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and the hero of the tale, a young French poet, who is in London, is truly unhappy in that village. Arthur desseche et meurt. Dans la ville de Sterne, Rien qu'en voyant le peuple il a le mal de mer Il n'aime ni le Parc, gai comme une citerne, Ni le tir au pigeon, ni le soda-water. Liston ne le fait plus sourciller!
A train journey on January 9th took us to Citerne, a quiet, comfortable village, intact of war, in the French area south of the Somme. The inhabitants were most friendly, accommodation good, and each officer found a bed at his disposal.
His armour was all intermixed with lyllies and roses, and the bases therof bordered with nettles and weeds, signifieng stings, crosses, and ouergrowing incumbrances in his loue, his helmet round proportioned like a gardeners waterpot, from which seemed to issue forth small thrids of water, like citerne stringes, that not onely did moisten the lillies and roses, but did fructifie as well the nettles and weedes, and made them ouergrow their liege Lordes.
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