At our entry into the World War, a popular young man enlisted and before setting forth for camp in his uniform made a round of farewell calls. The girl who first received him made an insistent demand:
"You'll think of me every single minute when you're in those stupid old trenches!"
"Every minute," he agreed solemnly.
"And you'll kiss my picture every night."
"Twice a night," he vowed, with the girl's pretty head on the shoulder of the new uniform coat.
"And you'll write me long, long letters?" she pleaded.
"I'll write every spare minute," he assured her, "and if I haven't any spare minutes, I'll take 'em anyhow."
After a tender interval punctuated with similar ardent promises, he went away from there, and called on another girl. In fact, he called on ten separate and distinct pretty girls, and each of them was tender and sought his promises, which he gave freely and ardently and when it was all done with, he communed with himself somewhat sadly.
"I do hope," he said wearily, "there won't be much fighting to do over there--for I'm going to be awfully busy."
