pose was resolved by a large sign on a house across the street.
"Gas Post."
Our driver exposed a friendly intelligence.
"Men caught in the street by an alarm go to one of these posts and await instructions. We don't take any chances with gas. A few days ago there was a high wind, and people in villages ten miles back of the line were slightly affected."
Williams came out, looking rather sober. A bright young officer from the headquarters followed him. They climbed in and we twisted out of the village on to a road that crossed open fields. One guessed that it was in view of the German artillery, but we hurried along it towards a hamlet above which a shattered church tower was like a storm-swept beacon. The roar of great guns, no longer mufled by trees and houses, was tinglingly louder.
“What does it mean? some one asked.
Williams didn't answer. The division officer, whose face also was a trifle perplexed, said:
Just a little hymn of hate."
Suddenly he pointed.
"I say! The Huns have got a sausage up."
Above the tree-divided fields, seemingly quite close, an observation balloon, the shape of a sausage, indeed, floated at an angle. Two or
