es here;
Not to be ransacked. Signed, _The Modern ATTILAE_."

A glorious scene. The voice of KRUPP is dumb;
Not pining now for Frankfort or for Muenich,
The sub-lieutenant slides with quivering thumb
A picture-postcard underneath his tunic.
Till then, if any dawn of doubt creeps in
How best to judge the Bard and praise him rightly,
Let me implore the actors of Berlin
To play _Macbeth_ to crowded houses nightly.

EVOE.

* * * * *

THE INTERPRETERS.

"May I go into the village to get my hair cut?" asked Sinclair of my
wife. "I'll promise to be back for tea."

Upon her assurance that Madame Mercier was lying down and was not at all
likely to appear, permission was granted. We do not generally allow
Sinclair to go out of the grounds at present. He is acting as the
central link which makes the continuance of the social life possible to
us. For I do not think that we could have undertaken (with our
deplorable ignorance of French) to entertain Belgian refugees at all had
he not been staying with us. As it is, it works beautifully, though
Madame Mercier and her two daughters speak no English, for Sinclair's
French is perfectly adequate.

It was during his absence that we learned that my neighbour, Andrew
Henderson, the dairy farmer, had also taken in a Belgian--a woman who
was to work on the farm during the winter.

"Here's another chance for you, Sinclair," said I, as he appeared at the
gate. "It looks as if you will have to call round every morning to
interpret and give 'em a good start for the day."

Sinclair was full of zeal and set off next day after breakfast. From the
drawing-room window we watched his triumphant entry into the farm-yard
at the foot of the hill. But he came back in a dejected frame of mind.

"She's called Suzanne," he told us, "and she's quite a nice-looking sort
of woman, and she handles a turnip-cutter like an expert; but she talks
nothing but Flemish."

"We might have thought of that," said the Reverend Henry. "Still, I
daresay they'll manage all right."

"On the contrary," said Sinclair. "Henderson sent Suzanne to get the
letters last night. She was gone a long, long time, and at last came
back with three live fowls in a sack. She had been chasing them round
the hen-house for all she was worth. Things can't go on like that, you
know."

The Reverend Henry had an idea. "The only way out of it," he said, "is
for you and Mad