scenes of our family-life and childhood. Months before sailing out of
Quebec we had studied guidebooks, mapping out routes and hotels. With
about half a ton of gasolene on the roof to guard against
contingencies, we started.

Everywhere we went, from Cornwall to the North, men were training and
marching. All the bridges and reservoirs were guarded. Every tiniest
village had its recruiting posters for Kitchener's Army. It was a trip
utterly different from the one we had expected.

At Stratford in the tap-room of Shakespeare's favourite tavern I met
an exceptional person--a man who was afraid, and had the courage to
speak the truth as millions at that time felt it. An American was
present--a vast and fleshy man: a transatlantic version of Falstaff.
He had just escaped from Paris and was giving us an account of how he
had hired a car, had driven as near the fighting-line as he could get
and had seen the wounded coming out. He had risked the driver's life
and expended large sums of money merely to gratify his curiosity. He
mopped his brow and told us that he had aged ten years--folks in
Philadelphia would hardly know him; but it was all worth it. The
details which he embroidered and dwelt upon were ghastly. He was
particularly impressed with having seen a man with his nose off. His
description held us horrified and spell-bound.

In the midst of his oratory an officer entered, bringing with him five
nervous young fellows. They were self-conscious, excited,
over-wrought and belonged to the class of the lawyer's clerk. The
officer had evidently been working them up to the point of enlistment,
and hoped to complete the job that evening over a sociable glass. As
his audience swelled, the fat man from Philadelphia grew exceedingly