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Date: August 25th 1918
To
Mother
From
Charles Willoughby
Letter

France.

Aug 25/1918

My Dear Mother:

A couple of days ago another of your letters arrived and also one from Maryon written in Toronto and a third from Lorene So I had rather a good half hours letter reading.

So you people were out to Jack Ralston summer house It was rather a long drive but I know you must have enjoyed every bit of it - Where is this Maple Beech? I dont remember what lake it is on but have an idea it is out Peterborough way I can see where the car wouldnt be quiet much during Maryon's visit.

Am sorry to hear about Uncle Andy McNeil but one could hardly expect anything else for a man of his age. What about Aunt McClain? I haven't heard you mention them for months.

This clipping of Art Norwick and Edna Bach looks quite interesting They are certainly a fine couple.

Well today we are at last back in rest. Miles away from any thing like war. We drifted in here last night and now we are living in a farm-house and sleeping in tents. It is good to be back in civilization again and still better to think we have finished our term in the line It is hardly likely we will have another before December as by the present arrangements next time our division goes in we will be doing the reserve work which is well away from all excitement.

Today I may take the pony and see if any of my barge friends are to be seen around these parts Any how a little run in the fresh "air" on a day like today is quite alright.

It is a most perfect day Probably a little warm but we dont mind with nothing very much to do but be around and take things easy

By the way I dont remember you mentioning having received the forty pounds I had forwarded on the 1st of July. I hope it has turned up alright. I expect I will be able to send another fifty in a few days so you can more of less expect it sometime soon. That should put my account in fair shape again. although certainly nothing wonderful.

I know this sounds like a poor attempt at a letter but news is so absolutely scarce that their is nothing whatever to write about.

Lovingly

Charlie