A DOUGHBOY'S DICTIONARY.

Camouflage--Wearing an overcoat to reveille.

Military Road--A large body of land, without beginning or end, entirely covered by water.

Camion--1. A large, immovable body which one is expected to carry on one's shoulders through the mud. 2. The thing that brings the mail out.

Army Rifle--Something eternally dirty which must be kept eternally clean.

Bayonet--A long, sharp, pointed object whose only satisfactory resting place is the midriff of a Hun.

Pay-day--1. A "movable feast." 2. A time for cancellation of debts. 3.

The date of the return of the laundry one sent away a month and a half before.

THIS REALLY HAPPENED.

End of letter: "Goodbye, my dear, for the present. Yours, Jack."

Then--"x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x. P. S. I hope the censor doesn't object to those crosses."

Added by Friend Censor: "Certainly not! x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x!"

KISS FOR RESCUER OF PIG FROM BLAZE

A Beantown Fire-Fighter Hero of Epoch-Making Conflagration.

"Weee-ah-eeeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"

Private John Doe, late of the Boston fire department, knew something was up when, on a certain Sunday morning not long ago, he heard that sound issuing from the second story of the house-barn in which his command was billeted. Also he saw a thin streamer of smoke, no bigger than Rhode Island, winding its way out of the house-barn door. He sniffed, then hollered "Fire!"

"Fire?" echoed some of his bunk mates, coming up the road. Fire? How could there be fire in a country where not even sulphurous language served to start the kitchen kindlings? How could there be fire in a country where only every other match will light at all, at all?

Nevertheless, up they hustled, to see a bit of blaze lapping the edge of the house-barn door, and to hear, from within, the plaintive cry of "Weee-ah-eeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"

"Steady, piggy darlint!" came Private Doe's soothing accents, from the second story. "Sure an' it's meeself will resthcue yeze from this burnin' ould shack! You below there! Climb on up an' lind a hand at pullin' out the hay that's up here, or ilse the whole place will be burnted down intoirely!"

Enter the Reserves.

Into the barn rushed half of Private Doe's squad. The other half, calling down the road, summoned a good two companies, which came up on the double.

At this point entered, front and centre, M. le Maire of the commune, who, being the owner of the pig in distress, had more than a casual interest in the proceedings. "The fire engine! The fire engine!" he shouted, in accents both wild and French. But, since there had been no fire in the town in fifty years, n.o.body seemed to know just what he meant.

Fact! No fire in the town in fifty years! 'Way back in the days of Napoleon III. there had been a fire, a little blaze, in the town. Think of that, you insurance men who used to write policies for clothing dealers on New York's East Side!

When he had sufficiently recovered his avoirdupois, M. le Maire dragged out of the Hotel de Ville, with the aid of the embattled infantrymen, _some_ fire apparatus, of early Bourbon vintage. One private who helped handle it swears that he spotted the date "1748" on the leather hose which led from a water tank, about twelve by eight by four, toward the general direction of the fire. The tank, in turn, had to be filled by a bucket brigade strung along from the scene of action to the village fountain, about a quarter of a mile away.

Fire a Social Success.

It's a shame to spoil a good story, but Private Doe did not throw down the pig into an army blanket held out to receive it. He clambered down a smouldering flight of ladder stairs, with His Pigship under his arm, quite unharmed, save for a severe nervous shock. Aside from a few scorched kit bags, the loss of the top sergeant's cherished pipe, and a few lungfuls of smoke acquired by Private Doe, the fire was not a success--that is, from a historical standpoint. But as a social event, in bringing the Americans--and Private Doe, kissed by the lady mayoress for his pains, in particular--closer to the hearts of the villagers, it was decidedly there.

JIM.

Honest, but Jim was the sourest man in all o' Comp'ny G; You could sing and tell stories the whole night long, but never a cuss gave he.

You could feed him turkey at Christmastime--and Tony the cook's no slouch-- But Jim wouldn't join in "Three cheers for the cook!" Gosh, but he had a grouch!

He wouldn't go up to the hill cafay when our daily hike was done, And sip his beer, and chin with the lads, the crabby son-of-a-gun; He'd growl if you asked him to hold the light, he'd snarl if you asked for a b.u.t.t, Till at last the gang was 'most ready to put Jim down for a mutt.

About the first time that our mail came in, we all felt as high as a king; "What luck?" somebody hollers to Jim: he says, "Not a dad-blamed thing."

And then he goes off in his end o' the shack, and Tom Breed swears 'at he cried; But when somebody went and repeated it, Jim swore, by gad, Tom lied.

We were gettin' our mail, irregular-like, for about a month or two; But Jim? He never drew anything, and blooey! but he was blue!

Not only blue, but surly; he was off'n the whole darn shop, And once he was put onto "heavy" for talkin' back to the Top.

'Twas a day or two before New Year's, when the postal truck came in; The orderly fishes one out for Jim; he takes it, without a grin, And then, as he opens the envelope--eeyow! How that man did yell: "A letter from James J., Junior, boys! the youngster has learnt to spell!"

So nothin' would do but the bunch of us had to read the letter through; 'Twas all writ out by that kid of his, and a mighty smart kid, too, For it isn't every six-year-old at school as can take a prize, (Like the boy wrote Jim as he had done): and you oughter seen Jim's eyes!

Well, Jim had a mighty good New Year's; he stood the squad a treat, And now, 'stead o' turnin' out sloppy, he's always trim and neat; Fact is, the lieutenant pa.s.sed the word that if Jim keeps on that way He'll be wearing little stripes on his arm and drawin' a bit more pay.

Don't it beat h.e.l.l how a little thing will change a man like that?

Now Jim's as cheerful as anything instead o' mum as a bat.

An' the reason? Why, it's easy! A guy is bound to fail Of bein' a proper soldier if he don't get no fambly mail!

If all of those post office birds was wise to the change they made in Jim, They'd hustle a bit on our letters, for they's lots that's just like him; It may be a kid, or it may be a girl; a mother, a pal, a wife,-- And believe me, this hearin' from 'em--why, it's half o' the joy o'

life!