France
April 15, 1917

Dear People,

We were to have gone for an all-day ride to the sea to-day; but it turned out rainy, so that is off. I read and wrote a letter to Gilbert this morning, am writing letters again this afternoon, and at 4.00 some of us are going up to the hospital to have tea with the nurses.

It has been a very pleasant week, - the weather being considerate for the most part, and life not too strenuous. Also the news from the line has been encouraging. Our Canadian boys seem to have done themselves proud again, as we knew they would. Vimy Ridge was certainly one of the toughest nuts on the whole front.

Yesterday we went through a rather heart-wrenching experience - a visit to one of the big veterinary hospitals. There is something about the suffering of the dumb creatures that is more pathetic in its way that than of the human victims of war. The human has the consciousness of honorable sacrifice to brace his spirits; but the animal just suffers without understanding. There were a lot of wounded just in from the push - mostly shrapnel and machine-gun cases. Of course modern treatment does everything for them. They are chloroformed and operated on most scientifically.

I wonder if I mentioned that there is a Canadian here at the course - a Woodstock boy named Johnson. His father was G.E. Johnson, a contractor. They lived in the East End not far from Uncle Alf's.

Is Grandmother still at Brockville? It is Brockville, isn't it? I don't know her address so will have to count on you to give her my love and let her know I got her parcel.

I had some cakes and taffy from Thurlaston a few days ago. Everybody is very good to me. I wonder why?

I enclose a slight product of the muse, which evolved itself during one of our rides, and was set down of an evening in my billet. "A poor thing but mine own."

How I love you all! I had a letter from Herbert the other day. There is a connection between these remarks, but the train of thought eludes me.

There is probably some connection with Cecebe which is apt to bob towards the surface of my subconscious mind in the springtime.

How I love you all.
Bun