Dear Steve:

France, October 24, 1917

I answered the last letter I got from you but tonight seems the night for a "minor operation" in letter writing. I have cast about me for a suitable victim and you’re elected.

I had a perfect mania of letter writing earlier in the week. So acute was the siege that our officer here remonstrated vigorously, saying that he had no time to write his own by reason of the length and frequency of mine. On the morning of the third day he came to me in great distress and mingled wrath and returned me my full quota of correspondence with the request that I put them all together in a large envelope and addressed to the Base Censor. I cast about me for a big envelope which I could not procure and finally the Postal Sergeant took pity on me, asked if I was on the Staff. I told him, yes, and he said he would put my letters in with the staffs for the adjutant to censor. I did so and have heard no more about them, but the adjutant was off parade this morning and I wonder if that was the reason for his absence.

Yesterday was a rather comfortless day and I lay around the hut all day suffering from ennui and weariness of the flesh. I hesitated to write letters and for lack of something else to do I composed a sonnet. Such were the sore straits to which I was put I actually tried to compose a sonnet, and it resembled the day. I’m not going to inflict it on anyone, but there is pathos in it and concentrated agony, perhaps. The evening came out clear and chillie & damp; I took in the pictures which were funny and reminded us of past visits to the island, Scarboro Beach, Sunnyside and other pleasure resorts of palmier days.

Today was fine but a chill wind blew and I actually feel tough, almost like a mild attack of the grippe. Tonight is cold and showery and we have a brazier (an improvised stove), going but the volume of smoke is immense. We were at our wits end for fuel and (?) and I went on a scouting expedition to a wood about a hundred yards from here. We loaded up with some partially dried poplar brush with leaves slightly wet and brought it home. It is not a success. The volume of smoke is immense and thick clouds envelope the interior of the hut. Instead of benefactors we are looked upon as visionaries with a distorted practical vision. I have two candles lit and I can hardly see for smoke. There is no solace in a pipe. One fellow playing cards in the corner has his gas respirator on. And now the problem arises – what are we going to do with all this useless fuel. Willie suggests that we put it outside the door for the other fellow to steal. I think we will try that. When we were bringing in our brush I though of carrying palms and gifts and the old Latin quotation of the priest of Troy came to me "I fear the Greeks even when bearing gifts, (donas ferentes)" and I guess our hutmates have much the same fears of us only on a smaller scale. I suppose you are busy with the fall work. I often visualize a day’s full plowing, a day’s threshing on the bike. It is very comforting to be sure.

My eyes are out from smoke. The light is poor. There is nothing to report.

Love to all. Yours in F.L. & T. Cannon