pays her “to bind the two nations closer together” etc. etc.  And I’ve got to go to Cambridge to receive an LL.D. for the President.  Only such things are allowed to interrupt us.  And we are very much hoping to see Frank here.

We are in sound of the battle.  We hear the big guns whenever we go outdoors.  A few miles down the beach is a rifle range and we hear the practice there.  Almost any time of day we can hear aeroplanes which (I presume) belong to the coast guard.  There’s no danger of forgetting the war, therefore, unless we become stone deaf.  But this decent air and sunshine are blessings of the highest kind.  I never became so tired of anything since I had the measles as I’ve become of London.  My Lord! it sounded last night as if we had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.  Just as we were about to go to bed the big gun on the beach—­just outside the fence around our yard—­about 50 yards from the house, began its thundering belch—­five times in quick succession, rattling the windows and shaking the very foundation of things.  Then after a pause of a few minutes, another round of five shots.  Then the other guns all along the beach took up the chorus—­farther off—­and the inland guns followed.  They are planted all the way to London—­ninety miles.  For about two hours we had this roar and racket.  There was an air raid on, and there were supposed to be twenty-five or thirty German planes on their way to London.  I hear that it was the worst raid that London has had.  Two of them were brought down—­that’s the only good piece of news I’ve heard about it.  Well, we are not supposed to be in danger.  They fly over us on the way to bigger game.  At any rate I’ll take the risk for this air and sunshine.  Trenches and barbed wire run all along the beach—­I suppose to help in case of an invasion.  But an invasion is impossible in my judgment.  Holy Moses! what a world!—­the cannon in the big battle in France roaring in our ears all the time, this cannon at our door likely to begin action any night and all the rest along the beach and on the way to London, and this is what we call rest!  The world is upside down, all crazy, all murderous; but we’ve got to stop this barbaric assault, whatever the cost.

     Ray Stannard Baker is spending a few days with us, much to our
     pleasure.

     With love to Leila and the babies,

     Yours affectionately,
     W.H.P.

     To Arthur W. Page

     Rest Harrow, Sandwich Beach,
     Sandwich, Kent, England. 
     May 20, 1918.

     DEAR ARTHUR: