. I live in all these things without forms of
words. And I am rather ashamed to be vegetating, though I think all must
pass through this phase, just removed from the hell of the front. I eat,
and when my horrid rheumatism allows, I sleep.