Our soldier prisoners have quickly finished their meagre repast which the parsimonious German Government doles out to them. Then almost all of them stretch themselves on the ground in the genial rays of the sun and give their bodies a well-earned rest. Soon their eyes are closed; sleep overtakes them. * * * * * Seated on the trunk of a felled oak, two young fellows listen to a third, who is translating an article from a German newspaper, brought that morning by a kindly jailer. While eating they talk over the news and criticise the _communiqué_ of the German staff at Berlin. All three--the interpreter of the fatigue party and the two who were listening to him--had come of their own accord to this fatigue work in order to escape the monotony of the camp, and, by working, to seek a palliative from the ennui that was killing them. The sentinel who was on duty while his comrades were taking their meal approached the little group and deferentially asked: “What news?” The German _communiqué_ that day was very concise. The interpreter pointed it out to the sentinel, curtly enough to make him understand that he had no wish, for the moment at least, to enter into conversation. He was occupied in translating a long and subtle article about the torpedoing of the _Lusitania_. But the German took no notice; he wished to talk, to hold forth; he broached another subject, and inquired about the quality of the food. “Schmeckt es gut?” A cry of horror and indignation greeted this question. “It is pig’s food, it is shameful to feed human creatures with such stuff.” “Oh, you French, you are hard to please!” “You think we are hard to please not to like rotten food?” asked the interpreter. Decidedly this subject of conversation had no more success than the other. Silently our prisoners continued their meal; but the German did not go away. He stood there motionless in front of them, with a stupid air, watching them open a box of preserves and cut up a French loaf, the whiteness of which called forth his admiration. “You have good bread,” said he. “In France we don’t make any other. Even the poorest eat this bread. Just compare it with your K. bread. You will have a nice stomach at the end of the war, you and your children.” “Ah yes! The children, it is very sad for them.” “You have some? Many?” “Seven,” replied the sentinel. “And how do you manage to feed them?” “The allowance that my wife receives is not enough; everything is beyond our means. It is misery.” “In France the wives of the soldiers receive a much higher sum, and yet the food is cheaper and more plentiful than here. Look at the white bread and the preserves that we receive. France is rich, and we can still fight for a long time.” “Yes, indeed, it is a sad war for us, and when shall we see the end of it?” “The end!” A boisterous laugh rang out in the peaceful air. “The end! but we are not ready to see it yet--the end!”