Oh, for a hill, were it no bigger than a molehill! Oh, for a broad-armed English oak! At Minden we stop to lunch.

The whole train pushes and jostles into the refreshment-room, and, in ten galloping minutes, we devour three filthy _plats_; a nauseous potage, a terrible dish of sickly veal, and a ragged Braten.

Then a rush and tumble off again.
The day rolls past, dustily, samely, wearily.

There have been flying thunder-storms--lightning-flashes past the windows.

I hide my face in my dusty gloves to avoid seeing the quick red forks, and leave a smear on each grimy cheek.