cemetery near Basel, filled with the dead bodies of Russian prisoners who had attempted to swim the river. I had known and considered these things from the beginning, however, and they did not disturb me now.

Once, during the time that I lay there, from up the river a big search light shot its rays over the water for an instant and was gone again. It was by now about four o'clock in the morning. I took off all my clothes, except those in which I intended to try to make the swim, and one O.D. shirt, which I kept on, to hide the whiteness of my undershirt, but all unbuttoned and ready to throw off very quickly. I put my compass, map, and German pictures, which I wished to carry over with me, in my pocket. I opened in my hand my big knife and started to creep down to the water's edge. I had not bought this knife with the intention of using it as a means of violence, because violence generally would not pay, and would get one in great difficulty if captured afterwards. I felt, however, that if anyone attempted to stop me just on the border of the Promised Land, I would stop at nothing rather than be taken.

So slow and careful was my progress that it took me about an hour to cover the few yards down to the water's edge. I had to cross a railroad and a road which ran parallel to the river. As I lay just at the edge of the water, like a lizard, with eyes and ears alert ready to slip in, I heard a clock strike five. It was thus that I knew the exact time of crossing the river; I knew also that I did not have much time to spare, for soon the day would begin to break. After that, all was quiet but the river before me, whose voice was never silent as it tumbled on, with a current in the centre of seven kilometres an hour. I got to my feet and, still crouching low, stepped into the water. As I had expected, near the bank it was practically still.

The bank went down steeply, and I saw that I could make no distance wading. I stripped off my O.D. shirt, dropping it, with my knife, in the water, set my eyes on the opposite bank, and uttering a short, silent prayer, shoved out into the stream. I knew then that I had my liberty. The chance of recapture was past. Either I would soon be on neutral soil and a free citizen, or I would have a place in the little cemetery at Basel.

After a few strokes, I saw that my shoes about my neck would be too great a hindrance, and I cast them off into the river. For a while I swam quietly but swiftly, expecting any moment to hear an alarm given and to become the target, under the rays of a searchlight, for the German sentries who were sure to be not far away. But nothing of the kind happened, and after a little I felt myself pass from the eddying waters into the swift current, which picked me up and hurled me on at a tremendous rate. I knew then that the time for my utmost effort was at hand. I knew that the treacherous current, which was now kindly assisting me out toward the centre, would, after I reached that point, have a similar tendency to hold me in the centre. I laid aside my caution, and raising my arms out of the water, put forth my best effort.

By this time I began to be affected by the temperature of the water, my head became dizzy, and for a while I thought I was about to lose my grip on myself. All was confusion about me. I feared that I might mistake the bank I had left for the bank I was going toward. I struggled hard to right things in my head and eyes and maintain control of my body. In the background of my mind, I remember, I began to wonder whether, if I were drowned, I would be put in the little cemetery with the Russians, or whether they would start an American one.

After a few moments, however, I

felt better and my head cleared. I threw every ounce of my strength into the effort. Though I had won one attack, I felt the temperature taking a firmer hold on me. Also, I knew that at any moment I might strike a whirlpool. So I swam as fast as I could. When within about twenty-five feet of the other bank, which was shooting by like scenery out of any express-train window, my hand touched the bottom. I immediately attempted to land, but, though the water was not waist-deep, I could not stand against it, and my feet not taking firm hold on the bottom, I was thrown full length down the stream. There I got my first ducking. I soon recovered myself, however, and allowing myself to go down freely with the current, kicked toward the bank with one foot on the bottom. With every step I went downstream fifteen or twenty feet. After a few steps, and when very close, the bottom again disappeared, and I had to swim. I was in the bend of the river which I had seen from the mountain on the other side, and the bank, being steep and well washed, was passing me like an express train. At first my grasp at the bank was futile; but I scratched and clawed along for a good many feet, and finally succeeded in stopping the bank.

When I pulled myself out, I was not able to stand up. I was very much afraid of falling back in the river in my dizziness. My physical distress was too great, and my danger still too apparent, to enjoy at first the fact that I had reached the neutral shore. I kept on all fours, working my muscles as hard as I could, to stimulate circulation. After a little I was able to crawl up the bank, where I ran around on all fours like a dog, until I was able to stand up. I then took off my wet clothes, wrung them out, and put them on again.

On both the Swiss and German sides, the course of the river is here followed

VOL. 123 - NO. 5

by a national highway and a railroad. About 500 yards from where I came out I saw a small railroad house, in which lived the man whose duty it is to raise and lower the gates for the regulation of the traffic at the crossing. I made haste to this house and threw myself on the hospitality of the old man, who met me at his gate.

I can never forget the hospitality of this old peasant. He certainly came through' with all that could have been expected of him. In fact, the same is true of every Swiss with whom I came in contact.

He took one look at me and knew my story. Paying not the slightest attention to my chattering mixture of French and English, he led me into his house. As he entered, he took off his overcoat and put it around me. He drew a chair before his fire and brought a big pair of wooden-bottom shoes. While doing these things for my comfort, he said nothing and, as he did not stop to try to understand, I too fell silent. Turning to his stove, he poured out a bowl of hot goat's milk and brought it to me.

I took a few big swallows, and as the warm milk went down, I looked up at him standing there with the pitcher ready to refill my bowl. Then it was that thankfulness and happiness flowed over me. I will not attempt to say how I felt. From my expression he again saw my feeling. Then it was that he spoke. It was the first time that he had said a word, and although he still lookcd on me with his kindly expression, his words were German. I had thought that the Swiss all spoke French. Instantly a cold dread seized me. My mind flew back to the time, two and a half months ago, when I had first heard that accent. I had been mistaken then as to where I was, and like a ghost the idea seized me that perhaps I was again in the same error. I almost dropped the bowl of milk as that idea

stung me. With an effort, I asked him if he were Swiss. Reading my consternation, he assured me that he was Swiss, this was Switzerland, and I was all right. Life again flowed back into me. I drank the hot milk, and while he refilled my bowl I told him that I was a Kriegsgefangener American escaped from Germany. This he already knew, except that I was an American. That knowledge increased his interest in me. I asked him for a telephone, that I might telephone Berne. He said that he did not have one, but after breakfast he would take me to the military post nearby, where I could find one. He told me that his wife was away and he was doing the cooking for himself and his two little boys, who, appearing to be about seven and nine years of age, were displaying great interest in me. Of course, I could not speak his Swiss German, but, with a few words and my experience, I can converse on simple and apparent subjects with almost anyone.

I warmed myself before his fire while he busied himself with his household duties. In a few minutes breakfast was prepared. He placed a large bowl in the centre of the table, and he and his two boys and I sat about it. Each had a large spoon, and all ate out of the common bowl. That I consider true hospitality, if I ever saw it, and I assure you that I ate my full share. The bowl contained a kind of fried pastry or dumplings, fixed in gravy. To complete the meal, we had bread, a big pitcher of hot goat's milk, and a pitcher of hot coffee. I filled and refilled my cup, mostly of milk, with a little coffee. The old man urged me to drink all that I wanted. The hot food was to me like water to a man perishing in a desert. It helped to drive out the chill of the river, and I only hope that I was not greedy.

Breakfast over, we started out for the military post- rather a long walk. There a Swiss soldier who spoke Eng

lish took charge of me. He brought me a complete outfit of dry clothes. The old peasant was given back his overcoat and shoes, and I was soon dry-clad in a Swiss uniform from shoes to hat. I was again fed. Though I had just had one big breakfast, I felt equal to two,

or even more.

This post was just across the river from Waldshut. From the windows I could look right over into the German town, and could see the guard at both ends of the railroad bridge.

I was informed that, there being only a non-commissioned officer in charge of this post, I would have to be taken to Zurich. While waiting, we went into a café, where the soldier bought me a drink of cognac, as I still felt chilled.

We got to Zurich about eleven o'clock, after quite an interesting trip. My guard, guide, or companion, whatever you might call him, would explain my identity to people at the different places where we stopped. Once our road ran along the Rhine, and I could look over and see the German guards along the other bank. At Zurich I went before the commandant. I had to pass

physical examination, and after I had proved myself to have excellent health, he gave a little note to my guard, and sent me out to buy an outfit of clothes.

I had dinner here, and at two o'clock was sent by train to Reinfelden, to the commanding general of the frontier. For this trip I was given a new guard. Before parting from the soldier who had been so nice to me, however, seeing that the Swiss government was paying my bills and that I needed no money, I gave him the twenty-mark bill, which was all the real money I had, and asked him to give half of it to the old peasant who had taken me in, and keep the other half for the use of his clothes. I was then sent out to, where I again found my credit unlimited. I ate a fine dinner, had a bath, and hopped

one-sided idea about your publishing conditions: we used to think that every American printed page was an article of luxury.

When I came here, I found that it is not always so; but still, many of your books look as rich as the dresses of your women. Sometimes the luxurious covers show bad taste, sometimes the inside is not so good as the appearance. But very often one can find among them real beauty in an exquisite gown - I mean books as well as women.

They were so tempting to me (now I mean only books), especially these little 'cosey,' intimate editions of poems. I would stop before the windows of the fashionable book-shops on Fifth Avenue and look at the beautiful leather covers as if I were a hungry bookworm, in the direct sense of the word.

I remember how I got frozen fingers in the extreme cold days of last winter: I bought the nicest little copy of the Ballad of Reading Gaol, instead of buying warm gloves. And I am not a collector of books. I can imagine how the American publishing houses influence a real bibliophile! They may ruin him, drive him to crime!

Yes, they know how to publish books. But they don't always know what to publish. The amount of novels written on the theme 'How they married each other' is simply distressing! It gives me an impression that all the American girls and young men live only on love. And the eternal happy endings! And the dozens and dozens of girls retaries who reform their wealthy chiefs! And the fortunes made in a fortnight!

sec

Who first told the black lie, that books of this kind are cheerful? Suppose an unfortunate old maid read about all those happy marriages, would it not drive her to despair? And a young man who has struggled for a few years, trying to make a tiny flower-shop pay

he would commit suicide, seeing all the prosperous millionaires in fiction!

The pictures of success are as tormenting for the unhappy as the mirages in the desert for the lost travelers. I am talking from my own experience.

When I came here, I had no friends, save books. And I read day and night, in order to acquire good English and to save myself from loneliness.

I started with easy novels, because this was the only thing I could easily understand. But very soon I found out that my feeling of loneliness grew rapidly. No wonder, they all were so happy inside, behind the fence of the colored cover! They had dear old mothers and brave sweethearts who shelter them from danger! And they would never perish, never! Once I read a really good story about a girl who caught tuberculosis, working in a dark, unhealthy basement of a big department store. She was on the verge of despair and her sweetheart had deserted her, fearing infection, but you can easily guess, there was another generous boy, and a good charity institution which cured poor working-people.

Oh, how bitterly I wept after I read that cheerful story! Even she was saved, that humble, helpless girl on the verge of despair and death! And I, a well-trained journalist, with all my courage and readiness to fight for life and happiness, sit here, in New York, in such a rich city with so many opportunities, and my life is so hard, only because I don't know English! Why does nobody teach me? Why does nobody save me, when it is so easy? Oh, how unhappy I felt, how envious I was of that shop-girl with tuberculosis!

Finally, I persuaded myself that it was only fiction, and that many people of New York are probably as unhappy as I am - I am not a tragical exception. And then I stopped crying. But if I were really naïve enough to believe