The  papers  never  have  any  news ;  nobody  ever  talks  about
anything  else;  everybody  is  tired  to  death;  nobody  is
cheerful;  when  it  isn't  sick  Belgians,  it's  aeroplanes;  and
when  it  isn't  aeroplanes,  it's  bombarding  the  coast  of  Eng-
land. When  it  isn't  an  American  ship  held  up,  it's  a  fool
American-German  arrested  as  a  spy;  and  when  it  isn't  a
spy  it's  a  liar  who  knows  the  Zeppelins  are  coming  to-
night. We  don't  know  anything;  we  don't  believe  any-
body; we  should  be  surprised  at  nothing;  and  at  3  o'clock
I'm  going  to  the  Abbey  to  a  service  in  honour  of  the  100
years  of  peace !  The  world  has  all  got  itself  so  jumbled  up
that  the  bays  are  all  promontories,  the  mountains  are  all
valleys,  and  earthquakes  are  necessary  for  our  happiness.
We  have  disasters  for  breakfast ;  mined  ships  for  luncheon ;
burned  cities  for  dinner;  trenches  in  our  dreams,  and  bom-
barded towns  for  small  talk.
Peaceful  seems  the  sandy  landscape  where  you  are,  glad
the  very  blackjacks,  happy  the  curs,  blessed  the  sheep,  in-
teresting the  chin-whiskered  clodhopper,  innocent  the  fool
darkey,  blessed  the  mule,  for  it  knows  no  war.  And  you
have  your  mother — be  happy,  boy;  you  don't  know  how
much  you  have  to  be  thankful  for.
