paper. It was enough to carry the weight of one's
somber reflections without the addition of cheerful queries of the
movie-man as to "how would you feel if the German gunners
suddenly turned loose again?"

We gathered in a deal of stone ornaments that had been shot
down and struggled with a load of them to our car. Later they
became a weight upon our conscience. When Cardinal Mercier
starts the rebuilding of his cathedral, we might surprise him with
the return of a considerable portion thereof. To fetch these
souvenirs through to England, we were compelled to resort to all
the tricks of a gang of smugglers.

I made also a first rate collection of German posters. By day I
observed the location of these placards, announcing certain death
to those who "sniped on German troops," "harbored courier-
pigeons," or "destroyed" these self-same posters.

At night with trembling hands I laid cold compresses on them until
the adhering paste gave way; then, tucking the wet sheets
beneath my coat, I stole back to safety. At last in England I feasted
my eyes on the precious documents, dreaming of the time when
posterity should rejoice in the possession of these posters relating
to the German overlordship of Belgium, and give thanks to the
courage of their collector. Unfortunately, their stained and torn
appearance grated on the aesthetic sensibilities of the maid.

"Where are they?" I demanded on my return to my room one time,
as I missed them.

"Those nasty papers?" she inquired naively.

"Those priceless souvenirs," I returned severely. She did not
comprehend, but with a most aggravatingly sweet expression said:

"They were so dirty, sir, I burned them all up."

She couldn't understand why I rewarded her with something akin
to a fit of apoplexy, instead of a liberal tip. That day was a red-letter
one for our photographers. They paid the price in the risks which
constantly strained their nerves. But in it they garnered vastly more
than in the fortnight they had hugged safety.

But, despite all our efforts, there was one object that we were after
that we never did attain. That was a first-class atrocity picture.
There were atrocity stories in endless variety, but not one that the
camera could authenticate. People were growing chary of verbal
assurances of these horrors; they yearned for some photographic
proof, and we yearned to furnish it.

"What features are you looking for?" was the question invariably
put to us on dis