the shrapnel shells as they passed close overhead. They sounded like
giant rockets, and even as rockets some of them broke into a cascade of
sparks. Star shells they are called, bursting, it seemed, among the
immutable stars themselves that burned serenely on. And there were other
stars like November meteors hurrying across space--the lights of the
British planes scouring the heavens for their relentless enemies.
Everywhere the restless white rays of the searchlights pierced the
darkness, seeking, but seeking in vain. Not a sign of the intruders was
to be seen. I was induced to return to the sitting-room.

"But what are they shooting at?" I asked.

"Listen," said one of the officers. There came a lull in the firing and
then a faint, droning noise like the humming of insects on a still summer
day. "It's all they have to shoot at, that noise."

"But their own planes?" I objected.

"The Gotha has two engines, it has a slightly different noise, when you
get used to it. You'd better step out of that window. It's against the
law to show light, and if a bomb falls in the street you'd be filled with
glass." I overcame my fascination and obeyed. "It isn't only the
bombs," my friend went on, "it's the falling shrapnel, too."

The noise made by those bombs is unmistakable, unforgetable, and quite
distinct from the chorus of the guns and shrapnel--a crashing note,
reverberating, sustained, like the E minor of some giant calliope.

In face of the raids, which coincide with the coming of the moon, London
is calm, but naturally indignant over such methods of warfare. The