From the Letters of Vernon Castle

ON this page will be found a few brief excerpts from letters by the late Captain Vernon Castle to his wife. As will be seen, some of them were written at the French front, while others were sent from England, where he had gone to instruct British aviators. Captain Castle was, at the time of his death, a member of the 84th Squadron of the Royal Air Force. The following excerpts are largely of a personal nature. A fuller collection of letters—less personal, and more general in their interest—will shortly appear in the pages of Everybody's Magazine, together with a story of his life, written by Mrs. Castle. The life and letters of Captain Vernon Castle will later appear in book form.

France, March 21, 1916.

NEWS at last! My orders have come for me to report in London for assignment of duty, and I think it is to go to Canada. I'm so excited and anxious to find out for certain. God, how happy I shall be to see you again! It seems six months since you went away.

Fort Grange, Goss port, May 25, 1916.

I HARDLY know what to write to you about, —this army life is so monotonous. The military concert last night was a big success, and my drum playing was the hit of the evening. The men had never seen anything like it and they wouldn't let me stopI enjoyed it more than they did. I simply love to play the drum, and I don't get much opportunity now.

The 60th Squadron marched out this morning at 7:30. They are nearly all going by boat. Only a few will fly over this afternoon.

Sweetheart, you won't forget to send me Vanity Fair, and some music if you can, will you? I had the last grapefruit—out of the box you sent me—for my breakfast this morning.

A chap at the concert, last night, played the piano beautifully. He played Rachmaninoff, and it reminded me of our evenings at Manhasset and that lovely piano of ours. We must get another one when I get back. We had lovely times at Manhasset, didn't we, darling ? Do you remember the first suit of rompers you had made for Rastas, our monkey, and how proud he was of his trapeze? We'll be so happy when I get back, won't we dear?

It's lasted a long time, hasn't it, dear? It was so good of you to send it.

Savoy Hotel, I.ondon,

May 5, 1916.

TO-NIGHT I went to dinner at George Grossmith's house with Raymond Hitchcock. We had a dandy time. Ena was there, and she wished to be remembered to you. She is housemaid in one of the big hospitals here.

It's really quite remarkable how everybody over here in England is doing something worth while. They won't let amateurs be nurses, but they are willing to use them as waitresses and all sorts of things. Nobody can get real house-servants, as they are all of them very busy working in the munitions factories and all of them earning very good money.

To-morrow I'm going to get my boots made and my uniform fitted, and on Tuesday I shall go to Norwich again for a day or two. I met Mr. Ercole to-day and he asked after you. When I tell you news like all this, you will realize that I must be hard up for something to say, but to-day is Sunday, and Sunday was never— as you very well know, dear—a particularly bright day in London.

Savoy Hotel, London, June 4, 1916.

WE went to Ciro's again for dinner. It was too crowded to dance, so I played the drums most of the time. By the time you get this, I think I'll be in France. I'm enclosing a picture of you, dear, which came out in the Daily Mirror. I've got your little prayer chained to my neck on the watch chain you gave me last Christmas, and I shall keep it there until I come back to you.

France, June 9, 1916.

I'VE just arrived here. "Here" is a little village in France, and I am quartered in a funny little cottage kept by an old French woman. I have to walk over a manure pile to get to my roomThe place is horribly dirty outside—but quite clean within. * * * I'm glad you enjoyed Mrs. -'s party, dear. I don't want to hear of your being a little hermit. I'd much rather you enjoyed yourself and had a good time while I'm away, and when I come back we'll have good times together, won't we, darling ? I've just finished a letter to you which I sent via Norwich, so Father could read it. It's all about the Hun I brought down, and I knew it would interest him. I am so glad you got the little "hanky" I sent you. I have the mate to it, with a sweet little lady embroidered in the corner. I'll have to stop now, dear. This isn't a nice letter, is it? But it's hard for me to write, as I'm in the shed, standing by for hostile aircraft. I don't suppose anything will come over, but I've got to stand here just the same.

THE war is looking a little more promising now. We are winning on all points. Just around here the fighting has been terribly severe and the country around the firing line is just one mass of holes and rubbish. From the air, it looks like a very old piece of Stilton cheese. * * * I can't write a long letter, sweetie,

for I've been in the air for three hours and have been potted at by German anti-aircraft guns. It's easy enough to zig-zag and dodge them, but it's frightfully tiring and one feels awfully lazy when one gets down-

France, July 7, 1916.

I'M part owner of another dog! And when I teach the chap who is the real owner of it to do the fox-trot, he's going to give her to me, all for my own. She is the sweetest little thing you ever saw, just like the one you see in the circus, that wears a dunce cap and runs around and does nothing. She is like a toy fox terrier, only very low on the ground, and colored brown and white. Her name is Quinelle—named after her former master, a pilot who had the misfortune to have his bombs go off under his own machine. Quinelle is going to have puppies in a day or two. The father is a Sealyham. I'm dying to see the pups.

When I get to England I'm going to try to get another, monkey. Of course, I'll never be able to get another Rastas, but I might get a nice organ grinder's boy. I can easily keep him warm here, near the fire we use for bath water.

France, July 25, 1916.

THE puppies have their eyes open for the first time to-day. They are awful "muts" but terribly sweet. Quinelle, the mother, is very proud of them. She says they are beagles !

Five months from to-day will be Christmas. Oh, I do hope I can be with you, darling! It would be such a Christmas. How happy I shall be to see you again! I shall die of excitement. I know that the week before I leave here, I shall be a terrible coward. I won't even want to go up over the lines for fear I shall be robbed of the most wonderful moment of my life,—which will be when we meet, dearest. I was never so excited about anything before. I've got so much to tell you.

France, August 5, 1916. NO letter to-day. Just a doughy old cake from Mrs.— Of course, it's darned nice of her, really, and I appreciate it, but 1 suffer enough out here without having to fight, "home-made" cake. Oh, well, I can use it for bomb practice. To-day is "hot air" day. The General is paying us a surprise visit. Everyone is flying about. The only person who doesn't attach much importance to the General is "Lizzie." She's barking at him. * * * We were raided last

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evening by five Hun machines, but they didn't do any damage, as they were driven away as soon as they appeared. * * * I hope, dear, you'll continue to

send me the Sunday -. It amuses

me immensely. It's so terribly pro-German. Gee, how I hate the Germans! I didn't at first believe they did the terrible things ascribed to them, but I know now that the reports are almost all perfectly true. Some of the things are simply frightful. We are quite near Lille, and the towns from which they are taking the young girls, and it nearly makes you feel as though you'd like to go over and bomb the whole town.

France, September 20, 1916.

TO-DAY I received three lovely letters from you. I'm so glad you didn't get frightened at that silly rumor about my being killed. So many people say that I got out here so early because I was well known as a dancer,—when, as a matter of fact, that was my biggest handicap, as everyone seems to think it is impossible for one to be on the stage and yet be any good at anything more serious. * * * I haven't much to write

about. We are not allowed to discuss the war, and God knows there is little else here to talk about. * * * it's been rotten weather. We have some nasty jobs to do as soon as we get a fine day. I hope I don't get "strafed" when I'm so near to going home. * * *

France, November 28, 1916.

THEN you get this letter, dear, it will ™ only be a few weeks before you will be coming to me. I feel so excited about it! It's all I think about. Your wonderful letters make me so very happy.

I'm awfully glad that Wilson was reelected. It seems strange to have you take an interest in such things, but I think everyone should.

I hope you will be able to come to Folkestone to meet me, darling. I shall expect to see my dear one on the end of the pier as the boat comes in. We might stay there one day all by ourselves. It's awfully quiet and nice there, and we could go up to town the next day. Perhaps Rastas would be too much trouble to bring, and you would want to go back to town. I hope that boy Rastas knows his daddy. I'm crazy about the snapshots of him and his baby brother. They must be too adorable for anything.

One of the men has gone home to England, on home defense work. I should have to be awfully scared to give up here. I shouldn't like anyone to think I was frightened, but I shall be glad to come home for a spell at Christmas. Oh, I do long to sec you so, darling! I don't let myself think about it. It makes me too blue and downhearted.

Boulogne, March 16, 1917.

THAVEN'T been able to write to you because I've been travelling all the time. On Friday I had to fly my machine back to France, and to-day they are sending me back to Paris to get another one. I wanted to call at the Cafe de Paris and see Louis, but I haven't had time. * * * I shall be very relieved when I hear you have arrived safely at.home. I wonder if America is coniing in? I hope so—now that you are safely at home.

Boulogne, March 19, 1917.

AGAIN I've been to Paris, but this time I was only there three hours. We arrived early Sunday morning and had to leave at lunch time. The aerodrome in Paris is a wonderful place. I met three of the American Esquadrille there : Freddy Prince, Shaw, and another man whose name I've forgotten. Darling, I've got a peach of a brass model of my machine, made for the fropt of your car. Don't know how I shall get it to you, though.

Savoy Hotel, London, March 24, 1917.

YES, it's all true about my going to Canada. I don't know when. I simply have to wait-for instructions; it may be a week or so before I actually sail. I'm terribly excited about it. I think I shall go down to Norwich tomorrow. I've just called up Father. He seemed rather disappointed that I was going to Canada. -I only want to go there because I can probably get to see you, darling. They tell me it's very dull in Canada—miles from anywhere.