beauty of Gustave Moreau's poem, of which, in two words, you expressed
the spirit.

YOUR SON.


_December 24, morning._

Our first day in the outpost passed away in the calm of a country
awaiting snow. It came in the night.

In the back gardens, which lie in sight of the Germans, I went out to
see it, where it emphasised and ennobled the least of things. Then I
came back to my candle, and I write on a table where my neighbour is
grating chocolate. So that is war.

Military life has some amusing surprises. We had to come to the first
line before two non-commissioned officers found a bath and could bathe
themselves. As for me, I have made myself a water-jug out of a part of a
75.

. . . I will not speak of patience, since a reserve of mere patience may
be useless preparation for the unknown quantity. But I must say that the
time goes extremely quickly.

We spend child-like days; indeed we are children in regard to these
events, and the benefit of this war will have been to restore youth to
the hearts of those who return.

Dear mother, our village has just had a visit from two shells. Will they