Dear Father,
Yesterday I was seeing the English at the war. My fallow students are agreeing with me that they are the maddest fighters in the world. The bottle is in the silence. I herd that one man was in the queue during ten days. He was very cold because it was the icing wether but his heart was sitting on the fur coat in the window as the price was disended from £2,000 to £200. He had his wool rag for his legs to warm and his foods and at night he was in his sleeping bags. I think he dreamed of his coat.
For this war the English have three things. They have the patients and the strenth and the porpose. The porpose is that they are knowing what they will just buy. If they know not this they have the chance to be trod to the death under the feets of the people who is coming from their behind when the doors of the shop are opening when the sale is begun. Then begin the bull rush like the cattel and every body make the bees line toward are wishing to buy. Then no more are the women the ladies and the men the gentlemen. They are pushing with the elbows and grubbing with the hands and loosing their bags. It is one terribel seen like the field of the bottle and my heart is bleeding for the assistants who is trying to have the smells on their faces.
But the winners are happy and they carry the prizes threw their arms and they live the shop with the hats ascrew and the bottoms teared from their coats. There is the smell of the proud victoria on their faces. You understand father that they are thinking they have the bargain. They have paid the price for the thing that was costing half of the price that it was before the sale was. But it is the shopkeeper only who knows wether this is only the truth. The English are the strange peoples.
Your devouted son,
Iziz
