that everybody knows about it I guess there isn't much
use in going ahead with it. _Aug.
8th._ "This guide i-s l-e-f-t!" shouted the P.O., and naturally I
looked around to see what had become of the poor fellow. "Keep your
head straight. Eyes to the front! Don't move! Whatcha lookin' at?" "I
was looking for the guide that was left," says I timidly. "It seems to
me that he is always
being left." "Company dismissed," said the P.O. promptly,
showing a wonderful command of the situation under rather trying
circumstances, for the boo-hoo that went up from the men after my
remark defied all
restraints of discipline. "Say, Biltmore," says the P.O. to me a moment
later, "I'm going to see if I can't get you shipped to Siberia
if you pull one of them bum jokes again. You understand?"
"But I wasn't joking," I replied innocently. "Aw go on, you sly dog,"
said he, nudging me in the ribs, and for
some strange reason he departed in high good humor, leaving me in a
greatly mystified frame of mind. Speaking of getting shipped, I have
just written a very sad song in the style of
the old sentimental ballads of the Spanish war days. It's called "The
Sailor's Farewell," and I think Polly will like it. I haven't polished
it up yet, but here it is as it is: A sailor to his mother came and
said, "Oh, mother dear, I got to go away and fight the war.
So, mother, don't you cry too hard, and don't you
have no fear When you find that I'm not sticking 'round no more." "My
boy," the sweet old lady said, "I hate to see you
go. I've knowed you since when you was but a kid, But if the question
you should
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