4

And that her daughter's name was Frieda. If he didn't feel in need
of more friends, he could send some other young man's name, and her
daughter Frieda would write to him. She felt that her daughter Frieda
would prove and interesting correspondent, bbut that she would not write
to anyone whom Harry could not reccomend unreservedly. ''You see,''
she said, ''how much trust I place in you.''

I received the prize of all the ''Marraine'' letters that have come to
us. It was from a really educated and sensible lady who was sincerely
desirous of being a help to some brave laddie. She told me all about
her happy married life, how her husband had enlisted as a sergeant in
the commissary department, and they had moved to Palo Alto from Berke–
ley so that she could keep house for him while he was working at Camp
Fremont. She wants me to ask her for anything that I may need, such
as warm underwear and such, and anything that I may want in the way
of little luxuries, such as tobacco and candies. She has already
send me a box of Durham Tobacco, as it has been her experience that
soldier boys prefer to roll their own rather than smoking tailor-
mades. Those were exact her words. Sometime I'll showw you her let-
ter. It was so sincere and frank, that I answered her as soon as I
had time. She said that if I didn't want her to be wished upon me,
to give the name of someone who was really in need of things and
frinds. I was perfectly frank with her and said that would accept
her with joy, of course, (for I am absolutely alone in the world, and
have no such thing as a lover nor a mother nor a sister!) No, but
I told her that I admired her for her sincerity, and that women such
as she are the real backbone of the nation, and that anything that she
had sent me that I did not need, I would find plenty of places for
among my comrades or among the soldiers. And I certainly will.
This has been the first strange Godmother that has been perfectly
sane, of all those who have written to any of us. Frank has received
several magazines of two years' age, addressed to ''My Godson, Frank'',
and the same person –– Dr Luella Cool –– has sent some of the same
commodity to ''My Godson, Donald Fox.'' It is a shame, the amount of
fun we have out of these missives.

The other fellows have gont to bed, and I must too, for there are calls
for all of us the first thing in the morning, early, and it is now the
ungodly hour of nine o'clock! The searchlight is sweeping over the
lake in search of Boche boats that have been suspected of sending a–
cross our side of the lake Albanian omatadji (no one knows how to
spell these wildmen in rags, who fight for the side that pays them the
most) as spies at night. It is an impressive and gorgeous spectacle,
with its reflection on the heavily clouded sky.

Goodnight, my Dear. You will hear from me in the next few weeks just
as often as I possibly can write, and when there is anything to tell and
I haven't time, then I'll send you a note anyhow! And I may have time
for a long letter to you before we leave here. The news that I got
on the way in on my last run, after starting this to you, was that
the chances of seeing Athens were becomming smaller. And we were
to go off duty on the 15th of this mont –– day after tomorrow. And to–
morrow will be Sunday for me, altho I will not be abble to tell it
from the things that I do or not do. And now, it is –– let me see ––
it is Saturday in the morning for you. I wonder what you may be doing.

I love you just the same as if I had been able to write to you today
with a pen, and just the same as if I hadn't been a leetle joky about
the place where the snaps were taken. I hope to send you some more
at least when we arrive in Paris. Goodnight now.

Yorvin Wynne