I have had the good fortune to fall in with a neutral traveller--of the usual high standing and impartial sympathies--who has supplied a few details. It seems that great excitement prevailed at this scene of unwonted bustle and activity. The operation was carried out under favourable weather conditions practically without a hitch, the casualties being quite negligible, and the _moral_ of the men, in spite of their long period of enforced coma, being absolutely unshaken. One and all have now cheerfully accepted the disconcerting changes involved in the new orientation, and window-boxes have been generally shifted to the sunny side. * * * * * "On Monday, near Durgerdam, in Holland, a fresh dyke burst occurred on a length of 50 metres. Over 200 handbags were at once thrown into the opening without any visible result."--_Provincial Paper._ Still, the sacrifice was well meant. * * * * * THE GOLDEN VALLEY. (Herefordshire.) Abbeydore, Abbeydore, Land of apples and of gold, Where the lavish field-gods pour Song and cider manifold; Gilded land of wheat and rye, Land where laden branches cry, "Apples for the young and old Ripe at Abbeydore!" Abbeydore, Abbeydore, Where the shallow river spins Elfin spells for evermore, Where the mellow kilderkins Hoard the winking apple-juice For the laughing reapers' use; All the joy of life begins There at Abbeydore. Abbeydore, Abbeydore, In whose lap of wonder teems Largess from a wizard store, World of idle, crooning streams-- From a stricken land of pain May I win to you again, Garden of the God of Dreams, Golden Abbeydore. [Illustration: A GERMAN HOLIDAY. Child. "PLEASE, SIR, WHAT IS THIS HOLIDAY FOR?" Official. "BECAUSE OUR ZEPPELINS HAVE CONQUERED ENGLAND." Child. "HAVE THEY BROUGHT US BACK ANY BREAD?" Official. "DON'T ASK SILLY QUESTIONS. WAVE YOUR FLAG."] * * * * * AT THE FRONT. There is one matter I have hitherto not touched on, because it has not hitherto touched on me, and that is Courses. The ideal course works like this. You are sitting up to the ears in mud under a brisk howitzer, trench mortar and rifle grenade fire, when a respectful signaller crawls round a traverse, remarking, "Message, Sir."