dy accidentally touched off those field-gun shells in the house
two doors away. We suddenly remember that they are all pointed our way!
The conversation seems to lull, and Mac, for the time being, loses
popularity.

Two-thirty p.m. Looking out on the dreary little square of this town
of Beaumont I note that the natives, who have been scarce enough all
day, have now vanished almost entirely; whereas soldiers are noticeably
more numerous than they were this morning.

Three-fifteen p.m. Heard a big noise in the street and ran to the
window in time to see about forty English prisoners passing under guard
--the first English soldiers I have seen, in this campaign, either as
prisoners or otherwise. Their tan khaki uniforms and flat caps give
them a soldierly look very unlike the slovenly, sloppy-appearing French
prisoners in the guardhouse; but they appear to be tremendously
downcast. The German soldiers crowd up to stare at them, but there is no
jeering or taunting from the Germans. These prisoners are all
infantrymen, judging by their uniforms. They disappear through the
gateway of the prince's park.

Three-forty. I have just had some exercise; walked from the front door
to the courtyard and back. There are two guards outside the door now
instead of one. The German army certainly takes mighty good care of its
guests.

This day has been as long as Gibbon's "Decline and Fall," and much more
tiresome. No; I'll take that back; it is not strong enough. This day
has been as long as the entire Christian Era.

Four p.m. Gerbeaux, who was allowed to go out foraging, under escort
of a guard, has returned with a rope of dried onions; a can of alphabet
noodles; half a pound of stale, crumbly macaroons; a few fresh string
beans; a pot of strained honey, and several clean collars of assorted
sizes. The woman of the-house is now making soup for us out of the
beans, the onions and the noodles. She has also produced a little
grated Parmesan cheese from somewhere.

Four-twenty p.m. That was the best soup I ever tasted, even if it was
full of typographical errors from the jumbling together of the little
alphabet noodles. Still, nobody but a proofreader could have found
fault with that. There was only one trouble with that soup: there was
not enough of it--just one bowl apiece. I would have traded the finest
case of vintage wine in the Chimay vaults for another bowl.

Just as the woman brought in the soup Mittendorfer