surprise; but, to-day, our peaceful city is no longer peaceful; guns are
sounding, or rolling and crackling from different directions, and,
although rarely, the rattle of machine guns can be heard also.

Two days ago war seemed very far away--so far, that I have covenanted
with myself to learn the alphabet of music. Tom Bodkin had promised to
present me with a musical instrument called a dulcimer--I persist in
thinking that this is a species of guitar, although I am assured that it
is a number of small metal plates which are struck with sticks, and I
confess that this description of its function prejudices me more than a
little against it. There is no reason why I should think dubiously of
such an instrument, but I do not relish the idea of procuring music with
a stick. With this dulcimer I shall be able to tap out our Irish
melodies when I am abroad, and transport myself to Ireland for a few
minutes, or a few bars.

In preparation for this present I had through Saturday and Sunday been
learning the notes of the Scale. The notes and spaces on the lines did
not trouble me much, but those above and below the line seemed ingenious
and complicated to a degree that frightened me.

On Saturday I got the _Irish Times_, and found in it a long article by
Bernard Shaw (reprinted from the _New York Times_). One reads things
written by Shaw. Why one does read them I do not know exactly, except
that it is a habit we got into years ago, and we read an article by Shaw
just as we put on our boots in the morning--that is, without thinking
about it, and without any idea of reward.

His article angered me exceedingly. It was called "Irish Nonsense
talked in Ireland." It was written (as is almost all of his journalistic