It’s a shame to do it, but public safety impels us to expose the sergeant who is palming off his Mexican border service ribbon as an American croix de guerre, thereby raising his own holdings of “amourique Amerique” stock in the eyes of petite MadÉlon.

Even so, sleeping on the rocks has its advantages, for in the rosy days of the future when friend wife turns the lock on our late nocturnal home-coming, we can curl up on the front porch with sleepful abandon.

And when we are in the parlor with our best girl telling her of the great rÔle we played in the world-safe-for-democracy drama, we’ll not mind it a bit if the passing guard orders, “Camouflage those lights!”

So many Yanks are over here now that there is scarcely room to house them, thereby creating the necessity of extending the eastern frontier of this domain of Foch, Pershing, et al.

To our exchange desk has recently come a copy of the Kriegszeitung, the official organ of the Seventh German Army. The most we can say for the sheet is that it is Boche and bosh.

What gets us guessing is how this daylight-saving plan works out in the land of Eskimos, but we suppose all they have to do is to get up six months earlier each morning.

Elsie Janis danced so gracefully that, after she had alighted from a perfectly stunning flip-flop, a doughboy in the third row was heard to remark: “Just like a wheelbarrow I saw in the air after a high explosive hit near it.”

Our staff correspondent who made the trip to Paris is recovering from a rather severe headache.

Cursed be the mule whose braying is like unto the whistling of a shell.—The Ohio Rainbow Reveille, Official Organ, 166th Infantry, Somewhere in France.