The Government have not pleased the people even in this matter.  One glorious summer day, after tramping alone the sandy roads of Southern Brandenburg, I came to a little red-brick village in the midst of its sea of waving rye and blaze of sunflowers and poppies.  Taking my seat at the long table in front of the local Gasthaus, and ordering some imitation coffee—­the only refreshment provided in the absence of a local bread ticket—­I pointed out one of these notices to the only other person at the table, who was drinking some “extraordinarily weak beer,” as he put it.  “Have the people here planted much of these things I see on that notice?” I asked, pointing to one of the placards.  “Yes,” he said, “certainly.  A great deal; but the Government is going to be false to us again.  It will be commandeered at a price which they have already set.”  Then came the usual string of grumbles which one hears everywhere in the agricultural districts.  I will not repeat them.  They all have to do with the food shortage, profiteering, and discontent at the length of the war.

Though all Germans, with the exception of a few profiteers, are grumbling at the length of the war, it must not be supposed that they have lost hope.  In fact their grumblings are punctuated frequently by very bright hopes.  When Douaumont fell, food troubles were forgotten.  The bells rang, the flags were unfurled, faces brightened, crowds gathered before the maps and discussed the early fall of Verdun and the collapse of France.  Again I heard on every hand the echo of the boasts of the first year of the war.

The glorious manner in which France hurled back the assault was making itself felt in Germany with a consequent depression over food shortage when the greatest naval victory in history—­so we gathered, at least, from the first German reports—­raised the spirits and hopes of the people so high that they fully believed that the blockade had been smashed.  On the third day of the celebration, Saturday, June 3rd, I rode in a tram from Wilmersdorf, a suburb of Berlin, to the heart of the city through miles of streets flaring with a solid mass of colour.  From nearly every window and balcony hung pennants and flags; on every trolley pole fluttered a pennant of red, white and black.  Even the ancient horse ’buses rattled through the streets with the flags of Germany and her allies on each corner of the roof.  The newspapers screamed headlines of triumph, nobody could settle down to business, the faces one met were wreathed in smiles, complaining was forgotten, the assurance of final victory was in the very air.

Unter den Linden, the decorations on which were so thick that in many cases they screened the buildings from which they hung, was particularly happy.  Knots of excited men stood discussing the defeat of the British Fleet.  Two American friends and I went from the street of happy and confident talk into the Zollernhof Restaurant.  With the din of the celebration over the “lifting of the blockade” ringing in our ears from the street, we looked on the bill of fare, and there, for the first time, we saw Boiled Crow.