Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they will be warm and happy.
Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.
The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me in some little "remèdes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de métal," and the other is what the old lady calls a "remède de bonne femme." You rub yourself with it all over every two hours!
Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about to strike twelve.
It has struck twelve--no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed twelve, like some old happy bee.
The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is rubbing himself against a tree.
All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.
At the end of the war (Ring, bells, merry bells!) We intend To keep hens, Me and Helen. (Ring, bells!) Such hens! (Merry bells!) And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells, We shall laugh and not care; For there won't be no war, And no hell any more, While Helen is there With the hens.
I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!
In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.
I've been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has been "na-poo." Leave? Yes, leave will come in time. Probably the first half of December.
How maddening it is for poor old Tom! It's most damnable hard luck being kept there without leave such a long time. And I expect that he also has rather lost interest. At first the men were a great source of interest, and the horses and everything. Then France and the front were very interesting. Lastly, being under fire was very interesting. But now that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go through it again. And Tom has had so much of it. Yes, he ought to come home.
The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter chrysanthemums in their gardens. Don't you like them?
Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven't been on a horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself, which consists of one street and a side-lane.