Certain people, talking at dinners and meetings these days, definitely take up a line of speech which chiefly concerns itself in detailing German atrocities. They find it perfectly easy to gain round after round of applause by saying something like the following: "That fiend of hell, the Kaiser, spent years and years plotting against the peace of the world. He massacred little Belgian children, and raped systematically Belgian women. 'One week to Paris, one month to London and three months to New York,' he shrieked. But the American eagle prepared to fight, the British lion roared, and France, fair France, clasped her children to her breast and called for aid across the ocean to the sons of Uncle Sam to whom she had given succor in the dark days of '76."

Now I will admit that talk like that is quite effective and stirs a fellow up quite a lot, but I rather think that ten years hence it will be described as "bull." What American men and American women want is cold facts that can be backed up with proof, convincing proof. Of course there is not a shadow of doubt that the Germans had designs upon the rest of the world, but I have one object in my talks—to endeavor to foster a firm and cordial understanding between my country and America. My objects cannot be attained by detailing horrors, so I allow the newspapers to thrill and amuse them, and I try to tell them things as I myself saw them. Strangely enough I find cold facts "get across" much better than all the British bull dog screaming and eagle barking in the world, which reminds me of the man who said that he only knew two tunes and that he got these mixed up. When asked what the two tunes were he replied, "God save the weasel" and "Pop goes the Queen."

And then we arrived at Washington, Pa. Washington, Pa., will never be forgotten by this British soldier. We found ourselves on a platform looking at as cheerful and delightful a crowd of people as I ever hope to talk to. They were all smiling and gave us a wonderful welcome. I told the children present, that the boys and girls in my country were all taught about George Washington in their schools and sometimes even in the Sunday-schools. I told them that sometimes they mixed him up a little with Moses and the prophets, but, in any case, it was not until they became highly educated that they realized that he was an American. They were a delightful audience, and after I had spoken for about an hour they gave me an encore, so I sang them a comic song. I hated leaving Washington.

Then we arrived at Johnstown and heard about the flood, and the story of the man who was drowned there and who bored all the saints in Paradise with a reiteration of his experiences in that memorable tragedy, although he was interrupted frequently by a very old man sitting in a corner. The Johnstown saint was annoyed until it was explained to him that the old man was Noah who, it may be remembered, had some flood of his own.

It snowed when we arrived at Huntingdon and consequently the audience in the "movie" theatre was small.

We had a wonderful meeting at Altoona. The people were very enthusiastic and I met some fine warm-hearted Americans afterwards. Sometimes a chap would say, "I've got a Dutch name, Lieutenant, but I'm an American and I'm with you."

Our train caused us to be too late for the meeting at Harrisburg, so we returned to Philadelphia. I hated parting with my senator. The thing I loved best about our tour was the cordial feeling displayed towards me by the hundreds of men I met after the close of the meetings.

I was a little tired, but nevertheless quite sorry when our journey ended.

I have grown to hate the very idea of war and I hope that this will be the last. Still I wonder. What a futile occupation war is when one comes to think of it, but, of course, we could not allow Germany to give a solo performance. Yet there must be an antidote.

Some years ago, on a very warm Sunday afternoon in New Zealand, a number of men from a small college decided to bathe in a rather treacherous looking lake near by. They had all been to chapel that morning, not only because chapel was compulsory, but because the service was usually cheery and attractive and some of them were theological students. Unfortunately one man, little more than a boy, was drowned. The circumstances were distressing because he had just got his degree and was showing promise of a useful life.