Chapter XVIII: Through Pennsylvania 219 (2)

But wait till you see him on a horse which has not a good figure, but an extremely useful mouth that can be tugged to pieces by John Devereaux as he wheels him around. I am going to start a mission to movie actors in horse management, and I am going to dare to tell them that to make a horse come round quickly and still be able to use him for many years, it is not necessary to jag his dear old mouth to bits. I am also going to teach them how to feed a horse so that his bones don't stick out in parts even if he is a wicked looking pie-bald. I am also going to teach them that if you have twelve miles to ride it is an awful thing to jag your spurs into his flanks and make him go like hell. I suppose they will enjoy my mission, and it will have the same success that all missions have--but this by the way.

John Devereaux is a very handsome chap, and I like him from the start, and I am greatly comforted when I know that the charming young person will throw her fan in the face of the boss, pinch all his money and live for a few sad days in extremely old-fashioned but becoming clothes (generally a striped waist) with another worthy but poor friend, and then marry our hero. I come away greatly comforted and retire, feeling that the world without romance would be a dull place.

I love the crazy ones, I love to see fat old ladies taking headers into deep ponds. I love to see innocent fruit sellers getting run into by Henry Ford motors. I love to see dozens of policemen massing and then suddenly leaving their office and rushing like fury along the road after--Charlie Chaplin. Give me crazy movies. They are all brimming over with the most innocent fun and merriment. It is a pity that they are generally so short, but I suppose the actors get tired after a time.

The society pictures must impress greatly the tired working woman; a little pathetic this, really. Perhaps I am ignorant of the doings of the four hundred, but if they live as the movie people live it must be strangely diverting to be a noble American. The decorations in their houses must supply endless hours of exploration, and the wonderful statuary must help one to attain Nirvana. I've heard of ne'er-do-well sons, but I did not know they had such amusing times.

In the society drama, the son leaves his beautiful southern home with white pillars and his innocent playmate, very pretty and hopeful and nicely gowned, and finds himself at Yale or Harvard. I wish Cambridge and Oxford presented the same number of possibilities. Here he meets the vampire, horrid and beastly, and falls for her and never thinks of his innocent father and mother solemnly opening the family Bible and saying a few choice prayers, while the playmate worries in the background, praying fervently. It is all very sad and becomes heart-rending when the pretty playmate retires to her room, puts on the most lovely sort of garment all lace and things, and after praying and looking earnestly at a crucifix, hops into bed, never forgetting to remove her slippers. Then the scene stops and she probably curses the fellow working the lights if he has not got a good shine on her gorgeous hair while she prays. But don't worry, she marries the son all right. The vamp dies, probably punctured by a bullet from an old "rough neck" accomplice, or a married man.

The court scenes present wonderful possibilities for the services of some dear old chap as judge. He is an awful nice old fellow.

They are all the same and bore me stiff unless a rather decent sort of chap called Ray appears in them and he has a cleansing influence. There is also a lady called Marsh whom I rather like. Besides being good looking she can act wonderfully and is always natural. I can stand any sort of society drama with her in it. Sometimes the heroes are peculiarly horrible with nasty sloppy long hair, and not nearly as good looking as the leading man in the best male chorus in New York.

The crook stories are fine. They take place mostly in underground cellars. I love the wicked looking old women and fat gentlemen who drink a great deal. However, there are hair-breadth escapes which thrill one, and plenty of policemen and clever looking inspectors and so on.

Seriously, the movies have revolutionized society in many ways. People like Douglas Fairbanks are a great joy to us all. The people who write his plays have learnt that it is the touch of nature that counts most in all things with every one. And so he laughs his way along the screen journey, and we all enter into movie land, where the sun is shining very brightly and the trees are very green, and we all live in nice houses, and meet only nice people with just a few villains thrown in, whom we can turn into nice people by smiling at them. He changes things for us sometimes. Rhoda sitting next to Trevor sees him through different eyes and she gives his hand a good hard squeeze. He is a sort of Peter Pan, really.

Mothers in movie land are always jolly and nice. Fathers are often a little hard, but they come round all right or get killed in an exciting accident. Generally they come round. The parsons worry me a little. Being a zealous member of the Church of England, I object strongly to the sanctimonious air and beautiful silvery hair displayed by ministers in movie land. They marry people off in no time, too, and a little promiscuously, I think.

Except at the Scala, where the pictures used to be good and dull, most of the movie theatres are a little impossible in Blighty. I wonder why. In New Zealand there are fine picture theatres and in Australia they are even better, but if you venture into one in London you want to get out quick. Here in America they are ventilated, and there is generally a pipe organ to help one to wallow in sentiment. Often it seems well played, too, and, at any rate, the darkness and the music blend well together and one can get into "Never Never Land" quite easily and comfortably.

V

A CHRISTMAS TRUCE

BETHLEHEM, U.S.A., January 25, 1917.

On the twenty-second day of last month, I was preparing to spend a comparatively happy Christmas at the house of some friends who possessed many children. Unfortunately, I met the Assistant Superintendent of Shop No. 2, who, after greeting me in an encouraging manner, said, "Lootenant, I am very glad to see you, I want your help. We are held up by the failure of the people in Detroit to deliver trunnion bearings. Would it be possible for you to run out there and see how they are getting on, and perhaps you could get them to send a few sets on by express?"

That Assistant Superintendent never did like me.

Now Detroit is a long way from Bethlehem, and at least twenty-four hours by train, so it looked as though my merry Christmas would be spent in a Pullman. I'd rather spend Christmas Day in a workhouse, for even there "the cold bare walls" are alleged to be "bright with garlands of green and holly," and even bitterly acknowledged by many small artists reciting that "piece" to help to form a "pleasant sight." But Christmas Day in a Pullman! And worse still, Christmas night in a sleeper, with the snorers. Mon Dieu!

If a person snores within the uttermost limit of my hearing, I must say good-bye to sleep, no matter how tired I may be. It is a strange thing how many otherwise nice people snore. Travelling in America has for me one disadvantage--the fact that one has to sleep, like a dish on a Welsh dresser, in the same compartment with about forty people, six of whom surely snore. There is the loud sonorous snore of the merchant prince, the angry, pugnacious bark of the "drummer," the mature grunt of the stout lady, and the gentle lisp-like snore of the debutante. You can't stop them. One would expect "Yankee ingenuity" to find a way out.

I think that there ought to be a special padded Pullman for the snoring persons. It ought to be labelled in some way. Perhaps a graceful way would be to have the car called "Sonora." Then all people should carry with them a small card labelled, "The bearer of this pass does not snore," and then the name of a trusted witness or the stamp of a gramaphone company without the advertisement "His Master's Voice." You see a person could be placed in a room, and at the moment of sinking into somnolence, a blank record could start revolving, and be tried out in the morning.

Or perhaps the label would read, "The bearer of this card snores." Then the gramaphone company might advertise a little with the familiar "His Master's Voice." It would be awful to lose your label if you were a non-snorer, and then to be placed in the special sleeper. Perhaps there might be a "neutral" car for the partial snorers.

I slept in a stateroom on a liner once next to a large man and his large wife, and they were both determined snorers. They used to run up and down the scale and never started at the bottom together. It was a nice mathematical problem to work out when they met in the centre of the scale.

As a matter of fact, I don't mind the snoring on a Pullman when the train gets going, because you cannot hear it then, but sometimes in an optimistic frame of mind you decide to board the sleeper two hours before the train starts. Your optimism is never justified, for sure enough, several people start off. It is useless to hold your hands to your ears; you imagine you hear it, even if you don't. So possessing yourself with patience, you read a book, until the train starts. Asphyxiation sets in very soon, but, alas, the train develops a hot box, and you awake once more to the same old dreary noises. I hope that soon they will have that special car. If they don't, the porter ought to be supplied with a long hooked rake, and as he makes his rounds of inspection, he should push the noisy people into other positions. This would look very interesting.

However, on this journey to Detroit I boarded the train at Bethlehem on its way to Buffalo and no hot boxes were developed, so I enjoyed a very peaceful night, although I was slightly disturbed when a dear old lady mistook my berth for hers, and placed her knee on my chest, and got an awful fright. That is one of the advantages of taking an "upper" over here. You have time to head off night walkers because they have got to get the step-ladder, the Pullman porter is not always asleep, and you hear them as they puff up the stairs. Although I prefer the little stateroom cars we have in England, I must admit that the beds in a Pullman are very large and well supplied with blankets and other comforts.

I arrived at Detroit, and after a long chat about the war with the man who counted most, I suggested that he would be doing us all a great favour if he sent a few trunnion bearings on by express at once. He said, "Sure!" I love that American word "Sure." There is something so intimate, so encouraging about it, even if nothing happens. Detroit is a wonderful city and the people whom I met there awfully decent.

I went through several factories, and I must admit that I have seen nothing in this country to compare with them. There are vaster plants in the East, but for the display of really efficient organization, give me Detroit. I liked the careful keenness displayed. There is something solid, something lasting about Detroit, that struck me at once in spite of its newness. It is always alleged in the East that the Middle West is notoriously asleep in regard to national duty, but I rather suspect that if the time arrives for this country to fight, it will be towns like Detroit, towards the Middle West, that will be the rapid producers.

Of course, Henry Ford has his wonderful motor car factory here where he lets loose upon an astonished world and grateful English vicars of little wealth, his gasping, highly efficient, but unornamental, metal arm breakers called by the vulgar "flivvers," and by the more humorous "tin Lizzies." Having heard so much about this plant, I denied myself the pleasure of going through it. I hear that it is very wonderful.

All these remarks are merely offensive impressions and carry but little weight even in my own mind. Still I definitely refuse to regard the Middle West as asleep to national duty.

I left Detroit or rather tried hard and finally succeeded in leaving that fair city; and still dreading to spend Christmas day in a Pullman I made up my mind to spend the holidays at Niagara in Ontario. Incidentally, at Niagara I received a wire from Detroit in the following words: "Have sent by express four sets of trunnion bearings. A merry Xmas to you."

While I am glad to praise Detroit, and especially its best hotel, I cannot for a single moment admire, or even respect, the time-table kept by the trains that ran through its beautiful station last month around Christmas.

I decided to leave by a train which was alleged to depart at twelve o'clock. I jumped into a taxi at eleven-fifty. "You're cutting things pretty fine," said the chauffeur, "but I guess we will make it all right." Hence we dashed along the road at a pretty rapid rate and I thought the driver deserved the extra quarter that I gladly gave to him. I placed my things in the hands of a dark porter and gasped: "Has the train gone?" My worry was quite unnecessary. In the great hall of the station there were about three hundred of Henry Ford's satellites going off on their Christmas vacation, as well as many others. The train that should have gone six hours before had not arrived. There were no signs of mine. It seemed to have got lost, for nothing could be told about it. Other trains were marked up as being anything from three to six hours overdue.

After waiting in a queue near the enquiry office for about an hour, I at last got within speaking distance of the man behind the desk marked "Information." He could tell me nothing, poor chap. His chin was twitching just like a fellow after shell shock. Noting my sympathetic glance, he told me that an enquiry clerk only lasted one-half hour if he were not assassinated by angry citizens who seemed to blame him for the trains being late. He denied all responsibility, while admitting the honour. He said that he was the sixth to be on duty. The rest had been sent off to the nearest lunatic asylum. At that moment he collapsed and was carried away on a stretcher, muttering, "They ain't my trains, feller." Never was such a night. I made several life long friends. All the food in the buffet got eaten up and the attendant women had quite lost their tempers and quarreled with anyone who looked at all annoyed.

After waiting about five hours, I became a little tired. I was past being annoyed, and expected to spend my life in that station hall, so I sought food in the buffet. As I approached the two swinging doors, they opened as if by magic and two good looking, cheery faced boys stood on each side like footmen and said: "Good evening, Cap."

"Ha!" thought I to myself, "what discernment! They can tell at once that I am a military man," so I smile pleasantly upon them and asked them how they knew that I was an officer in spite of my mufti. They looked astonished, but quickly regaining their composure, asked what regiment I belonged to. I told them, and soon we got very friendly and chatty. They introduced me to several friends who gathered round, and fired many questions at me in regard to the war. Amongst their number was a huge person of kindly aspect. One of my early friends whispered that he was the captain of their football team and a very great person. He said but little. They explained that they were members of a dramatic club, and that they had given a performance in Detroit. We chatted a great deal, and then a fellow of unattractive appearance, and insignificant aspect remarked: "You British will fight until the last Frenchman dies." He laughed as he said it. He used the laugh which people who wish to prevent bodily injury to themselves always use when they insult a person. It is the laugh of a servant, a laugh which prevents a man from getting really annoyed. I am glad to say that the rest turned upon him and I merely said lightly: "There are many fools going about but it is difficult to catalogue their variety until they make similar remarks to yours."

The large football player was particularly annoyed with that chap and the others remarked that he was a "bloody German." We were much too tired and weary to talk seriously, but I gathered from these youths that they were very keen to get across to the other side, to fight the Boche.

We discussed Canada. It almost seemed that they wanted to sell Canada so great was the admiration they expressed. They envied the Canadians their opportunity to fight the Germans. They praised the country, its natural resources and beauty. They admired the Englishness of their neighbors. This is an interesting fact: all Americans that I have met cannot speak too highly of the Canadians. I have heard American women talking with the greatest of respect about our nation as represented by our people in Canada and Bermuda.

After a couple of hours these fellows went off, expressing a desire to take me with them. In fact, two of them tried hard to persuade me to go to Chicago in their special. Evidently they had had a good supper. I hope that I shall meet the large football chap again.

At about seven in the morning my train at last appeared, and as the sun was rising, I climbed into my upper berth while the fellow on the lower groaned, stating that he had the influenza, called "the grip" over here. This sounded encouraging, for I expected to breathe much of his air.

I at last arrived at Niagara in Ontario and sought the Inn called Clifton. It is run very much on English lines and suggests a very large country cottage in Blighty, with its chintz hangings. All around was a wide expanse of snow and the falls could be heard roaring in the distance. I had seen them before, so I promptly had a very hot bath and lay down and went to sleep in my charming little bedroom with its uneven roof.

I am not going to describe the Falls. They are too wonderful and too mighty for description, but they are not too lovely and not too wonderful as a great beauty gift from God to prevent us humans from building great power houses on the cliffs around, and so marring their beauty.

I spent a happy Christmas at this house and met several Canadian men with their women folk who had come down to spend a quiet Christmas. They were very kind to me and I liked them all immensely. One lady remarked that it was a very good idea to want to spend Christmas with my own people. This was astonishing and pleasing, for most of my friends who had gone over to Canada to do harvesting during the long vacations from Oxford and Cambridge had hated it. It told me one great thing, however, that the Canadian people had grown to know us better, and had evidently decided that every stray home-made Briton was not a remittance man, but might possibly, in spite of his extraordinary way of speaking English, be a comparatively normal person possessing no greater number of faults than other mortals. I found these people very interesting, and one very charming lady introduced me to the poetry of Rupert Brooke. She had one of his volumes of poetry containing an introduction detailing his life.

I read this introduction with much interest. It spoke about the river at Cambridge, just above "Byron's Pool"--a very familiar spot. I had often plunged off the dam into the cool depths above and had even cooked moorhens' eggs on the banks. I will admit that my ignorance of Rupert Brooke and his genius showed a regrettably uninformed mind. I can only murmur with the French shop keepers "_c'est la guerre_." These people made me very much at home and they all had a good English accent--not the affected kind, but a natural sort of accent.

American people then came in for their share of criticism. The Canadians are learning many lessons from us. I think, of course, that America ought to be in this war, but I do know that all my American men friends would give their last cent to make the President declare war, and I have learnt not to mention the subject.

They were very sympathetic about my having to live with the Yankees. One very nice man said with a smile, I fear of superiority: "And how do you like living with the Yankees?"

I was at a loss to know how to reply. I hate heroics, and I distrust the person who praises his friends behind their backs with too great a show of enthusiasm. It is a kind of newspaper talk and suspicious. Besides, I desired to be effective, to "get across" with praise of my American friends, so I merely stated all the nice things I had ever heard the Americans say about Canada and the Canadians. This took me a long time. They accepted the rebuke like the gentlefolk they were. Still, I thought the feeling about America was very interesting.

Upon my return to the States, I mentioned this to a friend and he said that he knew about the feeling, but he explained that it was really a pose, and was a survival of the feeling from the old revolution days when the loyalists took refuge in Canada. I then gathered that my Canadian friends were merely "high flying after fashion," like Mrs. Boffin in "Our Mutual Friend."

I went to church on the Sunday and enjoyed singing "God Save the King." The minister spoke well, but like the American clergy, he preached an awfully long sermon. Everything seems to go quickly and rapidly over here except the sermons.

I went to a skating rink filled with many soldiers and was asked by a buxom lass where my uniform was, and why was I not fighting for the King. I felt slightly annoyed. However, I enjoyed the skating until a youth in uniform barged into me and passed rude remarks about my clothing generally.

This was too much for my temper, so I _strafed_ him until he must have decided that I was at least a colonel in mufti. He will never be "fresh" to a stranger again, and he left the rink expecting to be court-martialled.

The next day I had influenza, and I remembered my friend in the train at Detroit. However, I went to Toronto and endeavored to buy a light coat at a large store. I am not a very small person, but evidently the attendant disliked me on sight. After he had tried about three coats on me he remarked pleasantly that they only kept men's things in his department, so I _strafed_ him, and left Canada by the very next train. I felt furious. However, I recognised a man I knew on the train whom I had seen at Popperinge near Ypres. He had been a sergeant in the Canadian forces, so we sat down and yarned about old days in "Flounders." He was the dining-room steward. He healed my wounded pride when I told him about the coat incident and said: "Why didn't you crack him over the head, sir! Those sort of fellows come in here with their 'Gard Darm'--but I don't take it now. No, sir!" Still it was fine to visit Canada and I felt very much at home and very proud of the Empire.

Now in the days of peace I should have come away from Canada with a very firm determination never to visit the place again, but the war has changed one's outlook on all things. Still I longed to get back to my Yankee and well loved friends who don't mind my "peculiar English twang" a bit.

I was urged one night at a country club to join a friend at another table--to have a drink of orangeade. I showed no signs of yielding, so my friend--he was a great friend--said, "Please, Mac, come over, these fellows want to hear you speak." They wanted to listen to my words of wisdom? Not a bit! It was my accent they wanted. But there was no intention of rudeness; the fellow was too much my friend for that, but he wanted to interest his companions. Sometimes I have apologised for my way of speaking, remarking that I could not help it, and at once every one has said, "For the love of Mike, don't lose your English accent." Perhaps they meant that as a comedian I presented possibilities.

It might be a good idea to give you a few impressions of the folk in Bethlehem. Obviously they can be little else than impressions, and they can tell you little about Americans as a whole. The people of Bethlehem divide themselves roughly into six groups--the Moravians (I place them first), the old nobility, the new aristocracy, the great mass of well-to-do store-keepers and the like, the working class of Americans, largely Pennsylvania Dutch, and the strange mixture of weird foreigners who live in South Bethlehem near and around the steel works.

But let me tell you about the Moravians; they have been awfully good to me during the four months I have lived with them. Just to live in the same town with them helps one quite a lot.

It is possible that some of my statements may be inaccurate, but I have had a great deal to do with them, and I don't think that I shall go very far wrong.

Anne of Bohemia married King Richard II of England. Obviously large numbers of her friends and relations visited her during her reign. Wycliff became at this time fashionable, and these tourists, being interested in most of the things they saw, doubtlessly had the opportunity of hearing Wycliff preach. A man of undoubted personality, otherwise he would not have lived very long, he must have impressed the less frivolous of Anne's friends, including John Huss who was a very religious person. The whole thing is interesting. These Bohemians saw numbers of the aristocracy thoroughly interested in Wycliff. Possibly they did not understand the intrigue underlying the business, but they could not have regarded Wycliff's movement as anything else but a fashionable one.

John Huss returned to Bohemia and established a church, or reorganised an older church. For the benefit of those members of the Church of England and the members of the Episcopal church of America who regard a belief in Apostolic succession as necessary to their souls' salvation, it might be well to add that the first Moravian bishop was consecrated by another bishop. After a time they ceased to be regarded with favour by the Church of Rome in Bohemia, in spite of their fashionable origin, so they grew and multiplied.

Still their struggles were great, and one wonders whether they could have continued to thrive if it had not been for a friend who appeared upon the scene to act as their champion. The friend was a certain Count Zinzendorf, a noble German. He allowed them to establish a small settlement upon his estates at Herenhorf.

If they were anything like my friends, their descendants in Bethlehem, he must have loved them very much. One can easily picture the whole thing. They were normal persons; they displayed no fanaticism; they had a simple ritual, and they must have had among their numbers members of the best families in Bohemia. This would help the count a little. They had some quaint customs. The women dressed simply but nicely. A young lady after marriage wore a pretty blue ribbon around her neck. Before marriage she wore a pink one. I have seen some priceless old pictures in the archives of the church here in Bethlehem of the sweetest old ladies in the world, mostly wearing the blue ribbon. The artist must have been a Moravian himself. The figures are stiff and conventional; the hands dead and lifeless with pointed fingers--you know the sort of thing--but the faces are wonderfully drawn. They have all got something characteristic about them. Sometimes a slight smile, sometimes they look as though they were a little bored with posing, and one can perhaps get an idea of their respective natures, by the way they regard the artist. I felt that I should like to adopt them all as grandmothers.

Of course, Count Zinzendorf got very much converted, and, possibly knowing William Penn, he obtained permission for the Moravians to settle here in Bethlehem. I have skipped a lot of their history. I don't know much about their early life in America, but they chose the sweetest spot in this valley for their home. They settled on the north side of the Lehigh River, a pleasant stream which with several tributaries helped them to grind their corn. They converted the Indians largely. At any rate, if you go into the old cemetery you will see the graves of many of the red-skins. The last of the Mohicans, Tschoop, lies in this cemetery. I sometimes stroll through this sacred square and read the weird old inscriptions on the tombs. One dear old lady has her grave in the middle of the pathway so that people passing may be influenced just a little by the remarks made by those who knew and loved her. A weird idea, isn't it? I could write pages about the Moravians, but time and the fact that I may bore you, and so kill your interest in my friends, prevent me from saying very much.

Trombones mean almost everything to a Moravian. To be a member of the trombone choir is the highest honour a young Moravian can aspire to. Perhaps interest will die out, perhaps the influence of the huge steel works now taking complete control of Bethlehem will prevent the boys from regarding the thing as a terrific honour.

A member of this choir has much to attend to. When a sister or a brother dies, the fact is announced to the brethren by the playing of a simple tune. At the hour of burial the trombones once more play. All announcements are made from the tower with the aid of the trombone choir. I cannot say they always play well. I am afraid I don't mind very much, but the thing in itself is very interesting.

I was spending a very enjoyable evening at a man's house on the last day of the old year. At five minutes to twelve I left a cheery crowd of revellers and rushed along to the Moravian church. A large clock was ticking out the last minutes of the closing year. A minister was talking, thanking God for all the good things of the past years and asking His help in the coming year. He seemed sure that it would be all right, but we all felt a little fearful of what the next year would bring. I remembered my last New Year's Eve at the front--it was getting a little depressing. Finally there were left but two seconds of the old year. We were all trying to think. The year closed. A mighty burst of music crashed through the air. The trombones were playing "Now Thank We All Our God." We all jumped to our feet and commenced to join in. Depression vanished as in stately fashion we all sang the wonderful hymn.

I went back to the party. Most of the people were still there. They were a handsome crowd of men and women, great friends of mine for the most part. They seemed happy and cheerful. I wondered what the year would bring for us all. I wondered if America would be drawn into the war, and I wondered which crowd of people would be better able to bear the strain of war--the folk in the Moravian church, or the people at the cheery party. I think I can guess. The cheery folk represent the type who will get depressed and unhappy. They will be the spreaders of rumours. They will be the people who will learn to hope most quickly. They will regard every small victory as a German rout, and every reverse as a hopeless defeat. Some amongst them will, of course, find a new life opening up for them. Still I wonder.

But the Moravians will take things as they come. They will be the folk who will encourage and help. They will be able to stand anything--sorrow and joy, and treat them in the same way. They will give their sons willingly and gladly, and their men will make the very best kind of soldiers. Perhaps it is wrong to prophesy, but I think that if the United States should enter this war, amongst the certain quantities of this country, the Moravians will have an important place. They are mostly of Teutonic origin, but at the moment their sympathies are all with us. They like England and the English, and when I say England and the English I mean Britain and the Britons. George II was kind to them, I believe, and they live a great deal in the past.

I have the honour of knowing several of the trombone choir. I must tell you about Brother L----. I suspect he is the leader or the conductor of the trombone choir. He is a dear old chap, rather small and has a black pointed beard. He is getting on in years now, and always suggests to my mind that picture of Handel as a boy being found playing the harpsichord in the attic. You may find it difficult to see the connection. I am not sure that I do myself. One always feels, however, that hidden away in that little body of his, there is a divine spark that ought to have had a bigger opportunity. Perhaps the connection lies in the fact that I first met him after he had just finished giving Mrs. U----'s son a lesson on the trombone. Mrs. U----'s husband is not a Moravian, but the wife is equal to at least two of them, so that makes things equal. Brother L---- is employed at the steel works, and as I was getting into an automobile one afternoon early, intent upon visiting a pond near by to do some skating, I saw brother L---- waiting for a trolley car. I offered him a lift which he accepted. Now, he had timed the trolley car to a minute, so that by getting off at Church Street he would reach the cemetery, his destination, at just the right moment, for an old sister was being buried. My car went pretty fast, and I remember leaving him standing in the snow at least eight inches thick. I fear he must have got frozen, for he had to wait ten minutes. Strangely enough he has never forgotten the incident, and I am sure that there is nothing in the world he would not do for me. It is a funny and strange thing that when one tries to do big things for people, often there is little gratitude shown, but little things that cause one no trouble often bring a tremendous reward far outweighing the benefit.

Now Brother L---- is an American and we who dare to criticise our cousins never meet this type abroad. He, with many of his brother and sister Moravians, are my friends. To me they form a tremendous argument why I should never say an unkind word about the children of Uncle Sam. I have no desire to become a Moravian, but I like them very much. Before I finish wearing you out with these descriptions of my friends I must tell you all about the "Putz."

One night I was the guest of a local club. It was early in December and we were spending an extremely amusing evening. At about eleven o'clock, all the women folk having departed, one fellow came up to me and said: "Say, Captain, we have a barrel of sherry in the cellar, would you like a glass?" A small party had collected near me at the time, so we all descended to a sort of catacomb where a small barrel of sherry was enthroned. I took a glass and found it very dry, and not very nice. I was offered another but refused. It is difficult to refuse a drink offered by a good looking American boy, so finally I held the glass, took a tiny sip, and then decided to shut the door of the cellar, deftly spilling the sherry as the door banged. I rather like a glass of sherry with my soup, but to drink it steadily was an unknown experience. Glass after glass was given to me and I managed to appear to drink all their contents. They must have wondered at my sobriety. There were several present who had no desire to spill theirs and among these was a tall, good-looking youth who was fast becoming a little happy. He came towards me with an unsteady step, and succeeded in spilling my fifth glass of sherry, thus saving me the trouble of shutting the door, and said: "Say, Cap., will you come and see my p--utz?" I was a little bewildered. He repeated it again and again and then I decided upon a counter bombardment and said: "Pre--cisely what is your p--utz." He looked comically bewildered and then a fellow explained that a Putz was a decoration of German origin. At Christmas time in South Germany the people build models of the original Bethlehem, representing the birth of our Lord. It suggests a creche in a Roman church. I said therefore: "But yes, I shall be glad to." I gathered that a similar custom prevailed in Bethlehem.

Most Moravians have a Putz in their houses at Christmas time. A house containing one is quite open to all. Wine and biscuits are alleged to be served. I did not get any wine, but saw the biscuits. So at Christmas time small parties accumulate and go from house to house looking at the Putzes. Sometimes they are a little crude, and where there are small boys in the family, model electric tram cars dash past the sacred manger. One nice boy cleverly got past this incongruity, for, after building an ordinary model village with street lamps, and tram cars dashing round and round, he had the stable and manger suspended above amidst a mass of cotton wool, and he explained that the whole thing was a vision of the past. But let me tell you about the Putz that belonged to my friend of the club catacomb.

With Mrs. U---- I knocked at the door and entered. The house was dimly lighted and we found ourselves in a darkened room, quite large. At first we could hear the gentle ripple of water, and then we seemed to hear cattle lowing very softly. Soon our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and we found ourselves looking across a desert with palm trees silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Camels seemed to be walking towards a small village on the right. The village was of the usual Eastern kind with a synagogue in the centre. Soon we noticed that the synagogue was being lighted up quite slowly and gradually and after an interval gentle singing could be heard. It was all very soft but quite distinct. The music stopped for a second and then dawn seemed to be breaking. Finally a bright star appeared in the sky, and showed us shepherds watching their flocks, but looking up towards the sky. More light came and we saw angels with snowy white wings above the shepherds. At this moment men's voices could be heard singing in harmony "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," and the music was certainly coming from the wee synagogue. The star seemed to move a little, at any rate, it ceased shining on the shepherds and we became unconscious of the angels, but soon it shone upon a stable in which were Mary and the babe lying in the manger. There were the wise men of the East also. Some more light shone upon the village and the little brook made more noise. Someone in the darkness near me repeated: "And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.'

"And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem and see this thing which is come to pass which the Lord made known unto us! And they came with haste, and found Mary and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart."

It was a woman's voice speaking, softly and sweetly. To me it seemed the outcry of womenkind all over the world.

I wanted to be home for Christmas very badly, but I must admit that of all places in the world apart from home I think Bethlehem presents most possibilities for a really enjoyable time. We had plenty of snow and consequently plenty of opportunities for tobogganing. People also gave many charming parties. I went to a _bal masque_ after returning from Detroit, dressed as a Maori warrior. I had much clothing on, but one arm and shoulder was exposed. Several women friends who usually wore quite abbreviated frocks, suggested that I was naked. I merely observed "et tu Brute!" but they did not understand. Women are inconsistent.

VI

GERMAN FRIGHTFUL FOOLISHNESS! A NEW ALLY! THE HATCHET SHOWS SIGNS OF BECOMING BURIED

BETHLEHEM, U. S. A., February 28, 1917.

So William of Hohenzollern the war lord, the high priest of God, has decided that this extremely unpleasant war shall cease. Over here we all agree that nothing would suit us better; only we are quite certain that we do not want the war to end in the particular way desired by His Imperial Highness. We admit, of course, that his methods display a high state of efficiency in every direction, and that his organization of men and things is perfectly wonderful, but, fools that we are, we have become attached to our own muddling ways and we don't want to change. In other words, we rather enjoy our freedom. We admit that we ought to like His Imperial Highness since he is so very much the intimate friend of God, but possibly our souls have fallen so far from grace that when we examine our minds we find there nothing but contempt and dislike mixed with just a little pity. We cannot be altogether arch sinners because we are unable to muster up a decent hatred, no matter how hard we try, because William seems to us a poor sort of creature.

I cannot understand the Prussian point of view. It was quite unnecessary to drag Uncle Sam into the war. His nature is so kindly that he is always willing to give the other man the benefit of the doubt, but there are limits to his good nature. The threat to sink the merchant ships of America without warning is well beyond the limit of his patience. The Germans must have forgotten the travail that accompanied the birth of this great nation. To them, Uncle Sam would seem to be merely a very wealthy merchant prince, with but one object--to get rich as quickly as possible; a merchant prince without honour where his pockets are concerned. If they had decided that he was merely enjoying a rather nice after luncheon sleep they would have been a little nearer the truth. They would then have avoided waking him up. As it is, he is now very wide awake, and he is also examining his soul very carefully and wondering just a little. His eyes too are very wide open and he can see very plainly, and one of the things he can see is a very unpleasant little emperor over in Germany daring to issue orders to his children. He also realizes that since God has given him the wonderful gift of freedom, it is his duty to see that other people are allowed to enjoy the same privileges. As a child, it was necessary for him to avoid "entangling alliances," but he is now a man with a man's privileges and a man's duties.

So he has called across the water to France: "I'm coming to help you, Lafayette," and he has shouted across the water to Great Britain: "John, I have never been quite sure of you, but I guess you're on the right track, and if you can wait a little I expect to be able to help you quite a lot."

Of course, Germany expects to starve Great Britain into subjection before Uncle Sam is ready to do much. She also, in her overwhelming pride, believes that her own nationals in the States possess sufficient power to stultify any great war effort. She also believes that the American people are naturally pacifists and that the President will have a big job in front of him. And indeed he might have had a difficult job, too, for great prosperity tends to weaken the offensive power of a democracy and there were many men here who disliked intensely the idea of sending an army of American men to France to fight side by side with England, but his job has become child's play since Zimmermann's wily scheme to ally Mexico and Japan against the States has been exposed. This exposure united the people as if by magic. The people began to scent danger, and danger close at home, and they saw at once that the only enemy they possessed was Kaiser William. When the Kaiser dies, and I suppose he will die some day, it would be interesting to be present (just for a second, of course) when he meets his grandfather's great friend, Bismarck. One would not desire to stay long on account of the climate but it would be interesting nevertheless. Would Bismarck weep or laugh?

Of course, the Zimmermann scheme counted for very little with the great minds at the helm of state here, but it did rouse the ordinary people and settled many arguments.

So the war lord is going to drown thousands of sailors in order that a million lives may be saved on the battlefields of Europe! What a pity that we inefficient and contemptible British, American, and French people cannot agree with him. What fools we all must seem to him to prefer death a thousand times rather than to spend a single second in the world with His Imperial Highness as our lord and master.

Thank heaven we can see him as he is really--just a mad chauffeur with his foot on the accelerator dashing down a very steep hill with not a chance in the world of getting around that nasty turning at the bottom. The car he is driving to destruction is a very fine machine, too. It is a great pity. Perhaps it will break down suddenly before he gets to the bottom and the mad chauffeur will come an awful cropper, but there will be something left of the machine.

I have now left the hotel and am established in a very happy home. It was difficult to get lodgings, but I applied to J---- C---- for help and he sent me down to Harry's wife. Harry is the butler of a friend of mine, one of the head steel officials. Anyone who applies to J---- C---- for help always gets it. He is an Irishman who has not been in Ireland for half a century, but he has still got a brogue. I called on Harry's wife and found a sweet faced English girl with a small young lady who made love to me promptly. I decided to move as soon as possible, and now I am perfectly happy. Harry's wife will do anything in the world to make a fellow comfortable and "himself" keeps my clothes pressed in his spare time. They both do nice little things for me. I can do precisely what I please and I know that the two of them are very interested.

One night, four cheery people came in; one seized a mandolin, another a guitar, while a third played the piano. It was quite late and I wondered what my gentle landlord and his lady would think. While the music was still going on I stole out to reconnoitre and saw the two of them fox-trotting round the kitchen like a couple of happy children, just loving the music. Harry's wife's father and her brothers are all soldiers and she was brought up at Aldershot. When I write things for magazines she listens to me in the middle of her work while I read them and she always expresses enthusiasm. When the ominous package returns she is as depressed as I am about it.

A friend offered me what he alleged to be a well-bred Western Highland terrier in Philadelphia, and I, of course, fell, for Becky, Harry's little girl, wanted a dog. My friend called up his daughter and told her to send one of the puppies along. I observed that I wanted a male puppy and he said: "Yep." Communications must have broken down somewhere, for a tiny female puppy arrived in a pink basket. The person who said that my puppy was a Western Highland terrier was an optimist, or a liar. I fear that her family tree would not bear close inspection. However, she hopped out of the basket and expressed a good deal of pleasure. She ought to have been at least another month with her mother. We gave her milk and she at once grew so stout in front of our eyes that we all shuddered, wondering what would happen next. She couldn't walk, but after a time her figure became more normal. She had very nice manners on the whole, and had a clinging disposition and would worm her way right round a person's back under his coat and emerge from under his collar close up to his neck. In a few days she became perfectly nude and Jack, calling, mistook her for a rat, but was disappointed. She mistook him for a relation and too actively showed her affection. He refused to look at her, placed both feet on my shoulders, looked with astonishment at me, and left the house. He has refused to enter ever since. Sally, as we had named her, got even more nude, so I got some anti-eczema dope and rubbed her with it. This had the desired effect and her hair grew again. I wish you could see her and her young mistress together, mixed up with six rabbits.

Sally refuses to look like a Western Highland terrier, and follows me about looking like a tiny rat. A man pointed to us one day and said: "Wots that?" His friend, thinking he meant an automobile that was passing said: "Just a flivver." So we have decided upon Sally's breed and she is called a flivver dog. Like all dogs of mixed breed she is wonderfully intelligent, and her young mistress and her mistress's mother would not sell her for a million dollars. She has more friends throughout this town than we can ever have. Her greatest friend is a fat policeman who lives opposite. I took her to a picnic once and she buried all our sausages which they call "Frankfurters" here. We saw her disappearing with the last one almost as big as herself.