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The orator threw his chest forwards and gazing fearlessly at the assembly cried in a stentorian voice: "Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Chairman?" His audacity made an impression. The discontented cowered timidly in their places. "Yes," rolled back from the assembly, proud of its English monosyllables. "Nein," cried a solitary voice from the topmost gallery.
Some years good, some years bad; the Arabs bad every year, terrible thieves; but the crops are plentiful most of the time. Are the colonists happy, contented? A thin smile wrinkles around the man's lips as he answers with the statement of a world-wide truth, "Ach, Herr, der Ackerbauer ist nie zufrieden." All day we ride along the hills skirting the marshy plain of Huleh.
When the irrelevancy of his remarks became apparent, he was rudely howled down and his neighbors pulled him into his seat, where he gibbered and mowed inaudibly. Wolf continued his address. "Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Secretary?" This time there was no dissent. The "Yes" came like thunder. "Sind sie zufrieden mit ihrer Treasurer?" Yeas and nays mingled.
"Ganz wohl; wir sind zufrieden mit unsere behandlung." I passed through the shell-shock wards and a yard where the "shell-shocks" sat about, dumb, or making queer, foolish noises, or staring with a look of animal fear in their eyes. From a padded room came a sound of singing. Some idiot of war was singing between bursts of laughter. It all seemed so funny to him, that war, so mad!
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