It is an unexpectedly spacious place. We, who have spent the winter
constructing slits in the ground two feet wide, feel quite lost in
this roomy thoroughfare. For a thoroughfare it is, with little toy
houses on either side. They are hewn out of the solid earth, lined
with planks, painted, furnished, and decorated. These are, so to
speak, permanent trenches, which have been occupied for more than six
months.
Observe this eligible residence on your left. It has a little door,
nearly six feet high, and a real glass window, with a little curtain.
Inside, there is a bunk, six feet long, together with an ingenious
folding washhand-stand, of the nautical variety, and a flap-table.
The walls, which are painted pale green, are decorated with elegant
extracts from the "Sketch" and "La Vie Parisienne." Outside, the name
of the villa is painted up. It is in Welsh--that notorious railway
station in Anglesey which runs to thirty-three syllables or so--and
extends from one end of the facade to the other. A small placard
announces that Hawkers, Organs, and Street-cries are prohibited.
"This is my shanty," explains a machine-gun officer standing by. "It
was built by a Welsh Fusilier, who has since moved on. He was here all
winter, and made everything himself, including the washhand-stand.
Some carpenter--what? of course I am not here continuously.
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