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 nerves, like the "perpetual motion" of my Scotch mother's knitting needles!

In the distance the cemetery looked like a large field, glaring with poppies and cornflowers that it was puzzling to find so late in this cold climate. As we approached, however, the picturesque scene proved to come from dyed wool left to dry on the tomb-stones, which were, themselves, of a turban-like shape.

In the market we were astonished to find how quickly trade had recovered, almost to pre-war activity, since my last visit. Somehow they have discovered tools and wood to patch up booths for the old business.

I told my companions I "hoped the people would soon be given material to rebuild the whole town, that Europe would send money in admiring recognition of their 'already proven' ability to help themselves."

It seemed almost a "confessional" for me, as the officers and municipal authorities, the deputies and the hodjas, plied me with question after question, because they knew I would tell them all I could, and speak the truth!

They brought me photographs—of cities in ruins, of mutilated and disfigured human beings!—unfortunately too primitive for reproduction, but no less invaluable as documentary evidence, almost too ghastly for man to "look on and live"!

We drove also to the aviation ground and were shown what the officer in charge had contrived to make of the cannon left by Greeks. Though everything was systematically hacked to pieces, it had been all "put together again" by the Turks with astonishing patience and perseverance.

Naturally proud of his work, and delighted to tell us how it had all been managed, the officer, fortunately, quite forgot I was English. He was telling us that he found a few French 75's, but that most of the guns were howitzers. Suddenly realising the need for caution, or rather courtesy, he burst out: "Cannon, Lloyd George," and won from us all the most grateful and laughing applause.

I was further especially pleased with his outspoken