OVER HERE

THE STORY OF "OVER THERE"
EVERY AMERICAN SHOULD READ IT

HOW TO LIVE AT THE FRONT

By Hector MacQuarrie, B.A., Cantab.
Lieutenant, Royal Field Artillery
Illustrated, $1.35 net
"A Masterpiece"—New York Sun

Your Son, Brother or Friend in Arms

It is your duty to instruct and advise him as to what is in store for him at the front. This book will give you the facts,—read it and counsel your boy for his physical and spiritual good, or better still send him a copy and call his attention to the chapters that you think will be of the greatest value to him.

If You Are an American

Read it for the true facts it will give you of the living and working and fighting under actual war conditions. It will help you understand what difficulties face our army, both officers and men, in France. You will thereafter read the war news and letters from the front with deeper sympathy and greater understanding.

OVER HERE

IMPRESSIONS OF AMERICA
BY A BRITISH OFFICER

HECTOR MacQUARRIE, B.A., Cantab.

SECOND LIEUTENANT, ROYAL FIELD ARTILLERY
AUTHOR OF "HOW TO LIVE AT THE FRONT"

PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1918

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED APRIL, 1918

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER
A MacQUARRIE OF ULVA WHO
DIED ON DECEMBER 24, 1917
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

PREFACE

A DEFENSIVE BARRAGE

During a year spent largely in Pennsylvania, with occasional visits to other states, I have found little to criticise, but rather much to admire, much indeed to love. America now means a great deal to me, since it contains so many people that I have learnt to care for, so I want to let my cousins as well as my own countrymen know my thoughts.

From the day that I landed in New York until the present moment, I have been treated with a kindliness that surpasses anything I thought possible in this world. I have been able to see, I hope, where misunderstanding has arisen, and, being a Highland Scotchman, I am able to express my feelings.

I have written more about persons than about places. Sometimes I laugh a little, but never unkindly; and I do this because I realize that American people rather appreciate a joke even at their own expense.

Often I have heard, over here, that it is impossible for an Englishman to see a good joke. A man told me once that the Kaiser was disguising his submarines as jests, with an obvious design. The idea was interesting to me, because if there is one thing that we Britons pride ourselves upon, it is our sense of humour. Of course, the explanation is obvious. Most humour is based upon the surprising incidents and coincidents of domestic relations, and how on earth are we poor British to appreciate specious American humour when we know nothing of American home life, and but little of American society?

When I arrived here first, I regarded the funny page of a newspaper as pure drivel; now I never miss having a good laugh when I read it. I have become educated. Once or twice in these letters I have slanged my own countrymen, but my American friends will not misunderstand, I am quite sure. If I were an American, perhaps I should have the right to criticise the American people.

During these times of stress it is difficult to concentrate upon anything not connected with the war, and so these papers have been written, sometimes sitting in a parlor car, sometimes at peace in my room at Bethlehem, and sometimes at meetings while awaiting my turn to speak. So I apologize for much that is careless in my effort towards good English, hoping that my readers will realize that while I desire to amuse them, still underlying much that is flippant, there is a definite hope that I shall succeed just a little in helping to cement a strong intelligent friendship between the two great Anglo-Saxon nations.

Hector MacQuarrie.

Bethlehem, Pa., November, 1917.

CONTENTS

OVER HERE

I

A NAVAL BATTLE FOLLOWED BY SERVICE AT SEA

R. M. S. Begonia, Atlantic Ocean,
August 30, 1917.

When I was told that I should possibly visit America I was not quite certain how I liked the idea. To be sure I had never been to the United States, but to leave the comparative peace of the war zone to spend my days amidst the noise and racket of machine shops and steel mills, accompanied by civilians, was not altogether attractive. Nevertheless there was a great deal that seemed interesting in the scheme, and on the whole I felt glad.

After being invalided from Ypres I had spent some time in a convalescent home, and I finally joined a reserve brigade on what is termed "light duty." While here, I was ordered to hold myself in readiness to proceed to America as an inspector of production, which meant that I was to help in every possible way the production of guns and carriages. My job would be to help the main contractor as far as possible by visiting the sub-contractors, and by letting the people at home know (through the proper channels) of anything that would assist the manufacturer.

My ideas about America are slightly mixed. Like all my countrymen, I rather refuse to acknowledge the independence of the United States. They are relations, and who ever heard of cousins maintaining diplomatic relations amongst themselves and being independent at the same time. Of course, many cousins, especially of the enthusiastic and original type, rather seek a certain independence, but, alas, they never get it; so we still regard the American people as part of ourselves, and, of course, make a point of showing them the more unpleasant features of their national character. Of course, they may enjoy this, but on the other hand, they may not. I don't know. Perhaps I shall find out.

It is a little difficult to understand their attitude in regard to the Germans. We dislike them. They ought to.

However, before proceeding to America, I was ordered to tour the munition plants of the British Isles. I enjoyed this very much and was astonished at the cleverness displayed by my fellow countrymen, and especially by my fellow countrywomen. The latter were seen by the thousands. Some were hard at work on turret lathes turning out fuses like tin tacks. Others, alleged by my guide to be "society women," whatever that may mean, were doing work of a more difficult nature. They were dressed in khaki overalls and looked attractive. Some young persons merely went about in a graceful manner wielding brooms, sweeping up the floor. There always seemed a young lady in front of one, sweeping up the floor. I felt like doffing my cap with a graceful sweep and saying, "Madam, permit me." I was examining a great big 9.2 Howitzer gun and carriage ready for proof, and I found three old ladies sitting behind it having a really good old gossip. They hopped up in some confusion and looked rather guilty, as I at once felt. This used to be called "pointing" when I worked in a machine shop. I saw the luncheon rooms provided for the women. When women do things there is always a graceful touch about somewhere which is unmistakable. The men in charge of several of the plants I visited remarked that, generally speaking, the women were more easily managed than the men, except when they were closely related to the men, and that then awkward situations sometimes arose. I believe there is a lady in charge called a moral forewoman.

The women have to wear a sort of bathing cap over their hair. Some of them hate this—naturally. A woman's glory has been alleged to be her hair, but this remark was made before the modern wig was developed, so I don't know whether it applies now or not. However, the order has to be insisted upon. One poor girl, working a crane, had her hair caught in the pinions, and unfortunately lost most of her scalp. I won't vouch for the truth of this statement, but a full typed account of the accident was being circulated while I was visiting several large munition plants. Of course, the object was to let the ladies see, that while their glory might be manifested to the workmen for a time, there were certain risks of losing the glory altogether—and was it worth while?

I visited Glasgow and saw many wonderful things. In a weak endeavour to jump over a table, I caught my foot somehow or other, and came an awful cropper on my elbow, and I nearly died with pain, but after three days in the hospital I started off on my journey. Later I received an army form charging me with thirty days' ration allowance for time spent in Glasgow Military Hospital. I refused to sign this, but I dare say they will get the money all right; however, I won't know about it, and that is all that matters.

Finally, I returned to London, and after passing with some difficulty a rigid examination presided over by my chief, I lunched with him at the Reform Club, and then spent a few busy hours buying civilian clothes. Later I met my Major's wife who was in a worried condition over one big thing and another little thing. The big trouble was caused by her husband's unfortunate collision with a 5.9 shell; the little thing was caused by the fact that the Major's Airedale, Jack, had had an unfortunate incident with a harmless lamb, which made his stay in the country difficult, if not impossible. I had to relieve her of Jack so that all her attention might be devoted to the Major. The next day, I took him home to the country, hoping that the lady of the manor would suggest his staying there. She might have done so if he had shown an humble spirit. He dashed into the pond, disturbed the life out of the tiny moorhens, and, worse still, sent scurrying into the air about a dozen tame wild duck. This sealed his fate as regards the manor, so I decided that he would have to go to America with me. I had few objections, but I regretted that he was so big.

He caused me much trouble and a little anxiety, but finally I got him safely on board the Cunarder. The captain seemed to like him all right, and so did many passengers, but he made much noise and eventually had to spend the greater part of his life in an unpleasant dungeon on one of the lower decks. Here he was accompanied by a well bred wire-haired fox terrier. This fox terrier gave birth, during the voyage, to seven little puppies, and the purser alleged that he would charge freight for eight dogs; thereby showing a commercial spirit but little humour, or perhaps too much humour.

These notes are being written during the last days of the journey. I am enjoying the whole thing. I sit at the Captain's table accompanied by another officer from the navy, a correspondent of the Daily Mail, and a Bostonian and his wife whom I love rather, since I have always liked Oliver Wendell Holmes. The Bostonian is a splendid chap, turned out in an English cut suit which he hates because it seems to him too loose. I think that he looks ripping. I always agree with his arguments, feeling it to be safer; but I had to put in just a mild protest, when he observed that America could equip an army in six weeks, that would lick any Continental army. Of course, this showed some optimism, and a great faith.

We were comparatively happy, however, until the naval chap had an unfortunate altercation with the Bostonian. They both meant well, I am sure, but sea travelling often changes the mental perspective of people, and the Bostonian sought another table.

We expect to arrive in two days and I am looking forward to seeing New York and the skyscrapers.

II

NEW YORK SHELLED WITH SHRAPNEL AND
AN ENTRANCE MADE TO THE "HOLY CITY"

Bethlehem, U. S. A., October 30, 1917.

After passing through several days of dense fog we at last arrived off the Statue of Liberty, and commenced to thread our way up the Hudson River.

What a wonderful approach New York has. I felt that anything merely "American" ought not to be so beautiful. It ought to have been flimsy and cheap looking. My mind rushed back to London and Tilbury Docks, where upon arrival one feels most depressed. For dear old London cannot impress a stranger when he first gets there.

The colouring of the great skyscrapers is so beautiful, sometimes white, sometimes rusty red, always gay and cheerful. Besides being marvellous products of engineering skill, they display architectural beauty. When man tries to vie with nature in matters of beauty, he generally comes off second best, but the high buildings when seen from the Hudson at dusk approach very closely to nature's own loveliness. Cheery little puffs of snowy white steam float around, and when the lights start to twinkle from every window one thinks of fairy land. In the dusk the buildings seem to form a great natural cliff, all jagged and decently untidy.

Finally, we were safely docked and the naval fellow and I were at a loss to know where to go, until we were met by an energetic looking man with a kindly face, called Captain H——. I have never been able to decide whether this chap is an American citizen, an officer in the Canadian army, a sea captain, or what.

This officer was a great help to us in getting through the customs. He expressed astonishment at the large amount of baggage possessed by the naval walla and myself. He remarked bitingly that he had travelled around the world with a "grip." We believed it. I dared not tell him about Jack. I was unable to land that gentleman until he had been appraised, so I said nothing about him. Finally we got into a taxi, an untidy looking conveyance, and commenced to drive through the streets of New York to our hotel. I noted that the people living near and around the docks had almost a Southern European appearance. There seemed to be numbers of fruit stands, and the windows in all the houses had shades of variegated colours, mostly maroon and grey.

We drove up Fifth Avenue and finally reached our hotel. I am not going to give you now my impressions of New York. I always think that it is an impertinence to write about a city when one has only dwelt in it a few days. I thought, however, that the road seemed a bit bumpy, and I must admit that I disliked the taxicab.

Arriving at the hotel we walked up some elegant steps and approached a place suggesting almost a throne, or a row of stalls in a cathedral. There was a counter in front, and behind it there stood several men, very clean looking and superior. With these our guide held converse. He spoke in a low and ingratiating voice, very humble. The chap behind the desk, a fellow with black curly hair and an anxious, competent expression, did not lower his voice, but looked disdainfully at him and finally agreed to let us have some rooms. The American hotel clerks, the "e" pronounced as in jerk, are veritable tyrants. Someone said that America having refused to have kings and dukes, had enthroned hotel clerks and head waiters in their places.

We had a charming luncheon. During the meal we listened to perfectly ripping music. Amidst the sound of the violins and other things the soft tones of a pipe-organ could be heard; the music was sweet and mellow and the players seemed to be hidden. As a matter of fact, they were in a gallery near the roof. Unlike in some London restaurants, one could hear oneself speak.

American food and its manner of being served differs from ours. I think it is much nicer. H—— ordered the meal, which we liked very much. We had clams, which are somewhat like the cockles one gets on the English coast, but are much larger. They are served daintily amidst a lot of mushy ice. One "eats" bread and butter throughout the meal instead of "playing" with it as we do.

After luncheon, we went down town to interview our respective superiors. I found my chief in the Mutual Building. He is a humourous Scotchman of the Lowland variety, with a kindly eye and a good deal of his Scotch accent left. I liked him at once, and we had a long chat about common friends in England. He put me in the hands of an Englishman whose duty it was to look after my reports, etc. This man seemed a keen sort of fellow. Unfortunately, he decided at once that I belonged to the effete aristocracy—why I don't know—and with his keen manner let me know it. He was the sort of man who makes a fellow feel himself to be entirely useless and unnecessary. I felt depressed after leaving him. As a matter of fact, I have been told that he has done a large amount of work for us and is a splendid chap.

Later he confided to H——, and H—— confided to us, that a man who could bring a well bred and valuable Airedale across the Atlantic in war time could not possibly do any work. This was damning to start with, but it is easily understood. That type of man, possessing terrific will power allied to well developed efficiency who has reached a good position, naturally regards with a certain amount of contempt the fellow who is placed upon equality with him, and who has not had similar struggles. However, he was very kind to me, and endeavoured to hide his feelings, with little success, alas!

I spent four or five days in New York. I went to several shows, amongst others the Winter Garden and Ziegfeld's Follies; they were very interesting. The scenery at the latter was distinctly original. I do not know very much about art, but I am certain that what I saw would come under the heading of the Futurist School. There was a great deal that was thoroughly amusing and interesting. Americans seem to have a sense of fun rather than a sense of humour. Shakespeare is caricatured a great deal. I thought that much of the dancing, and the performance of the chorus generally, bordered on the risqué. There seems, also, to be a type of comédienne who comes forward and talks to the people in a diverting way. She is sometimes about forty years old, makes no attempt to look beautiful, but just says deliciously funny things. She is often seen and heard in America. I have also seen the same type at La Cigale in Montmartre.

It is just a little difficult at first to get the same sort of tobacco here that one gets in England. The second day after my arrival in New York, I went into a tobacconist shop to buy a pipe and some tobacco. I spent about six dollars, and handed the man behind the counter a twenty dollar bill. Obviously, I was a little unused to American money, but I naturally expected to get back fourteen dollars. The man gave me four one dollar bills, then about six smaller bills with twenty-five written on them, and prepared to bow me out. I looked at the change and saw that the poor fellow had given me too much. Deciding to be honest I returned to him and said, "You have given me wrong change." He looked unconcerned, and going to the cash register subtracted ten more one dollar bills. I was still more astonished and once more examined my change. Then I understood that the small bills were coupons, and the clever gentleman, realizing that I was a stranger and a little worried, had endeavored to make money. Honesty in this case proved the best policy.

I enjoyed these days. I met but few American people. I was very much overcome with admiration for New York, and I told this to an American friend. He seemed pleased, but commenced to point out certain drawbacks. He said that the high buildings were rather awkward things, and that people walking about on the pavement below were sometimes nearly blown off their feet during a gale. They formed cañons. He said that the lighting problem presented difficulties, too, and that he thought the health of the people might suffer a little if their days were spent in artificial light. Still he unwillingly admitted that he loved New York.

The stores where soft drinks are sold are very charming. The drinks are wonderful and varied, and one sees what appear to be women of quality perched up on stools drinking what look to be the most delicious drinks. I should like to test them, and I will some day when I find out their names.

One day I was walking down Fifth Avenue, it was very hot, so I entered what appeared to be a "sweet" shop. Buxom, handsome young women were behind the long counter, so I approached one and humbly asked for a "lemon squash." "Wotsat?" she barked, and looked annoyed. "A lemon squash," I repeated. She seemed to think that I was insulting her, and her friends gathered around. Finally I said: "Give me anything you like as long as it is cool." "Got yer check?" she replied. I begged her pardon. Looking furious, she indicated a small desk behind which another young lady sat, and I went over and confided in her. She smiled and explained that I really wanted a lemonade or a lemon phosphate. I denied any desire for a lemon phosphate. Are not phosphates used for agricultural purposes? This young lady was awfully decent and said, "How do you like York?" but before I could reply she said, "York! It's the finest place in the world." I said I liked it very much indeed, but of course there were other places, and what sayeth the text, "One star differeth from another star in glory." All was going well until "Peanut," a tall animated straw I had known on the ship rushed in laughing like a jackass. He seemed to regard New York as something too funny for words, and giggled like an idiot.

Now I am sure that these young ladies must be very nice, gentle, tame creatures to people who know them, but they frighten me. I desire only to please, but the more pleasantly I behave to them the more I seem to insult them. Some day I am going to enter one of these stores and bark out my order and see what happens.

I have now been in Bethlehem about two weeks. P——, a sapper subaltern, conducted me down to the great steel town. With Jack and all my luggage we left New York at nine o'clock.

In order to get to Bethlehem it is necessary to cross the river to Jersey City. We got on board the ferry boat at West Twenty-third Street, and after a ten minutes' ride in the large, capacious boat we reached Jersey City. The trip was very interesting. Arriving at Jersey City, we had a good deal of trouble with Jack, but finally got him safely stowed away in a baggage van, and succeeded in finding our chairs in the Pullman. This was my first experience of American trains. The thing I was most conscious of was the terrific heat. The windows were open but gauze screens made to keep the dust out succeeded only in keeping most of the fresh air from entering. I do not like these American trains. One may not smoke in the coach, but anyone desiring to do so must retreat to the end part of the carriage and take a seat in a rather small compartment. The thing that one is chiefly conscious of on entering this compartment is the presence of several spittoons. We lunched on the train, and here I may say that the food arrangements on the American trains are excellent. One may order almost anything, and the service is very good. It is impossible to order anything stronger than lemonade, ginger ale, root beer, and the like; however, one can get ices and cool things generally and, of course, "Bevo," which looks, smells, and tastes like beer, but it "hab not the authority," as the coloured porter said.

After a little over two hours' journey we reached Bethlehem. One's first impressions of the town are extremely depressing. Upon alighting from the train one sees old bits of paper lying about, banana skins, peanut shells, dirt, dust, everything unpleasant and incidentally a very untidy looking station building. The whole appearance around the place is suggestive not merely of newness, but worn-out newness. I felt that life in Bethlehem, judging by the look of the station, would be extremely depressing.

We arrived at the Inn, while our luggage came on in a wagon. I decided to stay for a time at the Eagle Hotel. I registered and asked for a room "with." That means that I wanted a private bathroom. The clerk on this occasion was a good-looking boy of about nineteen, assisted by a tall very pretty dark young lady.

After getting settled in the room I then thought of Jack, and a negro boy offered to take him and lock him up in the garage behind the hotel. This was done and as P—— and I walked away from the hotel we could hear fierce barking and yelping.

At the Steel Office, I met one or two of the Steel Company officials and members of the British Inspection Staff. We walked about throughout the plant and P—— introduced me to quite a number of the men. Later on I shall tell a deal about this great Steel Company, so I will not go into detailed descriptions now.

These first days were strange and ought to have been interesting, and they were in many ways. Bethlehem is a strange sort of town. It seems to be divided by a wide, shallow stream called the Lehigh. On one side the place is almost suggestive of the East, or Southern Europe. There seem to be many cheerful electric signs about, and the streets are mostly in the form of avenues.

I think that I will not describe towns and places, but rather tell of the people I meet and the impressions I glean of their characteristics. Of course, when I give you an impression it will be a purely local one. In the same way that it is impossible for a stranger in England to judge us from the writings of Arnold Bennett when he places all his characters in the five towns, so what I say about Bethlehem will merely tell a little about the people living in a small town, and a town that has suddenly grown from importance as a religious centre to the insignificance of a great steel city, for it must be the products of this city that will interest the people at large. Now I have lived before in similar cities in our country, and I know that the attendants upon great steel furnaces are not at all insignificant, but possess all the interesting qualities that man is heir to.

I had a scene with the hotel keeper upon my first return from the steel plant. He hated my dog and told me that the dog and I together made an impossible combination for his house, and that I might stay if I insisted, but not with the dog.

There was nowhere else to go so I decided that Jack would have to leave me. I hated it, but finally came to the conclusion that for a person seriously inclined to serve his country in America, a dog approached being a nuisance. The petty official American people don't seem to treat a dog with a great amount of respect.

Fortunately, a friend—one of the steel officials—offered to look after him. Jack will guard the steel official's house and will have a happy home; so that is all right.

Opposite the Eagle Hotel is a large square sort of building with a low tower. From the base of the tower rise about eight pillars which support the belfry above, thus forming an open platform.

At an early hour, one morning, I was awakened by an extraordinary noise. At first it reminded me of a salvation army band being played, not very well. As I awoke the music seemed familiar and my mind at once jumped back to New Zealand days when I belonged to a Bach Society in which we found great difficulty in singing anything but the chorales, owing to the smallness of our numbers. I got up and going to the window saw a number of men standing on the platform blowing trombones with some earnestness. They played several of Bach's chorales and then ceased. The general effect was pleasing.

After breakfast I asked the landlord what the building opposite was, and he said it was the Moravian church. He told me that the Moravians had been in Bethlehem for a long time, and agreed that they were a sect of sorts. I had often heard of strange sects generating in America like the Mennonites and Christian Scientists; the Moravians must be a similar sect.

I am feeling a little lonely here. I never meet any of my countrymen. I suppose that they are very busy with their families, and B——, who has been showing me much attention, is away at the Pocono Mountains with some friends. I heard to-day that most of the people were returning from summer resorts quite soon, so perhaps they may prove interesting. I have met quite a number of the steel men. L—— has very kindly allowed me to have a desk in his office. He seems a decent sort of chap. I feel, however, that I may be in his way, but he does not seem to mind, so I suppose it is all right.

On Friday morning last, while I was dressing I heard a band approaching and completing my toilet I stepped out on to the balcony and saw an extraordinary sight. First of all appeared two men riding horses with untidy manes, but wearing an important aspect. Following them came a band playing a stately march, but cheerful. Then came a wonderful procession of gentlemen wearing spotlessly white breeches, white blazers edged with purple, straw hats with a purple band and parasols made of purple and white cloth. Each quarter of the umbrella was either white or purple. They marched in open formation keeping perfect time. The whole effect was extremely decorative. There were several hundred of them. I have heard since that they are the Elks, a sort of secret society, and they were having a demonstration at Reading.

The tradesmen, and indeed all the people in Bethlehem, love to process. (I realize the vulgarity of the verb "process," but I have got to use it.) Each Elk looked thoroughly happy and contented. I suppose the climate of this place is telling on the people. It would be difficult to imagine our tradesmen and business men doing a similar thing. I believe the idea is to keep up enthusiasm. American men realize the tremendous value of enthusiasm and they seek to exploit it. They know, too, how we humans all love to dress up, and so they do dress up. The people looking on love to see it all, and no one laughs. I don't quite know what the Elks exist for, but I suppose they form a mutual benefit society of sorts. I was thrilled with the performance, and hoped that similar processions would pass often.

My work at the office, and throughout the shops keeps me very busy. It is all very new and I feel in a strange world. However, everywhere I go I am met with the most wonderful kindness imaginable.

The people seem very interested in the war. It is difficult to get a true viewpoint of their attitude here. I was not deceived when a fat looking mature man said with a hoarse laugh that the United States definition of neutrality was that "They didn't give a hang who licked the Kaiser first." Another American observed bitterly, "As long as Uncle Sam hasn't got to do it." So far as I can see, the more careless people are perfectly content to carry on and are not very interested except to regard the war as a rather stale thrill. People of this type regard a decent murder or a fire in the same way.

The more thoughtful are not quite sure. They have studied history and want to stick to Washington's advice in regard to entangling alliances. They feel that we will be able to lick the Boche all right, and they are with us in the struggle. The entirely careless and futile persons take different attitudes each day. They sometimes "root" for us, especially France, whom they regard as very much America's friend. At other times they take a depressed view, and think that the Boche will win the war. They sometimes wax rude and make that peculiarly insulting statement about the British fighting until the last Frenchman dies.

I have not met many women here, but the few I have met seem to regard us as fools to fight over nothing. Nevertheless, they sympathize with our sufferings, as women will. I met one lady last night who seemed to think that America would be drawn into the war owing to French and British intrigue, and she expressed thanks to a good Providence who had made her son's eyes a little wrong so that she would not lose him. She thinks that he will not be able to do much shooting. They are all very nice to me, and everywhere I go it seems impossible for the people to show too much kindness. I am astonished at the beauty of the houses here. They are all tastefully furnished and one misses the display of wealth. The houses don't seem to be divided into rooms quite like English houses. Portiéres often divide apartment from apartment, and upon festive occasions the whole bottom floor can be turned into one large room. The effect is pleasing, but one perhaps misses a certain snugness, and it must be difficult for the servants not to hear everything that goes on. Perhaps the American people think it is a good idea to let their servants hear the truth, knowing that they will find out most things in any case.

On the other side of the river and around the steel plant the people seem definitely foreign, and it is quite easy to imagine oneself in a Southern European town. The shops have Greek, Russian, Italian, Hungarian, and German signs over their doors. It is unnecessary to look into the store in order to find out what is being sold. One need only look into the ditch running beside the pavement. Masses of rotting orange and banana skins will show a fruit store. Much straw and old pieces of cardboard with lengths of pink tape will indicate a draper's. Tufts of hair and burnt out matches will show where the barber shop is.

The people all spit about the streets in this part of the town. I suppose the streets are cleaned sometimes, but never very well. At any rate, the whole mass is mixed up together in the mud and slush which accumulates, and when this dries it is blown into the air and any citizen passing breathes it. The roads in this part of the town are full of shell craters and one is bumped to pieces as one motors along. I have been told that this cannot well be helped.

The steel plant has caused a terrific influx of people and it is impossible to house them all. A doctor chap tells me that in many large rooming houses a bed has always at least two occupants during the twenty-four hours. When the man goes off to work in the morning, the fellow who has been working on night shift takes his place. I believe that soon the two parts of this town are going to join and that then they will form a city which will be able to borrow enough money to keep the place in first class order. The people are not poor and indeed there are sometimes quite thrilling murders, I have heard, for the ignorant foreigners keep all their money in a chest under their beds or hidden in some way. I hear that this was caused by clever German propaganda. The Boche envoys went about and suggested to the people that if the United States entered the war they would soon be strafed by the fatherland, and that in any case, the Government would pinch all of their money.

Opposite the steel works office there are two photographic studios. All the people photographed are of Southern European blood. One sees happy brides, merry babies, and last, but not least, many corpses surrounded by sad but interested relatives. When one of these foreigners dies things change for him at once. He is placed in a beautiful coffin, lined with the most comfortable looking fluffy figured satin. His head rests on a great big cushion. The side of the coffin, called here a casket, is hinged and falls down, thus forming a couch, on which the dead person rests. Before the funeral, all the friends, and whoever can get there in time, group themselves around the corpse and are photographed. If the coffin is not a very convenient type, it is raised, and one sees the corpse, dressed in his best clothes, with a watch chain across his waistcoat, surrounded by all his friends who, I am sure, are looking their best. Sometimes a sweet wee baby can be seen in the picture, lying in its expensive coffin, while the father and mother and the other children stand near. It is a funny idea and a little horrible, I think. These gruesome photographs are exposed in the front window. It is a curious thing that the more ignorant amongst us seem to enjoy a good funeral.

I expect, that within a couple of years, this town will be a beautiful city with parks and good roads. The climate is certainly good and the hills around are fine. The steel company now dominates the place, business has taken charge of the people here, but the natural beauty of this spot can never be changed. Let me quote from the writings of a man who arrived here many years ago. He was very much impressed with the beauty of the hills:

"The high hills around Bethlehem in the month of October present a scene of gorgeous beauty almost beyond description. The foliage of the trees contains all the tints of the rainbow, but is even more beautiful, if that is possible, because the colours are more diffused. Some trees, the pine, the hemlock, and the laurel still retain their vivid green; the sycamore its sombre brown; the maple, the beauty of the wood and valley, is parti coloured; its leaves, green at first, soon turn into a brilliant red and yellow; the sturdy oak is clothed in purple, the gum is dressed in brilliant red; the sumac bushes are covered with leaves of brightest crimson; the beech with those of a delicate pale yellow almost white; the chestnut a buff; while the noble hickory hangs with golden pendants; the dogwood has its deep rich red leaves and clusters of berries of a brighter red."

In spite of the great steel plant, Bethlehem still nests in a very lovely valley, and during the autumn the hills are just as gorgeously beautiful as when John Hill Martin, the writer of the above, visited the town.

III

SOCIAL AMENITIES IN "BACK BILLETS"

Bethlehem, December 20, 1917.

A Country Club seems to be an American institution. We don't seem to have them. They are primarily for the folk who live in towns. American folk like to get together as much as possible and to be sociable. Please remember that all my friends here are steel people and generally rich. Some belong to quite old families, but whatever they are they have all got something attractive about them.

It would be quite possible for most of them to build huge castles in the country, and to live there during the summer, away out from the noise and dirt; but they don't. They like to be all together, so they build beautiful houses quite close up to the street, with no fences around them. Pleasant and well kept lawns go right down to the road, and anyone can walk on the grass. A single street possibly contains the houses of several wealthy families. They all rush about together and give wonderful dinners. As their number is not great, the diners ought to get a little tired of one another, but they don't seem to. I have had the honour of attending many of these dinners. They are fine. The women dress beautifully, and often tastefully and the dinner goes merrily on, everyone talking at once. We are all fearfully happy and young. No one grows up here in America. It's fine to feel young. We start off in quite a dignified fashion, but before the chicken or goose arrives we are all happy and cheerful.

It is impossible to be bored in Bethlehem at a good dinner. I suppose the object of a hostess is to make her guests happy. Most men here in Jericho work fearfully hard. Men in England often go to Paris or London to have a really hilarious time. In Bethlehem a man can be amused at home with his own wife and friends, and he certainly is. He may be fifty and a king of industry, but that does not prevent him from being the jolliest fellow in the world and brimming over with fun.

Perhaps Bethlehem is a little different from most towns in this country. A man here becomes rich; he has attained riches generally because he is a thundering good fellow—a leader of men. That is the point. One used to think of a wealthy American man as a rather vulgar person with coarse manners. American men have good manners, as a rule. They have better manners than we have, especially towards women.

Now the folk like to be in the country at times, but they don't care to be alone in enjoying it. Also, they like golf and tennis, so a club is established about six miles out from a town. The actual building is large and tastefully decorated. It displays American architecture at its very best. There are generally three large rooms with folding doors or portiéres, and beautifully carpeted. The whole floor can be turned into a dancing room with tables all around, so that one may both dance and eat. Dinner starts off mildly; one gets through the soup, looks at one's partner and mentally decides how many dances one will have with her. She may be fat, slender, skinny, beautiful; she may be old, middle aged, or a flapper, but whatever she is she can dance. It is all interesting. If one's partner is nineteen or twenty she can dance well, and it behooves a new man to be careful.

I can dance the English waltz, I believe, but I can't at present dance anything else but the one-step. I find this exhilarating, but I have to confine myself to ladies of thirty-five and upwards, who realize the situation, and we dash around in a cheerful manner, much to the annoyance of the débutante. I have not danced with any very young people yet. I would not dare.

If you are a particularly bad dancer, after the first halt, caused by the orchestra stopping, a young male friend of hers will "cut in" on you, and you are left, and your opportunity of dancing with mademoiselle for more than one length of the room is gone. American young men will never allow a débutante to suffer. In any case she arranges with a batch of young friends to "cut in" if you are seen dancing with her. It is all done very gracefully. To dance with an American débutante requires skill. She dances beautifully. Her body swings gracefully with the music, her feet seem to be elastic. At all costs you must not be at all rough. You must let your feet become as elastic as hers and delicately and gently swing with the music.

Although the fox-trot and the one-step are now in vogue, there is nothing that is not nice about these dances when danced by two young people. If your partner is a good dancer it is impossible to dance for very long with her. A sturdy swain approaches with a smile and says to you, "May I cut in?" She bows gracefully and you are lost. At all costs this must be taken cheerfully. The first time it occurred to me I replied, "Certainly not." I now know that I was guilty of a breach of etiquette.

If you are dancing with an indifferent dancer, there is no danger of being "cut in" on. If your object in dancing with a lady is purely a matter of duty, you shamelessly arrange with several friends to "cut in" on you, meanwhile promising to do likewise for them. Ungallant this, but it ensures the lady having a dance with several people which perhaps she would not otherwise get, and she understands. Generally speaking there are no "wall flowers." They retire upstairs to powder their noses.

There is the mature lady, fair, fat and forty, who dances about with a cheery fellow her own age. Enjoyment shines from their faces as they one-step, suggesting a quick stately march let loose. The lady wears a broad hat suitably decorated and a "shirtwaist" of fitting dimensions. A string of pearls encircles her neck. One sees charming stockings, and beautiful shoes covering quite small feet. This must be a great compensation to a woman at her prime—her feet. They can be made charming when nicely decorated. The face is generally good looking and sometimes looks suitably wicked. It is well powdered, and perhaps just a little rouged. One sees some wonderful diamonds, too.

Perhaps I have seen things just a little vaguely owing to American cocktails. We can't make cocktails in England as they do in America, and that is a fact. The very names given to them here are attractive: Jack Rose, Clover Club, Manhattan, Bronx, and numerous others. They are well decorated, too.

The really exciting time at a country club is on Saturday night. In Bethlehem where there are no theatres, all the fashionable folk motor out to the country club for dinner. Generally the dancing space is fairly crowded and a little irritating for the débutantes. Still they are quite good-natured about it and only smile when a large freight locomotive in the form of mama and papa collides with them.

After about fifteen minutes, while one is eating an entrée, the music starts, and if your partner consents, you get up and dance for about ten minutes and then return to the entrée, now cold. This goes on during the whole dinner. I wonder if it aids digestion.

After dinner we all leave the tables and spread ourselves about the large rooms. The ladies generally sit about, and the men go downstairs. This presents possibilities. However, most of one's time is spent upstairs with the women folk. Dancing generally goes on until about midnight, and then the more fashionable among us go into the house of a couple of bachelors. Here we sit about and have quite diverting times. Finally at about two o'clock we adjourn to our respective homes and awake in the morning a little tired. However, this is compensated for by the cocktail party the next day.

What pitfalls there are for the unwary!

One night, during a party at the club, a very great friend of mine asked me to come over to her house at noon the next day. I took this, in my ignorance, to be an invitation to lunch, and the next morning I called her up and said that I had forgotten at what time she expected me to lunch. "Come along at twelve o'clock, Mac," she replied. I found crowds of people there and wondered how they were all going to be seated at the table, and then I understood. I tried to leave with the others at about twelve forty-five, but my hostess told me that she expected me to stay for lunch. Of course, she had to do this, owing to my mentioning lunch when I called up. Still it was a little awkward.

About cocktail parties—well, I don't quite know. I rather suspect that they are bad things. They always seem to remind me of the remark in the Bible about the disciples when they spake with tongues and some one said: "These men are wine bibbers." I rather think that cocktail parties are a form of wine bibbing. Still they play an important part in the life of some people, and I had better tell you about them. As a matter of fact, quite a large number of people at a cocktail party don't drink cocktails at all, and in any case, they are taken in a very small shallow glass. The sort one usually gets at a cocktail party is the Bronx or Martini variety. The former consists, I believe, largely of gin and orange juice and has a very cheering effect. People mostly walk about and chat about nothing in particular. They are generally on their way home from church and nicely dressed.

It is unpleasant to see girls drinking cocktails. Our breeding gives us all a certain reserve of strength to stick to our ideals. A few cocktails, sometimes even one, helps to knock this down and the results are often regrettable. People talk about things sometimes that are usually regarded as sacred and there are children about, for the next in power after madame in an American household is the offspring of the house. Still quite nice American girls drink cocktails, although nearly always their men folk dislike it. In Bethlehem, however, I have never seen a girl friend drink anything stronger than orangeade. That is what I love about my friends in Bethlehem. Some of them have had a fairly hard struggle to get on. They don't whine about it or even boast, but they are firmly decided in their effort to give their daughters every opportunity to be even more perfect gentlewomen than they are naturally. Still some quite young American girls drink cocktails and then become quite amusing and very witty, and one decides that they are priceless companions, but out of the question as wives.

When a Britisher marries a French or a Spanish girl, there are often difficulties before she becomes accustomed to her new environment. Neither American people nor English people expect any difficulties at all when their children intermarry. And yet they do occur, and are either humourous or tragic, quite often the latter. So I would say to the Britisher, if you ever marry an American girl, look out. She will either be the very best sort of wife a man could possibly have, or she will be the other thing. It will be necessary for you to humour her as much as possible. Like a horse with a delicate mouth, she requires good hands. Don't marry her unless you love her. Don't marry her for her money, or you will regret it. She is no fool and she will expect full value for all she gives. The terrible thing is that she may believe you to be a member of the aristocracy, and she will expect to go about in the very best society in London. If you are not a member of the smart set and take her to live in the country she may like it all right, but the chances are that she will cry a good deal, get a bad cold, which will develop into consumption, and possibly die if you don't take her back to New York. She will never understand the vicar's wife and the lesser country gentry, and she will loathe the snobbishness of some of the county people. In the process, she will find you out, and may heaven help you for, as Solomon said: "It is better to live on the housetop than inside with a brawling woman," and she will brawl all right. I have heard of some bitter experiences undergone by young American women.

There is, of course, no reason in the world why an English fellow should not marry an American girl if he is fond of her and she will have him. But it is a little difficult. Sometimes a Britisher arrives here with a title and is purchased by a young maiden with much money, possibly several millions, and he takes her back to Blighty. Some American girls are foolish. The people perhaps dislike her accent and her attitude towards things in general. He does not know it, of course, but she has not been received by the very nicest people in her own city, not because they despise her, but merely because they find the people they have known all their lives sufficient. You see it is a little difficult for the child. In America she has been, with the help of her mother perhaps, a social mountaineer. Social mountaineering is not a pleasing experience for anyone, especially in America, but we all do it a little, I suppose. It is a poor sort of business and hardly worth while. When this child arrives in England she may be definitely found wanting in the same way that she may have been found wanting in American society, and she is naturally disappointed and annoyed. When annoyed she will take certain steps that will shock the vicar's wife, and possibly she will elope with the chauffeur, all of which will be extremely distressing, though it will be the fellow's own fault. Of course, she may love him quite a lot, but she will probably never understand him. I am not sure that she will always be willing to suffer. Why should she?

IV

"VERY'S LIGHTS"

Bethlehem, December 20, 1917.

I am steadily becoming a movie "fan," which means that when Douglas Fairbanks, or Charlie Chaplin, or other cheerful people appear on the screen at the Lorenz theatre at Bethlehem I appear sitting quite close up and enjoying myself. It is all very interesting. One sort of gets to know the people, and indeed to like them. The movies have taken up quite a large part of our lives in this burgh. One has got to do something, and if one is a lone bachelor, sitting at home presents but few attractions. The people in film land are all interesting.

There is the social leader. I always love her. Her magnificent and haughty mien thrills me always, as with snowy hair, decent jewels and what not, she proceeds to impress the others in film land. I am not going to talk about the vampire.

Film stories can be divided into three classes—the wild and woolly, the crazy ones, as we call them here, and the society dramas with a human interest; and, I forgot, the crook stories.

The wild and woolly ones are delightful. John Devereaux, bored with his New York home, and his gentle and elegant mother, decides to visit a friend out west. He arrives in a strange cart which looks like a spider on wheels driven by a white haired person wearing a broad brimmed hat and decorated with several pistols or even only one. He seems to find himself almost at once in a dancing hall, where wicked-looking though charming young ladies are dancing with fine handsome young fellows, all armed to the teeth, and with their hair nicely parted. In the corner of the room is the boss, sinister and evil looking, talking to as nice looking a young person as one could possibly meet. The dancing seems to stop, and then follows a "close up" of the nice looking young person. (A little disappointing this "close up." A little too much paint mademoiselle, n'est ce pas, on the lips and under the eyes?) Then a "close up" of the boss. This is very thrilling and the widest possibilities of terrible things shortly to happen are presented to us fans, as we see him chew his cigar and move it from one side of his mouth to the other. They both discuss John Devereaux and then follows a "close up" of our hero. He is certainly good looking, and his fine well-made sporting suit fits him well and shows off his strong figure.

But wait till you see him on a horse which has not a good figure, but an extremely useful mouth that can be tugged to pieces by John Devereaux as he wheels him around. I am going to start a mission to movie actors in horse management, and I am going to dare to tell them that to make a horse come round quickly and still be able to use him for many years, it is not necessary to jag his dear old mouth to bits. I am also going to teach them how to feed a horse so that his bones don't stick out in parts even if he is a wicked looking pie-bald. I am also going to teach them that if you have twelve miles to ride it is an awful thing to jag your spurs into his flanks and make him go like hell. I suppose they will enjoy my mission, and it will have the same success that all missions have—but this by the way.

John Devereaux is a very handsome chap, and I like him from the start, and I am greatly comforted when I know that the charming young person will throw her fan in the face of the boss, pinch all his money and live for a few sad days in extremely old-fashioned but becoming clothes (generally a striped waist) with another worthy but poor friend, and then marry our hero. I come away greatly comforted and retire, feeling that the world without romance would be a dull place.

I love the crazy ones, I love to see fat old ladies taking headers into deep ponds. I love to see innocent fruit sellers getting run into by Henry Ford motors. I love to see dozens of policemen massing and then suddenly leaving their office and rushing like fury along the road after—Charlie Chaplin. Give me crazy movies. They are all brimming over with the most innocent fun and merriment. It is a pity that they are generally so short, but I suppose the actors get tired after a time.

The society pictures must impress greatly the tired working woman; a little pathetic this, really. Perhaps I am ignorant of the doings of the four hundred, but if they live as the movie people live it must be strangely diverting to be a noble American. The decorations in their houses must supply endless hours of exploration, and the wonderful statuary must help one to attain Nirvana. I've heard of ne'er-do-well sons, but I did not know they had such amusing times.

In the society drama, the son leaves his beautiful southern home with white pillars and his innocent playmate, very pretty and hopeful and nicely gowned, and finds himself at Yale or Harvard. I wish Cambridge and Oxford presented the same number of possibilities. Here he meets the vampire, horrid and beastly, and falls for her and never thinks of his innocent father and mother solemnly opening the family Bible and saying a few choice prayers, while the playmate worries in the background, praying fervently. It is all very sad and becomes heart-rending when the pretty playmate retires to her room, puts on the most lovely sort of garment all lace and things, and after praying and looking earnestly at a crucifix, hops into bed, never forgetting to remove her slippers. Then the scene stops and she probably curses the fellow working the lights if he has not got a good shine on her gorgeous hair while she prays. But don't worry, she marries the son all right. The vamp dies, probably punctured by a bullet from an old "rough neck" accomplice, or a married man.

The court scenes present wonderful possibilities for the services of some dear old chap as judge. He is an awful nice old fellow.

They are all the same and bore me stiff unless a rather decent sort of chap called Ray appears in them and he has a cleansing influence. There is also a lady called Marsh whom I rather like. Besides being good looking she can act wonderfully and is always natural. I can stand any sort of society drama with her in it. Sometimes the heroes are peculiarly horrible with nasty sloppy long hair, and not nearly as good looking as the leading man in the best male chorus in New York.

The crook stories are fine. They take place mostly in underground cellars. I love the wicked looking old women and fat gentlemen who drink a great deal. However, there are hair-breadth escapes which thrill one, and plenty of policemen and clever looking inspectors and so on.

Seriously, the movies have revolutionized society in many ways. People like Douglas Fairbanks are a great joy to us all. The people who write his plays have learnt that it is the touch of nature that counts most in all things with every one. And so he laughs his way along the screen journey, and we all enter into movie land, where the sun is shining very brightly and the trees are very green, and we all live in nice houses, and meet only nice people with just a few villains thrown in, whom we can turn into nice people by smiling at them. He changes things for us sometimes. Rhoda sitting next to Trevor sees him through different eyes and she gives his hand a good hard squeeze. He is a sort of Peter Pan, really.

Mothers in movie land are always jolly and nice. Fathers are often a little hard, but they come round all right or get killed in an exciting accident. Generally they come round. The parsons worry me a little. Being a zealous member of the Church of England, I object strongly to the sanctimonious air and beautiful silvery hair displayed by ministers in movie land. They marry people off in no time, too, and a little promiscuously, I think.

Except at the Scala, where the pictures used to be good and dull, most of the movie theatres are a little impossible in Blighty. I wonder why. In New Zealand there are fine picture theatres and in Australia they are even better, but if you venture into one in London you want to get out quick. Here in America they are ventilated, and there is generally a pipe organ to help one to wallow in sentiment. Often it seems well played, too, and, at any rate, the darkness and the music blend well together and one can get into "Never Never Land" quite easily and comfortably.

V

A CHRISTMAS TRUCE

Bethlehem, U.S.A., January 25, 1917.

On the twenty-second day of last month, I was preparing to spend a comparatively happy Christmas at the house of some friends who possessed many children. Unfortunately, I met the Assistant Superintendent of Shop No. 2, who, after greeting me in an encouraging manner, said, "Lootenant, I am very glad to see you, I want your help. We are held up by the failure of the people in Detroit to deliver trunnion bearings. Would it be possible for you to run out there and see how they are getting on, and perhaps you could get them to send a few sets on by express?"

That Assistant Superintendent never did like me.

Now Detroit is a long way from Bethlehem, and at least twenty-four hours by train, so it looked as though my merry Christmas would be spent in a Pullman. I'd rather spend Christmas Day in a workhouse, for even there "the cold bare walls" are alleged to be "bright with garlands of green and holly," and even bitterly acknowledged by many small artists reciting that "piece" to help to form a "pleasant sight." But Christmas Day in a Pullman! And worse still, Christmas night in a sleeper, with the snorers. Mon Dieu!

If a person snores within the uttermost limit of my hearing, I must say good-bye to sleep, no matter how tired I may be. It is a strange thing how many otherwise nice people snore. Travelling in America has for me one disadvantage—the fact that one has to sleep, like a dish on a Welsh dresser, in the same compartment with about forty people, six of whom surely snore. There is the loud sonorous snore of the merchant prince, the angry, pugnacious bark of the "drummer," the mature grunt of the stout lady, and the gentle lisp-like snore of the débutante. You can't stop them. One would expect "Yankee ingenuity" to find a way out.

I think that there ought to be a special padded Pullman for the snoring persons. It ought to be labelled in some way. Perhaps a graceful way would be to have the car called "Sonora." Then all people should carry with them a small card labelled, "The bearer of this pass does not snore," and then the name of a trusted witness or the stamp of a gramaphone company without the advertisement "His Master's Voice." You see a person could be placed in a room, and at the moment of sinking into somnolence, a blank record could start revolving, and be tried out in the morning.

Or perhaps the label would read, "The bearer of this card snores." Then the gramaphone company might advertise a little with the familiar "His Master's Voice." It would be awful to lose your label if you were a non-snorer, and then to be placed in the special sleeper. Perhaps there might be a "neutral" car for the partial snorers.

I slept in a stateroom on a liner once next to a large man and his large wife, and they were both determined snorers. They used to run up and down the scale and never started at the bottom together. It was a nice mathematical problem to work out when they met in the centre of the scale.

As a matter of fact, I don't mind the snoring on a Pullman when the train gets going, because you cannot hear it then, but sometimes in an optimistic frame of mind you decide to board the sleeper two hours before the train starts. Your optimism is never justified, for sure enough, several people start off. It is useless to hold your hands to your ears; you imagine you hear it, even if you don't. So possessing yourself with patience, you read a book, until the train starts. Asphyxiation sets in very soon, but, alas, the train develops a hot box, and you awake once more to the same old dreary noises. I hope that soon they will have that special car. If they don't, the porter ought to be supplied with a long hooked rake, and as he makes his rounds of inspection, he should push the noisy people into other positions. This would look very interesting.

However, on this journey to Detroit I boarded the train at Bethlehem on its way to Buffalo and no hot boxes were developed, so I enjoyed a very peaceful night, although I was slightly disturbed when a dear old lady mistook my berth for hers, and placed her knee on my chest, and got an awful fright. That is one of the advantages of taking an "upper" over here. You have time to head off night walkers because they have got to get the step-ladder, the Pullman porter is not always asleep, and you hear them as they puff up the stairs. Although I prefer the little stateroom cars we have in England, I must admit that the beds in a Pullman are very large and well supplied with blankets and other comforts.

I arrived at Detroit, and after a long chat about the war with the man who counted most, I suggested that he would be doing us all a great favour if he sent a few trunnion bearings on by express at once. He said, "Sure!" I love that American word "Sure." There is something so intimate, so encouraging about it, even if nothing happens. Detroit is a wonderful city and the people whom I met there awfully decent.

I went through several factories, and I must admit that I have seen nothing in this country to compare with them. There are vaster plants in the East, but for the display of really efficient organization, give me Detroit. I liked the careful keenness displayed. There is something solid, something lasting about Detroit, that struck me at once in spite of its newness. It is always alleged in the East that the Middle West is notoriously asleep in regard to national duty, but I rather suspect that if the time arrives for this country to fight, it will be towns like Detroit, towards the Middle West, that will be the rapid producers.

Of course, Henry Ford has his wonderful motor car factory here where he lets loose upon an astonished world and grateful English vicars of little wealth, his gasping, highly efficient, but unornamental, metal arm breakers called by the vulgar "flivvers," and by the more humorous "tin Lizzies." Having heard so much about this plant, I denied myself the pleasure of going through it. I hear that it is very wonderful.

All these remarks are merely offensive impressions and carry but little weight even in my own mind. Still I definitely refuse to regard the Middle West as asleep to national duty.

I left Detroit or rather tried hard and finally succeeded in leaving that fair city; and still dreading to spend Christmas day in a Pullman I made up my mind to spend the holidays at Niagara in Ontario. Incidentally, at Niagara I received a wire from Detroit in the following words: "Have sent by express four sets of trunnion bearings. A merry Xmas to you."

While I am glad to praise Detroit, and especially its best hotel, I cannot for a single moment admire, or even respect, the time-table kept by the trains that ran through its beautiful station last month around Christmas.

I decided to leave by a train which was alleged to depart at twelve o'clock. I jumped into a taxi at eleven-fifty. "You're cutting things pretty fine," said the chauffeur, "but I guess we will make it all right." Hence we dashed along the road at a pretty rapid rate and I thought the driver deserved the extra quarter that I gladly gave to him. I placed my things in the hands of a dark porter and gasped: "Has the train gone?" My worry was quite unnecessary. In the great hall of the station there were about three hundred of Henry Ford's satellites going off on their Christmas vacation, as well as many others. The train that should have gone six hours before had not arrived. There were no signs of mine. It seemed to have got lost, for nothing could be told about it. Other trains were marked up as being anything from three to six hours overdue.

After waiting in a queue near the enquiry office for about an hour, I at last got within speaking distance of the man behind the desk marked "Information." He could tell me nothing, poor chap. His chin was twitching just like a fellow after shell shock. Noting my sympathetic glance, he told me that an enquiry clerk only lasted one-half hour if he were not assassinated by angry citizens who seemed to blame him for the trains being late. He denied all responsibility, while admitting the honour. He said that he was the sixth to be on duty. The rest had been sent off to the nearest lunatic asylum. At that moment he collapsed and was carried away on a stretcher, muttering, "They ain't my trains, feller." Never was such a night. I made several life long friends. All the food in the buffet got eaten up and the attendant women had quite lost their tempers and quarreled with anyone who looked at all annoyed.

After waiting about five hours, I became a little tired. I was past being annoyed, and expected to spend my life in that station hall, so I sought food in the buffet. As I approached the two swinging doors, they opened as if by magic and two good looking, cheery faced boys stood on each side like footmen and said: "Good evening, Cap."

"Ha!" thought I to myself, "what discernment! They can tell at once that I am a military man," so I smile pleasantly upon them and asked them how they knew that I was an officer in spite of my mufti. They looked astonished, but quickly regaining their composure, asked what regiment I belonged to. I told them, and soon we got very friendly and chatty. They introduced me to several friends who gathered round, and fired many questions at me in regard to the war. Amongst their number was a huge person of kindly aspect. One of my early friends whispered that he was the captain of their football team and a very great person. He said but little. They explained that they were members of a dramatic club, and that they had given a performance in Detroit. We chatted a great deal, and then a fellow of unattractive appearance, and insignificant aspect remarked: "You British will fight until the last Frenchman dies." He laughed as he said it. He used the laugh which people who wish to prevent bodily injury to themselves always use when they insult a person. It is the laugh of a servant, a laugh which prevents a man from getting really annoyed. I am glad to say that the rest turned upon him and I merely said lightly: "There are many fools going about but it is difficult to catalogue their variety until they make similar remarks to yours."

The large football player was particularly annoyed with that chap and the others remarked that he was a "bloody German." We were much too tired and weary to talk seriously, but I gathered from these youths that they were very keen to get across to the other side, to fight the Boche.

We discussed Canada. It almost seemed that they wanted to sell Canada so great was the admiration they expressed. They envied the Canadians their opportunity to fight the Germans. They praised the country, its natural resources and beauty. They admired the Englishness of their neighbors. This is an interesting fact: all Americans that I have met cannot speak too highly of the Canadians. I have heard American women talking with the greatest of respect about our nation as represented by our people in Canada and Bermuda.

After a couple of hours these fellows went off, expressing a desire to take me with them. In fact, two of them tried hard to persuade me to go to Chicago in their special. Evidently they had had a good supper. I hope that I shall meet the large football chap again.

At about seven in the morning my train at last appeared, and as the sun was rising, I climbed into my upper berth while the fellow on the lower groaned, stating that he had the influenza, called "the grip" over here. This sounded encouraging, for I expected to breathe much of his air.

I at last arrived at Niagara in Ontario and sought the Inn called Clifton. It is run very much on English lines and suggests a very large country cottage in Blighty, with its chintz hangings. All around was a wide expanse of snow and the falls could be heard roaring in the distance. I had seen them before, so I promptly had a very hot bath and lay down and went to sleep in my charming little bedroom with its uneven roof.

I am not going to describe the Falls. They are too wonderful and too mighty for description, but they are not too lovely and not too wonderful as a great beauty gift from God to prevent us humans from building great power houses on the cliffs around, and so marring their beauty.

I spent a happy Christmas at this house and met several Canadian men with their women folk who had come down to spend a quiet Christmas. They were very kind to me and I liked them all immensely. One lady remarked that it was a very good idea to want to spend Christmas with my own people. This was astonishing and pleasing, for most of my friends who had gone over to Canada to do harvesting during the long vacations from Oxford and Cambridge had hated it. It told me one great thing, however, that the Canadian people had grown to know us better, and had evidently decided that every stray home-made Briton was not a remittance man, but might possibly, in spite of his extraordinary way of speaking English, be a comparatively normal person possessing no greater number of faults than other mortals. I found these people very interesting, and one very charming lady introduced me to the poetry of Rupert Brooke. She had one of his volumes of poetry containing an introduction detailing his life.

I read this introduction with much interest. It spoke about the river at Cambridge, just above "Byron's Pool"—a very familiar spot. I had often plunged off the dam into the cool depths above and had even cooked moorhens' eggs on the banks. I will admit that my ignorance of Rupert Brooke and his genius showed a regrettably uninformed mind. I can only murmur with the French shop keepers "c'est la guerre." These people made me very much at home and they all had a good English accent—not the affected kind, but a natural sort of accent.

American people then came in for their share of criticism. The Canadians are learning many lessons from us. I think, of course, that America ought to be in this war, but I do know that all my American men friends would give their last cent to make the President declare war, and I have learnt not to mention the subject.

They were very sympathetic about my having to live with the Yankees. One very nice man said with a smile, I fear of superiority: "And how do you like living with the Yankees?"

I was at a loss to know how to reply. I hate heroics, and I distrust the person who praises his friends behind their backs with too great a show of enthusiasm. It is a kind of newspaper talk and suspicious. Besides, I desired to be effective, to "get across" with praise of my American friends, so I merely stated all the nice things I had ever heard the Americans say about Canada and the Canadians. This took me a long time. They accepted the rebuke like the gentlefolk they were. Still, I thought the feeling about America was very interesting.

Upon my return to the States, I mentioned this to a friend and he said that he knew about the feeling, but he explained that it was really a pose, and was a survival of the feeling from the old revolution days when the loyalists took refuge in Canada. I then gathered that my Canadian friends were merely "high flying after fashion," like Mrs. Boffin in "Our Mutual Friend."

I went to church on the Sunday and enjoyed singing "God Save the King." The minister spoke well, but like the American clergy, he preached an awfully long sermon. Everything seems to go quickly and rapidly over here except the sermons.

I went to a skating rink filled with many soldiers and was asked by a buxom lass where my uniform was, and why was I not fighting for the King. I felt slightly annoyed. However, I enjoyed the skating until a youth in uniform barged into me and passed rude remarks about my clothing generally.

This was too much for my temper, so I strafed him until he must have decided that I was at least a colonel in mufti. He will never be "fresh" to a stranger again, and he left the rink expecting to be court-martialled.

The next day I had influenza, and I remembered my friend in the train at Detroit. However, I went to Toronto and endeavored to buy a light coat at a large store. I am not a very small person, but evidently the attendant disliked me on sight. After he had tried about three coats on me he remarked pleasantly that they only kept men's things in his department, so I strafed him, and left Canada by the very next train. I felt furious. However, I recognised a man I knew on the train whom I had seen at Popperinge near Ypres. He had been a sergeant in the Canadian forces, so we sat down and yarned about old days in "Flounders." He was the dining-room steward. He healed my wounded pride when I told him about the coat incident and said: "Why didn't you crack him over the head, sir! Those sort of fellows come in here with their 'Gard Darm'—but I don't take it now. No, sir!" Still it was fine to visit Canada and I felt very much at home and very proud of the Empire.

Now in the days of peace I should have come away from Canada with a very firm determination never to visit the place again, but the war has changed one's outlook on all things. Still I longed to get back to my Yankee and well loved friends who don't mind my "peculiar English twang" a bit.

I was urged one night at a country club to join a friend at another table—to have a drink of orangeade. I showed no signs of yielding, so my friend—he was a great friend—said, "Please, Mac, come over, these fellows want to hear you speak." They wanted to listen to my words of wisdom? Not a bit! It was my accent they wanted. But there was no intention of rudeness; the fellow was too much my friend for that, but he wanted to interest his companions. Sometimes I have apologised for my way of speaking, remarking that I could not help it, and at once every one has said, "For the love of Mike, don't lose your English accent." Perhaps they meant that as a comedian I presented possibilities.

It might be a good idea to give you a few impressions of the folk in Bethlehem. Obviously they can be little else than impressions, and they can tell you little about Americans as a whole. The people of Bethlehem divide themselves roughly into six groups—the Moravians (I place them first), the old nobility, the new aristocracy, the great mass of well-to-do store-keepers and the like, the working class of Americans, largely Pennsylvania Dutch, and the strange mixture of weird foreigners who live in South Bethlehem near and around the steel works.

But let me tell you about the Moravians; they have been awfully good to me during the four months I have lived with them. Just to live in the same town with them helps one quite a lot.

It is possible that some of my statements may be inaccurate, but I have had a great deal to do with them, and I don't think that I shall go very far wrong.

Anne of Bohemia married King Richard II of England. Obviously large numbers of her friends and relations visited her during her reign. Wycliff became at this time fashionable, and these tourists, being interested in most of the things they saw, doubtlessly had the opportunity of hearing Wycliff preach. A man of undoubted personality, otherwise he would not have lived very long, he must have impressed the less frivolous of Anne's friends, including John Huss who was a very religious person. The whole thing is interesting. These Bohemians saw numbers of the aristocracy thoroughly interested in Wycliff. Possibly they did not understand the intrigue underlying the business, but they could not have regarded Wycliff's movement as anything else but a fashionable one.

John Huss returned to Bohemia and established a church, or reorganised an older church. For the benefit of those members of the Church of England and the members of the Episcopal church of America who regard a belief in Apostolic succession as necessary to their souls' salvation, it might be well to add that the first Moravian bishop was consecrated by another bishop. After a time they ceased to be regarded with favour by the Church of Rome in Bohemia, in spite of their fashionable origin, so they grew and multiplied.

Still their struggles were great, and one wonders whether they could have continued to thrive if it had not been for a friend who appeared upon the scene to act as their champion. The friend was a certain Count Zinzendorf, a noble German. He allowed them to establish a small settlement upon his estates at Herenhorf.

If they were anything like my friends, their descendants in Bethlehem, he must have loved them very much. One can easily picture the whole thing. They were normal persons; they displayed no fanaticism; they had a simple ritual, and they must have had among their numbers members of the best families in Bohemia. This would help the count a little. They had some quaint customs. The women dressed simply but nicely. A young lady after marriage wore a pretty blue ribbon around her neck. Before marriage she wore a pink one. I have seen some priceless old pictures in the archives of the church here in Bethlehem of the sweetest old ladies in the world, mostly wearing the blue ribbon. The artist must have been a Moravian himself. The figures are stiff and conventional; the hands dead and lifeless with pointed fingers—you know the sort of thing—but the faces are wonderfully drawn. They have all got something characteristic about them. Sometimes a slight smile, sometimes they look as though they were a little bored with posing, and one can perhaps get an idea of their respective natures, by the way they regard the artist. I felt that I should like to adopt them all as grandmothers.

Of course, Count Zinzendorf got very much converted, and, possibly knowing William Penn, he obtained permission for the Moravians to settle here in Bethlehem. I have skipped a lot of their history. I don't know much about their early life in America, but they chose the sweetest spot in this valley for their home. They settled on the north side of the Lehigh River, a pleasant stream which with several tributaries helped them to grind their corn. They converted the Indians largely. At any rate, if you go into the old cemetery you will see the graves of many of the red-skins. The last of the Mohicans, Tschoop, lies in this cemetery. I sometimes stroll through this sacred square and read the weird old inscriptions on the tombs. One dear old lady has her grave in the middle of the pathway so that people passing may be influenced just a little by the remarks made by those who knew and loved her. A weird idea, isn't it? I could write pages about the Moravians, but time and the fact that I may bore you, and so kill your interest in my friends, prevent me from saying very much.

Trombones mean almost everything to a Moravian. To be a member of the trombone choir is the highest honour a young Moravian can aspire to. Perhaps interest will die out, perhaps the influence of the huge steel works now taking complete control of Bethlehem will prevent the boys from regarding the thing as a terrific honour.

A member of this choir has much to attend to. When a sister or a brother dies, the fact is announced to the brethren by the playing of a simple tune. At the hour of burial the trombones once more play. All announcements are made from the tower with the aid of the trombone choir. I cannot say they always play well. I am afraid I don't mind very much, but the thing in itself is very interesting.

I was spending a very enjoyable evening at a man's house on the last day of the old year. At five minutes to twelve I left a cheery crowd of revellers and rushed along to the Moravian church. A large clock was ticking out the last minutes of the closing year. A minister was talking, thanking God for all the good things of the past years and asking His help in the coming year. He seemed sure that it would be all right, but we all felt a little fearful of what the next year would bring. I remembered my last New Year's Eve at the front—it was getting a little depressing. Finally there were left but two seconds of the old year. We were all trying to think. The year closed. A mighty burst of music crashed through the air. The trombones were playing "Now Thank We All Our God." We all jumped to our feet and commenced to join in. Depression vanished as in stately fashion we all sang the wonderful hymn.

I went back to the party. Most of the people were still there. They were a handsome crowd of men and women, great friends of mine for the most part. They seemed happy and cheerful. I wondered what the year would bring for us all. I wondered if America would be drawn into the war, and I wondered which crowd of people would be better able to bear the strain of war—the folk in the Moravian church, or the people at the cheery party. I think I can guess. The cheery folk represent the type who will get depressed and unhappy. They will be the spreaders of rumours. They will be the people who will learn to hope most quickly. They will regard every small victory as a German rout, and every reverse as a hopeless defeat. Some amongst them will, of course, find a new life opening up for them. Still I wonder.

But the Moravians will take things as they come. They will be the folk who will encourage and help. They will be able to stand anything—sorrow and joy, and treat them in the same way. They will give their sons willingly and gladly, and their men will make the very best kind of soldiers. Perhaps it is wrong to prophesy, but I think that if the United States should enter this war, amongst the certain quantities of this country, the Moravians will have an important place. They are mostly of Teutonic origin, but at the moment their sympathies are all with us. They like England and the English, and when I say England and the English I mean Britain and the Britons. George II was kind to them, I believe, and they live a great deal in the past.

I have the honour of knowing several of the trombone choir. I must tell you about Brother L——. I suspect he is the leader or the conductor of the trombone choir. He is a dear old chap, rather small and has a black pointed beard. He is getting on in years now, and always suggests to my mind that picture of Handel as a boy being found playing the harpsichord in the attic. You may find it difficult to see the connection. I am not sure that I do myself. One always feels, however, that hidden away in that little body of his, there is a divine spark that ought to have had a bigger opportunity. Perhaps the connection lies in the fact that I first met him after he had just finished giving Mrs. U——'s son a lesson on the trombone. Mrs. U——'s husband is not a Moravian, but the wife is equal to at least two of them, so that makes things equal. Brother L—— is employed at the steel works, and as I was getting into an automobile one afternoon early, intent upon visiting a pond near by to do some skating, I saw brother L—— waiting for a trolley car. I offered him a lift which he accepted. Now, he had timed the trolley car to a minute, so that by getting off at Church Street he would reach the cemetery, his destination, at just the right moment, for an old sister was being buried. My car went pretty fast, and I remember leaving him standing in the snow at least eight inches thick. I fear he must have got frozen, for he had to wait ten minutes. Strangely enough he has never forgotten the incident, and I am sure that there is nothing in the world he would not do for me. It is a funny and strange thing that when one tries to do big things for people, often there is little gratitude shown, but little things that cause one no trouble often bring a tremendous reward far outweighing the benefit.

Now Brother L—— is an American and we who dare to criticise our cousins never meet this type abroad. He, with many of his brother and sister Moravians, are my friends. To me they form a tremendous argument why I should never say an unkind word about the children of Uncle Sam. I have no desire to become a Moravian, but I like them very much. Before I finish wearing you out with these descriptions of my friends I must tell you all about the "Putz."

One night I was the guest of a local club. It was early in December and we were spending an extremely amusing evening. At about eleven o'clock, all the women folk having departed, one fellow came up to me and said: "Say, Captain, we have a barrel of sherry in the cellar, would you like a glass?" A small party had collected near me at the time, so we all descended to a sort of catacomb where a small barrel of sherry was enthroned. I took a glass and found it very dry, and not very nice. I was offered another but refused. It is difficult to refuse a drink offered by a good looking American boy, so finally I held the glass, took a tiny sip, and then decided to shut the door of the cellar, deftly spilling the sherry as the door banged. I rather like a glass of sherry with my soup, but to drink it steadily was an unknown experience. Glass after glass was given to me and I managed to appear to drink all their contents. They must have wondered at my sobriety. There were several present who had no desire to spill theirs and among these was a tall, good-looking youth who was fast becoming a little happy. He came towards me with an unsteady step, and succeeded in spilling my fifth glass of sherry, thus saving me the trouble of shutting the door, and said: "Say, Cap., will you come and see my p—utz?" I was a little bewildered. He repeated it again and again and then I decided upon a counter bombardment and said: "Pre—cisely what is your p—utz." He looked comically bewildered and then a fellow explained that a Putz was a decoration of German origin. At Christmas time in South Germany the people build models of the original Bethlehem, representing the birth of our Lord. It suggests a crêche in a Roman church. I said therefore: "But yes, I shall be glad to." I gathered that a similar custom prevailed in Bethlehem.

Most Moravians have a Putz in their houses at Christmas time. A house containing one is quite open to all. Wine and biscuits are alleged to be served. I did not get any wine, but saw the biscuits. So at Christmas time small parties accumulate and go from house to house looking at the Putzes. Sometimes they are a little crude, and where there are small boys in the family, model electric tram cars dash past the sacred manger. One nice boy cleverly got past this incongruity, for, after building an ordinary model village with street lamps, and tram cars dashing round and round, he had the stable and manger suspended above amidst a mass of cotton wool, and he explained that the whole thing was a vision of the past. But let me tell you about the Putz that belonged to my friend of the club catacomb.

With Mrs. U—— I knocked at the door and entered. The house was dimly lighted and we found ourselves in a darkened room, quite large. At first we could hear the gentle ripple of water, and then we seemed to hear cattle lowing very softly. Soon our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and we found ourselves looking across a desert with palm trees silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Camels seemed to be walking towards a small village on the right. The village was of the usual Eastern kind with a synagogue in the centre. Soon we noticed that the synagogue was being lighted up quite slowly and gradually and after an interval gentle singing could be heard. It was all very soft but quite distinct. The music stopped for a second and then dawn seemed to be breaking. Finally a bright star appeared in the sky, and showed us shepherds watching their flocks, but looking up towards the sky. More light came and we saw angels with snowy white wings above the shepherds. At this moment men's voices could be heard singing in harmony "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," and the music was certainly coming from the wee synagogue. The star seemed to move a little, at any rate, it ceased shining on the shepherds and we became unconscious of the angels, but soon it shone upon a stable in which were Mary and the babe lying in the manger. There were the wise men of the East also. Some more light shone upon the village and the little brook made more noise. Someone in the darkness near me repeated: "And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'

"And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass which the Lord made known unto us! And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart."

It was a woman's voice speaking, softly and sweetly. To me it seemed the outcry of womenkind all over the world.

I wanted to be home for Christmas very badly, but I must admit that of all places in the world apart from home I think Bethlehem presents most possibilities for a really enjoyable time. We had plenty of snow and consequently plenty of opportunities for tobogganing. People also gave many charming parties. I went to a bal masqué after returning from Detroit, dressed as a Maori warrior. I had much clothing on, but one arm and shoulder was exposed. Several women friends who usually wore quite abbreviated frocks, suggested that I was naked. I merely observed "et tu Brute!" but they did not understand. Women are inconsistent.

VI

GERMAN FRIGHTFUL FOOLISHNESS! A NEW ALLY!
THE HATCHET SHOWS SIGNS OF BECOMING BURIED

Bethlehem, U. S. A., February 28, 1917.

So William of Hohenzollern the war lord, the high priest of God, has decided that this extremely unpleasant war shall cease. Over here we all agree that nothing would suit us better; only we are quite certain that we do not want the war to end in the particular way desired by His Imperial Highness. We admit, of course, that his methods display a high state of efficiency in every direction, and that his organization of men and things is perfectly wonderful, but, fools that we are, we have become attached to our own muddling ways and we don't want to change. In other words, we rather enjoy our freedom. We admit that we ought to like His Imperial Highness since he is so very much the intimate friend of God, but possibly our souls have fallen so far from grace that when we examine our minds we find there nothing but contempt and dislike mixed with just a little pity. We cannot be altogether arch sinners because we are unable to muster up a decent hatred, no matter how hard we try, because William seems to us a poor sort of creature.

I cannot understand the Prussian point of view. It was quite unnecessary to drag Uncle Sam into the war. His nature is so kindly that he is always willing to give the other man the benefit of the doubt, but there are limits to his good nature. The threat to sink the merchant ships of America without warning is well beyond the limit of his patience. The Germans must have forgotten the travail that accompanied the birth of this great nation. To them, Uncle Sam would seem to be merely a very wealthy merchant prince, with but one object—to get rich as quickly as possible; a merchant prince without honour where his pockets are concerned. If they had decided that he was merely enjoying a rather nice after luncheon sleep they would have been a little nearer the truth. They would then have avoided waking him up. As it is, he is now very wide awake, and he is also examining his soul very carefully and wondering just a little. His eyes too are very wide open and he can see very plainly, and one of the things he can see is a very unpleasant little emperor over in Germany daring to issue orders to his children. He also realizes that since God has given him the wonderful gift of freedom, it is his duty to see that other people are allowed to enjoy the same privileges. As a child, it was necessary for him to avoid "entangling alliances," but he is now a man with a man's privileges and a man's duties.

So he has called across the water to France: "I'm coming to help you, Lafayette," and he has shouted across the water to Great Britain: "John, I have never been quite sure of you, but I guess you're on the right track, and if you can wait a little I expect to be able to help you quite a lot."

Of course, Germany expects to starve Great Britain into subjection before Uncle Sam is ready to do much. She also, in her overwhelming pride, believes that her own nationals in the States possess sufficient power to stultify any great war effort. She also believes that the American people are naturally pacifists and that the President will have a big job in front of him. And indeed he might have had a difficult job, too, for great prosperity tends to weaken the offensive power of a democracy and there were many men here who disliked intensely the idea of sending an army of American men to France to fight side by side with England, but his job has become child's play since Zimmermann's wily scheme to ally Mexico and Japan against the States has been exposed. This exposure united the people as if by magic. The people began to scent danger, and danger close at home, and they saw at once that the only enemy they possessed was Kaiser William. When the Kaiser dies, and I suppose he will die some day, it would be interesting to be present (just for a second, of course) when he meets his grandfather's great friend, Bismarck. One would not desire to stay long on account of the climate but it would be interesting nevertheless. Would Bismarck weep or laugh?

Of course, the Zimmermann scheme counted for very little with the great minds at the helm of state here, but it did rouse the ordinary people and settled many arguments.

So the war lord is going to drown thousands of sailors in order that a million lives may be saved on the battlefields of Europe! What a pity that we inefficient and contemptible British, American, and French people cannot agree with him. What fools we all must seem to him to prefer death a thousand times rather than to spend a single second in the world with His Imperial Highness as our lord and master.

Thank heaven we can see him as he is really—just a mad chauffeur with his foot on the accelerator dashing down a very steep hill with not a chance in the world of getting around that nasty turning at the bottom. The car he is driving to destruction is a very fine machine, too. It is a great pity. Perhaps it will break down suddenly before he gets to the bottom and the mad chauffeur will come an awful cropper, but there will be something left of the machine.

I have now left the hotel and am established in a very happy home. It was difficult to get lodgings, but I applied to J—— C—— for help and he sent me down to Harry's wife. Harry is the butler of a friend of mine, one of the head steel officials. Anyone who applies to J—— C—— for help always gets it. He is an Irishman who has not been in Ireland for half a century, but he has still got a brogue. I called on Harry's wife and found a sweet faced English girl with a small young lady who made love to me promptly. I decided to move as soon as possible, and now I am perfectly happy. Harry's wife will do anything in the world to make a fellow comfortable and "himself" keeps my clothes pressed in his spare time. They both do nice little things for me. I can do precisely what I please and I know that the two of them are very interested.

One night, four cheery people came in; one seized a mandolin, another a guitar, while a third played the piano. It was quite late and I wondered what my gentle landlord and his lady would think. While the music was still going on I stole out to reconnoitre and saw the two of them fox-trotting round the kitchen like a couple of happy children, just loving the music. Harry's wife's father and her brothers are all soldiers and she was brought up at Aldershot. When I write things for magazines she listens to me in the middle of her work while I read them and she always expresses enthusiasm. When the ominous package returns she is as depressed as I am about it.

A friend offered me what he alleged to be a well-bred Western Highland terrier in Philadelphia, and I, of course, fell, for Becky, Harry's little girl, wanted a dog. My friend called up his daughter and told her to send one of the puppies along. I observed that I wanted a male puppy and he said: "Yep." Communications must have broken down somewhere, for a tiny female puppy arrived in a pink basket. The person who said that my puppy was a Western Highland terrier was an optimist, or a liar. I fear that her family tree would not bear close inspection. However, she hopped out of the basket and expressed a good deal of pleasure. She ought to have been at least another month with her mother. We gave her milk and she at once grew so stout in front of our eyes that we all shuddered, wondering what would happen next. She couldn't walk, but after a time her figure became more normal. She had very nice manners on the whole, and had a clinging disposition and would worm her way right round a person's back under his coat and emerge from under his collar close up to his neck. In a few days she became perfectly nude and Jack, calling, mistook her for a rat, but was disappointed. She mistook him for a relation and too actively showed her affection. He refused to look at her, placed both feet on my shoulders, looked with astonishment at me, and left the house. He has refused to enter ever since. Sally, as we had named her, got even more nude, so I got some anti-eczema dope and rubbed her with it. This had the desired effect and her hair grew again. I wish you could see her and her young mistress together, mixed up with six rabbits.

Sally refuses to look like a Western Highland terrier, and follows me about looking like a tiny rat. A man pointed to us one day and said: "Wots that?" His friend, thinking he meant an automobile that was passing said: "Just a flivver." So we have decided upon Sally's breed and she is called a flivver dog. Like all dogs of mixed breed she is wonderfully intelligent, and her young mistress and her mistress's mother would not sell her for a million dollars. She has more friends throughout this town than we can ever have. Her greatest friend is a fat policeman who lives opposite. I took her to a picnic once and she buried all our sausages which they call "Frankfurters" here. We saw her disappearing with the last one almost as big as herself.

I am very lucky to have secured such a wonderful home in Bethlehem. No woman enjoys having strange men ruining her carpets and making themselves a nuisance generally, and as the Bethlehem people are mostly well off, few of them desire to take in lodgers. Harry's wife has taken me in because she has soldier blood and royal artillery blood in her veins and she wants to do her bit.

VII

SOME BRITISH SHELLS FALL SHORT

Bethlehem, U. S. A., April 25, 1917.

In the days of the Boer war we used to sing a patriotic song which commenced with the words "War clouds gather over every land." War clouds have gathered over this land all right, but they haven't darkened the minds of the people in any way. With a quickness and a keenness that is surprising, the people have realized that the war clouds hovering over the United States have a very beautiful silver lining, and they haven't got to worry about turning them inside out either, because they know the silver lining is there all right. Of course, the womenfolk are very worried, naturally. I don't blame them, when I look at their sons.

I think that Uncle Sam's action in deciding to fight Germany is a golden lining to the very dark cloud of war in England. I am hoping that the folk over here will realize all our suffering during the past three years. I know that soon they will understand that the so-called "England's mistakes" were not mistakes really, at least not mistakes made since August, 1914, but just the great big composite mistake of unpreparedness. It seems to me that Uncle Sam was just as guilty. He himself believes that he was much more guilty because he did have nearly three years to think about the matter.

He will realize that we could not save Serbia, because we simply had not trained men or the guns to equip them with. He will know that the Dardanelles business, although apparently a failure, was an heroic effort to help Russia since she needed help. He will realize that right from the start we have been doing our "damnedest." He knows, of course, that, like the United States, we are a democracy, a form of government which was never designed with the object of making war outside its own council chamber. I dare say he will understand the whole thing finally; I hope that he will grow to understand us as a nation and that we will learn to understand him. It is about time that we did.

It is very interesting over here to watch the development of popular feeling. Before the United States broke with Germany the President, of course, came in for his share of criticism. Now the man who says a word against Mr. Wilson gets it "in the neck." All the people realize that he is a very great man and both Democrats and Republicans are united in one object—to stand by the President. This is not mere war hysteria, but the display of common sense. While the country was at peace the two great parties enjoyed their arguments, and I dare say after the war they will once more indulge in this interesting pastime, but not until Mr. Hohenzollern is keeping a second-hand shop in a small street in Sweden somewhere.

All my men friends have rushed off from Bethlehem to become soldiers. It is a fine thing to think of these American fellows fighting beside us. You will realize this when you discover that an American belies absolutely his British reputation of being a boaster, with little to boast about. However, there is one phrase that I wish he would not use and that is "in the world." It causes misunderstanding often. I believe that the American fellow that I meet will make a wonderful soldier when he has learned a few things. It seems to me that we British had to learn quite a lot of things from the Germans in the way of modern warfare at the start.

I hate to think of an anæmic German with spectacles turning his machine gun on these fellows, as with much courage and much inexperience they expose themselves, until they learn that personal courage allied to inexperience make an impossible combination against the Huns. But one sees them learning difficult lessons for their temperament, and finally being as good soldiers as our own. I can also see them willing to acknowledge that they are no better.

We have discovered that Count Bernstorff was rather an impossible person, although plausible, and altogether it is quite unsafe to be a German sympathizer here these days. I am a little afraid of German propaganda, which will surely take subtle steps to interfere with the friendship that can be seen arising between us and our brothers over here. I dare say England will be very severely attacked in all kinds of cunning ways. Will she take equally subtle steps to combat it?

The Russian revolution is rather a blow. The Slavs ought to have stuck to the Czar and made him into an ornamental constitutional monarch for the people to gape at and to be duly thrilled with. The trouble is that Germany will have a wonderful opportunity during the birth of constitutional rule in Russia, and I dare say she will try to arrange to have Nicholas once more on the throne. Germany dislikes revolutions close to her borders, and a Russian republic next door will be very awkward for her if not dangerous. Perhaps in this revolution lies a little hope for the rest of the world. Perhaps the German people may catch the "disease" and we may have peace some day. The revolutionary spirit is very "catching."

Marshal Joffre and Mr. Balfour have arrived and both of them have made a wonderful impression over here. It is interesting to know that British genius could reach such heights as to choose such a very proper gentleman as Mr. Balfour for the job. Some of my friends are a little apologetic because more attention seems to be paid to the great French general than to Mr. Balfour, but I say: "Lord bless your soul, why we sent Mr. Balfour over here to join in your huzzahs to Marshal Joffre. He will shout 'Vive La France!' to Joffre with any one of you."

Thank heaven that our folk realized that the American people want our very best sent over to them, and that they love very dearly that type of old world courteousness and gentility that Mr. Balfour represents. It is good thing that they did not send a "shirt-sleeved" politician. Altogether I know that Mr. Balfour's mission will help to form a foundation stone to a lasting friendship between America and ourselves. He has belted knights and all kinds of superior officers with him. They are very decorative, and, of course, very useful to the folk over here, since they are armed with much information that will surely help; but if Mr. Balfour had arrived on an ordinary liner alone and had walked down the gangway with his bag of golf clubs, his welcome would have been just as fervent, and the effect he has already produced just as great; for the thing that America fell for was his calm simplicity and gentleness. I wish that the American people could know that Mr. Balfour represents the type of British gentleman that we all hold as an ideal. Of course, we cannot all possess his personality, nor his brilliant intellect, but I am certain that we could try to copy his method of dealing with our cousins over here.

Sometimes I think that before a representative of our Empire is allowed to land in this country he should be forced to pass an examination held by the best humourists who work for the London Punch. An entente cordiale with America would then be perfectly simple. Perhaps it would be a good thing if our folk realized that they don't know anything about this country.

When American people see two Frenchmen and a couple of Englishmen misbehaving themselves, and treading on people's toes—not an unusual sight, especially in regard to the last named—they don't shrug their shoulders and say: "These Europeans, aren't they perfectly awful?" They merely remark: "English manners." Unfortunately that seems to be enough.

American people do not seem to understand what they call our "class distinctions." However, I am sure that they have not the slightest difficulty in understanding the type represented by Mr. Balfour. Christ died in order that we should be neighbourly. All nations have been affected by Christianity to a greater or to a less degree; in fact, at the back of all our minds there is still the Christian ideal of gentleness. When a man has attained that state of mind which prevents him from offending another by thought, word, or deed without decent provocation; and when by self discipline and training he has attained what Mathew Arnold called "sweet reasonableness" to me it seems he has approached very closely to the Christian ideal.

And so the word "gentleman" denotes something which cannot be in the least affected by birth or class distinctions. The only thing is that people of birth and fortune are able to study up the question a bit more thoroughly, and having time to read, they are influenced by the thousands of "gentlefolk" who have left their record upon the pages of history. Still amongst the very poor of Whitechapel and Battersea I have met some wonderful gentlemen and gentlewomen who would find great difficulty in reading even the editorial page of the New York Journal.

We are certainly living in thrilling times over here. Great Britain has a tremendous opportunity methinks. I hope that she will seize hold of it. It will be fine to have a great big strong friend beside us throughout the coming centuries. At the moment John Bull is a little puffed up with pride and so is Uncle Sam. Neither possesses much humility, but after the war they will both be a little thinner and the matter ought not to be difficult, though there will still be a few difficulties in the way.

Of course, to talk like this may seem a little strange when the British flag is flying all over America side by side with the Stars and Stripes. But flag waving and the bursting forth of sentimental oratory mean nothing, really. It is the foundation of a structure that counts, and the foundation of Anglo-American friendship must be a firm one. Perhaps one or two bricks in the present foundation could be removed with good results. I'm not going to talk about the American side of the business, but I do think that if some of the Britishers who arrive here would realize that they have got extremely irritating manners it might be a good thing.

If we are going to criticise our cousins, we should spend at least three years in their country; that would allow us to spend about a month in each state. Frankly, I believe that after a little experience here, if we should be normal persons wanting to find out things, all desire to criticise unkindly would leave us. At any rate we should take an intelligent line. We might learn a little, too. This would be a great help. Of course, the "Colonel's lady" would still perform surgical operations but she would do her work cleverly. Of course, America with its mighty size and variety of climates has been long enough inhabited to allow the formation of differing groups of people.

In England the people have a vague idea that a member of the Four Hundred, with a mansion on Fifth Avenue, represents a typical American. Tell that to a lady with a long list of polite ancestors and quite a lot of money who lives in Maryland. Tell it to an aristocratic New Englander whose ancestors braved the elements in the Mayflower. Mention it casually to some of the people living not too far from Rittenhouse Square, and then expect another invitation to dinner. You won't get one. The Mayflower business is very interesting. Some pretty funny people arrived in England with the Conqueror, judging by their descendants. His followers were very prolific, I am sure; but they had very small families when compared with pilgrims who arrived in the Mayflower.

I don't know very much about Washington, but I went to a party there not long ago which I shall never be able to forget. It was marvellous, and the most wonderful part about the function was my hostess, whose diamonds would ransom a king, but her jewels formed merely a setting to her own charming natural self. That's what I thought, at any rate, as I sat and chatted to her about the island in the west of Scotland from where her children's forebears came.

Like us and the Chinese, American people sometimes worship their ancestors, but they never burn this incense in front of their own folk, as far as I can see, except, of course, when they are related to the great Americans of the past. Some have wonderful crests of which they seem a little proud, and, of course, a good looking crest is a great help on the whole, especially in matters that don't count a scrap.

To the ordinary snob, things over here are a little difficult because you simply cannot place a person in his or her social sphere by studying the accent. In Great Britain we have this worked out in the most perfect manner so that from the moment of introduction almost, we can tell whether the person introduced is guilty of the terrible crime of being a "provincial," poor chap!

Frankly, I am going to dare to say that I think it would be a jolly good idea if some of the people I know and love did worry a little more about the way they pronounce their words, because a lot of them are simply too lazy to worry. However, the things they say are awfully nice and that is what counts in the long run, so I suppose it doesn't matter very much.

Talking about ancestors, a great friend of mine here in Bethlehem was faintly interested in his forebears, and visiting the place from where his father came he inquired from the lady of the inn if there were any Johnstones living in those parts. She replied: "Did you come up to the house in a hansom cab?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Well, that was a Johnstone that drove ye."

"Are there any others?" he asked.

"Yes, but they're all thieves."

She told him the story of a man wandering through the village seeking a "ludgin," and being exhausted, finally shouted: "Isn't there a 'Chreestian' living in this toon?" Up went a window, and a woman's voice shrieked: "Do ye no ken that there are only Johnstones and Jardines living in the place, ye feckless loon!" Down went the window.

VIII

LACRYMATORY SHELLS

Bethlehem, U. S. A., July 23, 1917.

A stray Englishman dropped in to see me the other night in New York. I know rather well the girl he had hoped to marry. He seemed rather depressed, and told me that she had written in reply to his proposal of marriage that if he thought that Providence had brought her to her by no means inconsiderable numbers of years especially to be reserved for him, it was obvious that he must regard as extremely shortsighted the Supreme Being guarding the lives of us poor mortals. He seems to have become very depressed and regarded all women as hard hearted tyrants. This lasted for some days and the moving pictures with a love-interest lost all their wonted charm. It was very sad because the lady is an extremely nice girl and very good looking, although she has been to Girton.

I don't know anything about the Cambridge women but I have seen a perfectly priceless suffragette from Girton, it was alleged, addressing a crowd in the market square at Cambridge, while a large throng of undergraduates looked at her with much admiration. I remember a low townee fellow said "rats" to one of her statements. She replied with the sweetest smile in the world: "That's an intelligent remark," while a large football player took revenge on the chap.

From all this you will gather that I know but little about the womenfolk of Blighty. I have never thought very much about them nor studied their habits. However, over here in America our countrywomen are well known by their female cousins. The American girl does not think much about the English girl, except to admire and like her accent, but the mature American women who thinks at all wonders a little at the docility towards their men folk shown by our women. I love to tease them about it. An American man observed to me once that England was "heaven for horses, but hell for women."

Yesterday I was coming from New York in a train with a lady from a small and very charming American town. We talked about many things and then about our women. I told her some "woppers" and she became steadily furious. I said to her that all women really liked "cave men," that they liked a man who could control them, someone big and strong and fine. I said that women were a little like horses; they invariably got rid of the fellow who could not control them, and that this explained the number of divorces in America. I pointed out, however, that the really brutal man was equally useless; but the fellow a woman liked best was the chap who took complete control and loved her an awful lot as well. "You know yourself that you love to do little things for your husband, to light his study lamps for him—perhaps when he is tired after a day's work while you have been to an interesting tea, to place his slippers by the study fire ready for him to put on before he dresses for dinner," I continued. The conversation became dangerous for she thought I was serious. Perhaps I was a little. But I could not have been altogether serious for I know nothing about the subject. However, I do remember once, years ago, staying at a country parsonage. The vicar was not at all poor. I was sitting in his study awaiting his return. As darkness commenced to creep over the countryside my hostess came in and removed from the chimney piece two large lamps which she proceeded to trim and finally to light. She then brought in and placed by the fire two soft house-shoes, and then examined the cushions on his chair. I wondered a little for there seemed an awful lot of servants about, but she explained that she had done the same thing for twelve years and liked to do it. "The poor boy is often so very tired after he returns from visiting, and servants never seem able to do these little things really well," she said. Then the vicar arrived and I was not at all astonished at the devotion shown by his wife.

But the lady from the little town, a very fashionable little American town, could not understand this at all. She got a little excited as she said: "If my husband were ill and could not walk I would gladly get his slippers for him": and across her face there crept a resigned and helpless look as though her husband were already ill. Of course, I was merely joking with her, but it was all very interesting and I got her point of view.

Now far be it from me to say a word against the girls of America. I think that they are perfectly wonderful. But why do they whiten their noses? That is a settled habit. However, it is interesting to study their habits. I think it is a fact that they do really control their husbands, and it seems to me a very good thing, too. I should not like to be controlled by a lady from New England, however, of the superior working class. One tried to control me once and I hated it, and used to thank a merciful Providence that she was not my wife. I would have committed suicide or escaped or something.

But let me tell you about Miss America as I see her. The subject is a dangerous one for a mere man to attempt, but I have a bon courage as a French lady once said after I had spoken much French.

Just after America broke off diplomatic relations with Germany we were all waiting for an "overt act." A fellow at lunch said that the only overt act that would stir the American heart to its depths would be the shelling of Atlantic City and the consequent death of all the "chickens." "Is Atlantic City the great poultry centre of the States?" I asked innocently. Everybody yelled at once, "Yes, Mac"; and then they all laughed. I wondered that if the great American heart could be stirred by the death of many hens what on earth would happen if the Boche shelled Broadway? But there seemed more in it than met the eye. I have since learnt what a "chicken" is.

When a girl of the working classes dresses herself particularly smartly (and, believe me, the American girl knows how to turn herself out very well), and also powders and paints her pretty little face, and then goes about the city seeking whom she may find she is then called a "chicken." She is not necessarily an immoral person as far as I can see. There is something fluffy and hop-skip-and-jumpy in her deportment. She believes that the world was made to enjoy one's self in and she thinks that necessarily to wait for an introduction to every nice boy one sees about is a waste of opportunities. I rather agree with her. So she does her very best to look charming. I hate the word, but she develops "cuteness" rather than anything else. Her shoes (white shoes, high heeled) are generally smartly cut and her frock well up to the fashion; but it is generally her hat that gives her more opportunities to display her powers. There is a tilt about it, something, I don't quite know what, that catches the eye. She seems to develop a hat that will agree with her eyes which are often very pretty and lively. Sometimes a curl or a wisp of hair just does the trick. She rather loves colours, but I think she knows how to make the very best of her appearance. One can imagine her spending hours at home making her own frocks and trimming her own hats. She often appears more smartly turned out than her sister higher up, the social leader. You see her by the hundreds in New York. I rather admire her attitude of mind. She certainly decorates the streets. At first I thought that a chicken was really an immoral young person, but as far as I can gather she is not necessarily more immoral than any other woman in any other class. I cannot tell you whether she is amusing or not. American men seem to find them very diverting.

The other type of hard working American girl I like very much. She works fearfully hard, and although her wages may be good, living in this country is relatively high. Unfortunately it is a little difficult for me to tell you very much about her. She can seldom understand my effort at English and she thinks I am a fool mostly, or an actor. When I have finished my business and have turned my back to go out she joins her friends and laughs. I find this offensive, but I suppose she means little harm. Even if she has to support a poor mother she will never let you know it by her personal appearance, which is never dowdy but always smart. She is very competent and clever, as far as I can see, and shoulders her burden with a fine spirit. I have at least four great friends in a store in Philadelphia whom I not only admire, but like very much. You see I am falling into the error of judging the women of a huge nation by the few persons I have met.

If I have not actually said so, I have nevertheless perhaps suggested to your mind that I regard Madame America as the survival of the fittest in domestic relations. Monsieur America has enough battles to fight in the business world without bothering about domestic politics and so Madame reigns supreme. You see, when a fellow over here seeks a wife he doesn't enjoy the process of courting unless he has to strive. A girl has got to be "rushed." I believe that there must be fewer women than men over here because every nice girl I know has several admirers. However, he has really a hectic time and has got to be very humble. Now in England I will admit that a fellow has also to be humble unless he is a conceited ass or very handsome, but his humility ends with the honeymoon and he assumes his position as lord of creation. This is expected of him. But Madame America refuses to regard her husband as anything else but her lover or her slave and she takes the necessary steps to keep him in his proper place. Sometimes she loses her intelligence and takes the pathetic attitude but no more often than her cousin in England does. This is very effective and causes some husbands to take a drink when they are more easily though less satisfactorily kept in subjection. Perhaps they develop a love for bowling alleys and other vices, and spend most of their time at the club.

More often Madame America succeeds by her efficiency in every direction. She refuses to grow old and lets her husband see that her affection and friendship are still worth striving for. She also sees that her household is run on thoroughly efficient lines and that the cooking is always satisfactory. I don't quite know how to describe it, but the very appearance of an American woman suggests fitness. By Jove, she certainly dresses well. I think that she expects to be amused rather than to amuse and in this she loses a little of woman's greatest power. I fear I am on dangerous ground. However, in my experience over here most of the married folk I have met seem just as happy as married folk anywhere else. Still I think that the woman in America is very much the head of the house. She has attained her position through her efficiency, so I suppose she deserves to maintain it. Politically it has interesting results. In some ways it may explain America's former peaceful attitude towards the Germans at the beginning of the war. Women don't like war outside their own houses, and they hate losing their sons. I would not dare to say it myself, but it has been alleged by someone or other that women have their sense of sympathy more developed than their sense of honour. They certainly are very loving persons and it does not matter to them whether the Kaiser insults the nation as long as he does not hurt their boys. I rather think that they would have not the slightest objection to fighting themselves if the flag were insulted. I suspect that they might enjoy it almost, but in regard to their sons they are indeed veritable cowards by proxy.

When an American man is away from his wife, I care not how respectable he be or how happily married, a change seems to creep all over him and he becomes at once the most boyish, lively, cheery person imaginable, even if he is sixty. He is not a dull person with Madame, but when he gets off by himself things begin to move. We British get hopelessly married, and our clubs never strike me as being particularly hilarious or buoyant sort of places. They always seem a little dull. I have been put up at a famous club in Philadelphia. Here mere man is supreme. No women may enter its sacred portals, no matter who she may be. Let me tell you about its habitués. Of course, it is impossible to say what sort of club it is in peace time; but, at the moment, all its members are well on the wrong side of thirty. The others have gone long ago.

The war has caused a great deal of depression amongst the remaining men of this club. When war broke out all the members from fifty downwards were thrilled. At last they were going to get a chance to fight for their country. Were they not all members of the City Troop? Certainly some of them needed pretty large horses to carry them, and some indeed found it difficult to button all the tiny buttons on their tunics. Still this would soon be made all right. Gee! it was fine to get a chance to fight those Huns.

Alas, the cold blooded doctor failed to pass some of them and the joy of belonging to the City Troop has left them. It is useless for the doctor to explain that unless a man is in the pink of condition it is impossible for him to last long in trench warfare. He collapses. They say that they don't object to this a bit, and then he has got to say brutally that a sick man costs the country at the front more money and more trouble than a single man is worth. So they are now convinced, but they hate it and go about helping all they can, but sadly. One day I was sitting in the club talking to three interesting men who were endeavouring to get as many horrors of war out of me as possible, when a cheery-faced gentleman appeared coming over towards us. The elderly man next to me brightened up and said: "Here comes a ray of sunshine down the cañon." He certainly was a ray of sunshine as he commenced to say quick, rapid funny things.

At this club there is a beautiful swimming pool with Turkish baths and other fancies attached. On the banks of the pool, so to speak, there are comfortable lounges and one can order anything one requires. There are generally several others there. On these occasions I always think that this world would have fewer wrecked homes if we went about dressed like Fijians. Just outside the pool is the dressing room with cubicles. It is a good idea to treat with respect all the members one sees here dressed in towels, especially during these military days.

But to return to the ladies—we had an interesting young person attached to our battery in France once. I'd like to tell you about her. Unfortunately she was merely a dream, an inspiration, or perhaps a rather vulgar, good-natured fairy who came from the "Never Never Land" to amuse and to interest the small group of officers living in the Vert Rue not very far from the city called by Thomas Atkins "Armon Tears."

One night after dinner the major, Wharton the senior subaltern, Taunton the junior subaltern, and I were sitting around the mess table in our billet. Suddenly in a thoughtful manner the major read aloud the following notice from one of the small batch of antique copies of the London Times which had been sent to him by a kindly wife: "Lady, young, would like to correspond with lonely subaltern. Address Box 411, London Times." After looking round at the three of us he remarked: "That seems to present possibilities; I think that Taunton had better answer it." The major, a wily person and one who never missed an opportunity to get something for his beloved battery, saw in the advertisement some amusement, and an opportunity to exploit kindness of heart on the part of some romantic young person. Taunton, young, good looking, nineteen, and woefully inexperienced in les affaires de cœur was obviously the man.

So the major commenced to dictate what seemed to us at the time to be a rather amusing letter. Taunton wrote rather slowly, as well as badly, so the major seized the pen and paper and did the job himself. As far as I remember the letter ran as follows:

"Dear Friend:

"The mail arrived this evening at the small hamlet from where my guns endeavour to kill and disturb the horrid Germans. I cannot, I fear, give you the exact geographical location, but you will doubtlessly regard our position as what 'our Special Correspondent, John Fibbs,' so originally calls 'Somewhere in France.'

"The mail arrived in a large canvas bag, and soon its sacred contents were safely deposited upon the ground by a gentle corporal, who seemed but little disturbed by the impatience displayed by sundry officers, as he endeavoured to sort the letters. Of course, I was there. I always am, but as usual there was nothing for me. Although I am hardened to such disappointments I felt my loneliness more keenly than ever to-night. I don't quite know why. Perhaps it was the obvious glee displayed by Sergeant Beetlestone as he unfolded a package of what he described as 'Tabs.' (You, dear friend, would call them cigarettes.) Perhaps it was the happiness on the face of Corporal Warner as he shared an anæmic meat pie with two friends.

"However, after dinner I sat disconsolate while the others, I mean my brother officers, held joyful converse with many sheets of closely written note paper. It is true that I was eating some frosted fruit sent to the major by his loving wife. Very near me on the table stood a large box of green sweets called "Crême de Mint," but they were sent to Wharton by his fiancée. I was very sad, and my mind rushed back to that famous picture of an aged lady twanging a harp with her eye fixed upon the portrait of her dead husband.

"Suddenly a look of hope must have crept over my features, as my eyes became fixed upon the table cloth, for thereon I read your charming notice. We always prefer the London Times as a table cloth. The paper is of good quality. One officer we had seemed to prefer the Daily Telegraph, but he got badly wounded and so prevented the recurrence of many arguments.

"You can have no idea what that little notice meant to me. It was the dawn of hope. A lady, young, desired to correspond with me; yes, with me. No longer should I stand alone and isolated during the happiest five minutes of the day, when the mail bag arrived from dear old England. No longer should I enjoy the sweets and candy purchased by another man's loved one. No longer should I be compelled to borrow and wear the socks, sweaters, mufflers, and mittens knitted by hands uninterested in me. All would soon be changed. Oh, the joy of it!

"Dear friend, I hope that soon I shall receive a photograph of your charming self so that my dugout may become a paradise. I intend to write regularly to you and I expect you to prove likewise constant.

"When the sun starts to sink from my sight,
When the birds start to roost 'neath the eaves,
There's one thing that's to me a delight—
The mail bag from Blighty.

"Already, you will see, I am breaking into verse, but when I receive your photograph I may even write a sonnet. And now I will close my letter and retire to my dugout buoyed up with hope and confidence.

"Yours very sincerely,
"Hector Clarke-Stuart."

The major seemed to like the letter and we agreed that it ought to produce results. None of us dared to acknowledge our ignorance in regard to the famous picture he had described. Our major was a fashionable person who went to the opera always and had even been known to attend the Royal Academy.

At this moment I had an inspiration and confided it to Wharton. We both knew the major's wife well. Among many charms she possessed a sparkling sense of humour, both active and passive. I correspond with her regularly. I wrote a long letter upon this evening.

The next day the major took Taunton and a couple of guns to a position several miles away to prepare for the battle of Loos, so he was not at the battery when two letters arrived addressed to Lieutenant Clarke-Stuart, Wharton and I therefore retired to a dugout with the two letters and steamed them open. One was from a very respectable English miss who lived in a south coast town. She described her daily life with some detail and the view from her bedroom window "across the bay," but when she remarked that she and her brothers had always "kept themselves to themselves," thereby showing consideration for others but a mean spirit, we decided to kill her for the time being. Wharton, very respectable, and a typical Englishman, had certain doubts but we carried on.