What did we ever do in the U.S. without “briquets?” Don’t know what it is. Well, it’s a lighter. France is where they grow; everyone uses them. What I am trying to get at is that Frank’s trying to fix one now and panting so loud I can hardly write. Briquets occupy our whole spare time; when they’re not being fixed we’re busy inventing alibis as to why they don’t work. For every one claims that his is the only, and no one’s really is. It’s the prime indoor sport.
I don’t doubt that you’re glad to get back to town. There is something compelling about the city which a vacation no matter how pleasant, lacks. That what is calling me now. I’ve been having a fine summer, but I hear the “voice of the city” – O. Henry’s city. Victor Hugo’s has a voice, and I understand its words, but after all it’s not the city. You will know and love Paris one of these days, as I do. But it is hard to feel the same about New York, until you have been in a foreign land deprived of a chance to see it again for an indefinite period. In the same way all these songs about wanting to go back to Dixie, Michigan, California and intermediate points, are beginning to take on new meanings to this polyglot little crew of ours.
These last two weeks have been very busy ones. We have worked so much during the day that night found us about ready to stay home and be good. I haven’t given an English lesson in over two weeks and have been very irregular at old Lozach’s. Next week I shall blossom forth again, though not with the former freshness and frequency.
Some of our boys have come in from the present active all-American St. Mihiel front, with wondrous tales. Makes me want to see some of it. I don’t care how, but the best idea to joy-ride up, with no cameras or stuff to worry about – just some irresponsible job like taking notes or carrying a tripod, so I can enjoy it. One of the fellows got hold of some German motion picture show tickets, one of which herewith. At any rate the enemy didn’t overlook the value of photograph as propaganda medium both for German soldiers and French civilians in German hands. But can you imagine the chance to lie about things as they are, that such a thing affords an unscrupulous enemy.
It hasn’t been decided yet what this Sunday will bring forth, but I believe a Scotch lady figures in it. If possible I should like to go to Notre Dame. The old pile has a fascination that is hard to combat.
New. Fred is back. The reason he gives wouldn’t pass the mildest of censors but the reason everyone assigns is too low to write. Too bad his wife made such a choice.
And Clarence has gone out. You know him well enough to realize that he was tickled. You never saw such a change in anyone as in him, the day he was told. He stepped out like a colt again. He’ll make good on his job, because he has ideas.
Frank has been doing some color photography which he says is beautiful. Really it is very sick stuff. It makes me so mad that I tell him what I think of it. I hereby swear never to do any. It’s worse than golf in creating grass widows and the result is less satisfying – you get only plates instead of cups, and you’ll never see your husband once he starts. Don’t attempt any yourself.
Our little news department moved away, today from the bustle of the main office, into a fine little corner. It is so like the proverbial editorial sanctum that I am going to buy me a blue pencil and look like the conventional editor. The job goes merrily on, and I venture to say there are few who get more real fun and amusement out of our little war than I. Just the same when we are through, we’re never going to love another country.
Next post September 22
Letters from Sidney Friend During The Great War 