To the next village to water, the pond of green slime here being exhausted.
Dozing in the grass in the afternoon whilst my charges browsed, I suddenly became aware of the blazing mass of a strafed balloon in mid air and the parachutes of its crew and those of next one gaily descending from the empyrean.
Watching a “windsucker” horse – an extraordinary equine vice. He takes the picquet rope in his teeth, gives a tug and a grunt and so swallows some air. It appears to be incurable. An animal so disposed is never in good condition. A wild Scot treats us to lengthy recitals on his national wind instrument – an inflated bladder squeezed under the arm, having long funnels projecting there from in all directions, emitting a variety of warring harmonics. Each evening, wet or fine, his weird incantations waken the echoes of longsuffering France.