and
whiling away my time by watching a particularly beautiful sunset.

"Suddenly a freight train pulled in and, stopping in front of me, cut
off my view. Being a good American, and trained in a very proper respect
for 'business,' I merely turned philosophically away and proceeded to
look at something else. In a moment, however, the station master
appeared at my side and inquired with the politest of bows if I had
been enjoying the sunset.

"I admitted that I had, and smilingly accepted his apology for the
intrusion of the train. 'Of course I recognized that trains were the
first consideration in stations,' I said.

"Imagine my surprise, then, when the little Japanese shook his head
firmly. 'But no,' he said, bowing even more deeply than before, 'the
train must not be allowed to obstruct the honorable artistic traveler's
honorable aesthetic enjoyment'--or words to that effect. 'I will cause it
to withdraw,'

"And he actually did precisely that!"

ALAS! TOO LATE!

The Englishman's undying love for certain civilized things is thus
portrayed by R. Richard Schayer in _Life_.

In a gorse bush a hundred yards beyond his trench lay Lieutenant
Fitzhugh Throckmorton of the King's Own Rifles, asleep at his post. For
hours he had lain there, searching the position of the enemy through his
binoculars. Overcome by fatigue, he had nodded, drowsed, and finally
slumbered.

The sun hung low in the western mists when Throckmorton awoke. He
glanced at his wristwatch and sprang to his feet with an oath.
Regardless of peril, he turned and sprinted toward his trench. His was
not a nature to count the risk when duty, however delayed, called. Every
German sniper within range sent shot upon shot after the flying figure.
The enemy's trenches took up the hunt and fairly blazed with rifle and
machine gun fire. The bullets hummed in Throckmorton's ears like a swarm
of savage hornets. They snarled and bit at the turf about his feet like
a pack of wolves.

With a last desperate burst of speed, his clothing tattered with bullet
holes, the Lieutenant gained his trench and leaped down to its cover.
His face, wearing an expression of mingled hope and despair, he rushed
to the bomb-proof dug-out where sat his Colonel and brother officers.
They looked up at him with cold eyes. One glance and Throckmorton's
heart failed him. He was too late.

They had finished tea.

WHO COULD TELL?

A Scottish doctor who was attending a laird had instru