far better than they did with the tourist. My impression
--after some seven hundred miles printed off on me at between 60
and 70 kilometres--was of uniform excellence. Nor did I come
upon any smashes or breakdowns in that distance, and they were
certainly trying them hard. Nor, which is the greater marvel,
did _we_ kill anybody; though we did miracles down the streets
to avoid babes, kittens, and chickens. The land is used to
every detail of war, and to its grime and horror and
make-shifts, but also to war's unbounded courtesy, kindness,
and long-suffering, and the gaiety that comes, thank God, to
balance overwhelming material loss.

FARM LIFE AMIDST WAR

There was a village that had been stamped flat, till it looked
older than Pompeii. There were not three roofs left, nor one
whole house. In most places you saw straight into the
cellars. The hops were ripe in the grave-dotted fields round
about. They had been brought in and piled in the nearest
outline of a dwelling. Women sat on chairs on the pavement,
picking the good-smelling bundles. When they had finished
one, they reached back and pulled out another through the
window-hole behind them, talking and laughing the while. A
cart had to be maneuvered out of what had been a farmyard, to
take the hops to market. A thick, broad, fair-haired wench,
of the sort that Millet drew, flung all her weight on a spoke
and brought the cart forward into the street. Then she shook
herself, and, hands on hips, danced a little defiant jig in
her sabots as she went back to get the horse. Another girl
came across a bridge. She was precisely of the opposite type,