* * * * *

To Paris by the “Hindenburg line.”

A Teuton tribute to the organiser of Victory.

  That man at dawn should certainly be shot
    For being such a liar,
  Who says that you, my Hindenburg, are not
  As high as our All-Highest, mate of Gott
    (Or even slightly higher).

  Stout thruster, in the push you have no peer,
    Yet more supremely brilliant
  This crowning stroke of progress toward the rear,
  This strong recoil from which with heartened cheer
    We hope to bound resilient.

  Lo! the creative spirit’s vital spark! 
    None but a genius, we say,
  Would make his onset backward in the dark
  Or choose this route for getting at the Arc
    De Triomphe (Champs Elysees).

  Nor to your care for detail are we blind;
    Your handiwork we view in
  The reeking waste our warriors leave behind;
  We read the motions of a master-mind
    In that red trail of ruin.

  And not alone by yonder blackened beams,
    By garth and homestead burning,
  You put the sanguine enemy off your schemes,
  Who gaily follows up and never dreams
    That we’ll be soon returning;

  But by these speaking signs of godly hate,
    This ruthless ravage (prosit!),
  You teach a barbarous world how truly great
  Our German Gospel, and how grim the fate
    Of people who oppose it!

  Then praised be Heaven because we cannot fail
    With Hindenburg to boss us;
  And for each hearth stript naked to the gale
  Let grateful homage plug another nail
    In your superb colossus.  O.S.

* * * * *

Rations.

As I said to John, I can bear anger and sarcasm—­but contempt, not.  Binny and Joe are our cats, and the most pampered of pets.  Every day, when our meals were served, there was spread upon the carpet a newspaper, on which Binny and Joe would trample, clamouring, until a plate containing their substantial portion was laid down:  after which we were free to proceed with our own meal.

Then came the paralysing shock of Lord DEVONPORT’S ration announcement, in which no mention is made of cats.  Binny and Joe looked at one another in consternation over their porridge as I read aloud his statement from the newspaper at breakfast.

When I came in to luncheon I had a letter in my hand and accidentally dropped the envelope.  Paper of any kind upon the carpet is associated in Binny’s mind with the advent of food.  Straightway he thudded from his arm-chair and sat down upon the envelope.  You will notice that I speak above of Binny and Joe.  I do so instinctively, because, though Binny is only half Joe’s age of one year, somehow he always