In one place he has cut from the newspaper Rupert Brooke's sonnet, beginning: "_Blow out, you Bugles, over the rich Dead!_" and pasted it on to the blank page.
At times he sticks on to the other pages newspaper descriptions that have pleased him.

His own descriptions of the Forest seem to me influenced by my talks with him, and I remember that it was Nikitin who spoke of the light like a glass ball and of the green-like water.
For the most part he exhibits, from the beginning of the diary to the end, extreme practical common sense and he makes, I fancy, a very strong effort to record quite simply and even naively the truth as he sees it.

At other times he is quite frankly incoherent....
I will give, on another page, my impression of him when I saw him on my return to the Forest.

I am, of course, in no way responsible for inconsistencies or irrelevances.

He had kept a diary since his first coming to the war and I have already given some extracts from it.