Herr M. I know; but he is graciously pleased to forget that, and to desire a genuine victory now.

Von H. Tell him I cannot promise.  We have done our best at Verdun, at Lens and at Ypres, but we have had to retreat everywhere.  Our turn may come another time, but, as I say, I cannot promise.

Herr M. Please go on doing your best.  It is so annoying and temper-spoiling for HIS MAJESTY to make so many speeches of a fiery kind, and never to have a victory—­at least not a real one for which Berlin can hang out flags.  Besides, if we don’t get a victory how shall we ever get a good German peace?  And peace we must have, and that very soon.

Von H. Don’t talk to me of peace.  War is my business, not peace; and if I am to carry on war there must be no interference.  If the ALL-HIGHEST does not like that, let him take the chief command himself.

Herr M. God forbid!

* * * * *

LINES TO A HUN AIRMAN,

WHO AROUSED THE DETACHMENT ON A CHILLY MORNING, AT 2.30 A.M.

  Oh, come again, but at another time;
    Choose some more fitting moment to appear,
  For even in fair Gallia’s sunny clime
    The dawns are chilly at this time of year.

  I did not go to bed till one last night,
    I was on guard, and, pacing up and down,
  Gazed often on the sky where every light
    Flamed like a gem in Night’s imperial crown;

  And when the clamant rattle’s hideous sound
    Roused me from sleep, in a far distant land
  My spirit moved and trod familiar ground,
    Where a Young Hopeful sat at my right hand.

  There was a spotless cloth upon the board,
    Thin bread-and-butter was upon me pressed,
  And China tea in a frail cup was poured—­
    Then I rushed forth inadequately dressed.

  Lo! the poor Sergeant in a shrunken shirt,
    His manly limbs exposed to morning’s dew,
  His massive feet all paddling in the dirt—­
    Such sights should move the heart of even you.

  The worthy Corporal, sage in looks and speeches,
    Holds up his trousers with a trembling hand;
  Lucky for him he slumbered in his breeches—­
    The most clothed man of all our shivering band.

  The wretched gunners cluster on the gun,
    Clasping the clammy breech and slippery shells;
  If ’tis a joke they do not see the fun
    And damn you to the worst of DANTE’S hells.

  And Sub-Lieutenant Blank, that martial man,
    Shows his pyjamas to a startled world,
  And shivers in the foremost of our van
    The while our H.E. shells are upwards hurled.

  You vanish, not ten centimes worth the worse
    For all our noise, so far as we can tell;
  The blest “Stand easy” comes; with many a curse
    We hurry to the tents named after Bell.[1]