owhere did I find the least sign of excitement.
Indeed, there was curiously little interest shown as to the results of
the explosions in that neighborhood; only a grim acceptance of this
daily visitation as something to be added to the score in the final day
of reckoning and some expression of surprise that the French aeroplanes
(supposed to be constantly on the alert for these visitors) should not
have found some means of putting an end to the nuisance. At the same
time I heard several spectators express their admiration of the German
aviators' courage and appreciation of the ease and grace with which they
handled their beautiful machines. In the cafes that evening, when the
full list of the casualties and damage had been published, one heard a
good deal of criticism, seasoned with Attic salt, on the subject of the
belated appearance of the French aeroplanes on the scene, and hopes that
the boulevards might soon be rewarded by the spectacle of a duel in the
air. They seem to think they have earned it.

But in the afternoon all Paris was out--in the Jarden des Tuileries, in
the Bois, at Vincennes, basking in the sunshine of a glorious Autumn
day, Madame et Bebe bravely making the best of it in the absence of
Monsieur. (Not that Monsieur is always absent; the proportion of men in
the crowd, and men of serviceable age, was considerably larger than one
might have expected.) If the object of the German aviators is to instill
terror into the hearts of the Parisians they are wasting their time and
their bombs.

Those people in London who complain about not being able to get supper
after the theatre, and other minor disturbances of their even tenor of
existence, should spend a few days in Paris. They would observe how
easily a community may learn to do without many things, and how the
lesson itself becomes a moral tonic, unmistakably stimulating in its
effects.

Paris is reminded every morning of duty and discipline when it begins by
doing without its beloved petits pains and croissants for breakfast, the
order having gone forth that bakers, being short-handed, are to make
only pain de menage. Similarly, because the majority of journalists and
popular writers are under arms, Paris does without its accustomed daily
refreshment of ephemeral literature, its comic and illustrated press,
its literary and artistic causeries, its feuilletons, and chroniques. It
does without its theatres, its music halls, without politics, art, and