Noon.  As the Texas darky said:  “Dinnertime fur some folks; but just twelve o’clock fur me!” Again I smell something cooking upstairs.  On the mantel of the shabby little interior sitting room, where we spend most of our time sitting about in a sad circle, is a little black-and-tan terrier pup, stuffed and mounted, with shiny glass eyes—­a family pet, I take it, which died and was immortalized by the local taxidermist.  If I only knew what that dog was stuffed with I would take a chance and eat him.

I have a fellow feeling for Arctic explorers who go north and keep on going until they run out of things to eat.  I admire their heroism and sympathize with their sufferings, but I deplore their bad judgment.  There are grapes growing on trellises in the little courtyard at the back, but they are too green for human consumption.  I speak authoritatively on this subject, having just sampled one.

Two p.m.  Tried to take a nap, but failed.  Hansen found a soiled deck of cards behind a pile of books on the mantelpiece, and we all cheered up, thinking of poker; but it was a Belgian deck of thirty-two cards, all the pips below the seven-spot being eliminated.  Poker with that deck would be a hazardous pursuit.

McCutcheon remarks casually that he wonders what would happen if somebody accidentally touched off those field-gun shells in the house two doors away.  We suddenly remember that they are all pointed our way!  The conversation seems to lull, and Mac, for the time being, loses popularity.

Two-thirty p.m.  Looking out on the dreary little square of this town of Beaumont I note that the natives, who have been scarce enough all day, have now vanished almost entirely; whereas soldiers are noticeably more numerous than they were this morning.

Three-fifteen p.m.  Heard a big noise in the street and ran to the window in time to see about forty English prisoners passing under guard —­the first English soldiers I have seen, in this campaign, either as prisoners or otherwise.  Their tan khaki uniforms and flat caps give them a soldierly look very unlike the slovenly, sloppy-appearing French prisoners in the guardhouse; but they appear to be tremendously downcast.  The German soldiers crowd up to stare at them, but there is no jeering or taunting from the Germans.  These prisoners are all infantrymen, judging by their uniforms.  They disappear through the gateway of the prince’s park.

Three-forty.  I have just had some exercise; walked from the front door to the courtyard and back.  There are two guards outside the door now instead of one.  The German army certainly takes mighty good care of its guests.

This day has been as long as Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall,” and much more tiresome.  No; I’ll take that back; it is not strong enough.  This day has been as long as the entire Christian Era.

Four p.m.  Gerbeaux, who was allowed to go out foraging, under escort of a guard, has returned with a rope of dried onions; a can of alphabet noodles; half a pound of stale, crumbly macaroons; a few fresh string beans; a pot of strained honey, and several clean collars of assorted sizes.  The woman of the-house is now making soup for us out of the beans, the onions and the noodles.  She has also produced a little grated Parmesan cheese from somewhere.