[Illustration:  FARMER (who has got a lady-help in the dairy):  “’Ullo, Missy, what in the world be ye doin’?”

LADY:  “Well, you told me to water the cows, and I’m doing it.  They don’t seem to like it much.”]

July, 1916.

On the home front we have long been accustomed to the sound of guns, small and great, but it has come from training camps and inspires confidence rather than anxiety.  We have been spared the horrors of invasion, occupation, wholesale devastation.  In certain areas the noise of bombs and anti-aircraft guns has grown increasingly familiar, and on our south-east and east coasts war from the air, on the sea, and under the sea has become more and more audible as the months pass by.  But July has brought us a new experience—­the sound fifty or sixty miles inland in peaceful rural England, amid glorious midsummer weather, of the continual throbbing night and day of the great guns on the Somme, where our first great offensive opened on the 1st, and has continued with solid and substantial gains, some set-backs, heavy losses for the Allies, still heavier for the enemy.  Names of villages and towns, which hitherto have been to most of us mere names on the map, have now become luminous through shining deeds of glory and sacrifice—­Contalmaison and Mametz, Delville Wood, Thiepval and Beaumont-Hamel, Serre and Pozieres.

The victory, for victory it is, has not been celebrated in the German way.  England takes her triumphs as she takes defeats, without a sign of having turned a hair: 

  Yet we are proud because at last, at last
    We look upon the dawn of our desire;
  Because the weary waiting-time is passed
    And we have tried our temper in the fire;
      And proving word by deed
  Have kept the faith we pledged to France at need.

  But most because, from mine and desk and mart,
    Springing to face a task undreamed before,
  Our men, inspired to play their prentice part
    Like soldiers lessoned in the school of war,
      True to their breed and name,
  Went flawless through the fierce baptismal flame.

  And he who brought these armies into life,
    And on them set the impress of his will—­
  Could he be moved by sound of mortal strife,
    There where he lies, their Captain, cold and still
      Under the shrouding tide,
  How would his great heart stir and glow with pride!

[Illustration:  “TWO HEADS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT”

FIRST HEAD:  “What prospects?” SECOND HEAD:  “Rotten.”  FIRST HEAD:  “Same here.”]

The results of the battle of the Somme are shown in a variety of ways:  by the reticence and admissions of the German Press, by its efforts to divert attention to the exploits of the commercial submarine cruiser Deutschland; above all, by the Kaiser’s fresh explosions of piety.  “The Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be.”  There is no further sign of his fleet, which remains crippled by its “victory.”  Nor can he, still less his Ally, draw comfort from the situation on the Russian or Italian fronts.