Biltmore Oswald | Page 4

morning after coming
home from the other.
[Illustration: "THE DEPARTURE WAS MOIST"]
March 1st. Subjected myself to the intimate scrutiny of another doctor
this morning. I used my very best Turkish bath manners. They failed to
impress him. Hospital apprentice treated me to a shot of Pelham "hop."
It is taken in the customary manner, through the arm--very stimulating.
A large sailor held me by the hand for fully fifteen minutes. Very
embarrassing! He made pictures of my fingers and completely
demolished my manicure. From there I passed on to another room.
Here a number of men threw clothes at me from all directions. The man
with the shoes was a splendid shot. I am now a sailor--at least,
superficially. My trousers were built for Charlie Chaplin. I feel like a
masquerade.
[Illustration: "HOSPITAL APPRENTICE TREATED ME TO A SHOT
OF PELHAM 'HOP'"]
[Illustration: "I FEEL LIKE A MASQUERADE"]
A gang of recruits shouted "twenty-one days" at me as I was being led
to Mess Hall No. 1. The poor simps had just come in the day before
and had not even washed their leggings yet. I shall shout at other
recruits to-morrow, though, the same thing that they shouted at me
to-day.
Our P.O. is a very terrifying character. He is a stern but just man, I take
it.
He can tie knots and box the compass and say "pipe down" and
everything. Gee, it must be nice to be a real sailor!

[Illustration: "THIS, I THOUGHT, WAS ADDING INSULT TO
INJURY"]
March 2d. Fell out of my hammock last night and momentarily
interrupted the snoring contest holding sway. I was told to "pipe down"
in Irish, Yiddish, Third Avenue and Bronx. This, I thought, was adding
insult to injury, but could not make any one take the same view of it. I
hope the thing does not become a habit with me. I form habits so
readily. In connection with snoring I have written the following song
which I am going to send home to Polly. I wrote it in the Y.M.C.A. Hut
this afternoon while crouching between the feet of two embattled
checker players. I'm going to call it "The Rhyme of the Snoring Sailor."
It goes like this:
I
The mother thinks of her sailor son As clutched in the arms of war, But
mother should listen, as I have done, To this same little, innocent sailor
son Sprawl in his hammock and snore.
Oh, the sailor man is a rugged man, The master of wind and wave, And
poets sing till the tea-rooms ring Of his picturesque, deep sea grave,
And they likewise write of the "Storm at Night" When the numerous
north winds roar, But more profound is the dismal sound Of a
sea-going sailor's snore.
II
Oh, mothers knit for their sailor sons Socks for their nautical toes, But
mothers should list to the frightful noise Made by their innocent sailor
boys By the wind they blow through their nose.
Oh, life at sea is wild and free And greatly to be admired, But I would
sleep both sound and deep At night when I'm feeling tired.
So here we go with a yo! ho! ho! While the waves and the tempests
soar, An artist can paint a shrew as a saint, But not camouflage on a
snore.

III
Oh, mothers, write to your sons at sea; Write to them, I implore, A
letter as earnest as it can be, Containing a delicate, motherly plea, A
plea for them not to snore.
Oh, I take much pride in my trousers wide, The ladies all think them
sweet, And I must admit that I love to sit In a chair and relieve my feet.
Avast! Belay! and we're bound away With our hearts lashed fast to the
fore, But when mermaids sleep In their bowers deep, Do you think that
the sweet things snore?
Our company commander spoke to us this morning in no uncertain
terms. He seems to be such a serious man. There is a peculiar quality in
his voice, not unlike the tone of a French 75 mm. gun. You can easily
hear everything he says--miles away. We rested this afternoon.
March 3d. Sunday--a day of rest, for which I gave, in the words of our
indefatigable Chaplain, "three good, rollicking cheers." Some folks are
coming up to see me this afternoon. I hear I must moo through the
fence at them like a cow. (Later.) The folks have just left. Mother kept
screaming through the wire about my underwear. She seemed to have it
on her brain. There were several young girls standing right next to her.
I really felt I was no longer a bachelor. Why do mothers lay such
tremendous stress on underwear? They seem to believe that a son's