London, 18 July '16.

Dear Ones All,

Father’s letter of June 29 and May’s letter of July 2 both came to-day. I am afraid I have not been very regular in my correspondence, but it sure is hard to find the time to write. I’ll take your hint through, Father, and try to send a line every week even if it is only a post-card.

What a fine time you must have all had when the visitors were in Walkerton. I can imagine all the doings that you had, and you can just bet I’d give anything I own to have been with you too.

Jessie’s friend Mrs. Baley of Winnipeg wrote to a couple of friends in London telling them about me. I spent a Sunday with one of them, a Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins up in North Finchley a couple of weeks ago and enjoyed meeting them very much; and this coming Thursday I am invited for dinner to a Mrs. King’s somewhere in the north of the city. It is mighty good of them all, and after the warm welcome that they gave me at the Wilkins’, and the note that 1 received to-day from Mrs. King, there really is no excuse in the world for my ever feeling lonely again here. Two of the chaps at the office have had me up to their houses on different occasions lately too. It took them months to make up their minds but they did do it finally, which is the main thing and I enjoyed myself ever so much.

Keep those snapshots of the chaps in Norwich, Father, for I shall be glad to have them some day. A large proportion of them are dead now, poor chaps. Capt. Malcolm, my C.O. in Norwich, of whom you heard me speak so often, was killed in France last week. He made the fatal mistake of neglecting to see that his petrol was turned on full before going up. His engine failed before he had climbed 200 feet and the machine side-slipped to the ground killing both Malcolm and his passenger. Poor old Malcolm, it made me feel mighty blue when I heard about it.

Bun Robinson left for home last Friday on a couple of months leave. Lucky Bun! We saw quite a good deal of each other when he was here and I urged him to go up to Walkerton and spend a day with you all when he got back home. You will see that he gets an invitation won’t you?

Poor Arthur Robertson must feel mighty blue over not being able to get attached in spite of all his efforts. It is pretty tough luck.

Well, good people, I must close now and get to bed.

Yours with heaps of love,
Eric.