On the Edge of the War Zone From the Battle of the Marne to the Entrance of the Stars and Stripes

ber 3

hibernating animal this year, during which the weather has almost calle

n buried too deep ever to be dug up- their hope of a short war is gone; they did not get to Paris, and now know that they never will; they did not, and never can get to C

which burns with a heavy, smelly, yellow smoke. In normal times one would never dignify it by the name of coal, but today we are thankful to get it, and pay for it as if it were gold. It will only burn in the kitchen stove, and every time we

damp, as it rains continually. I have an armchair there, a footstool, and use the kitchen table as a desk; and

e kitchen, put on felt shoes, and a big wrap, and, with my hotwater bottle in one hand and a book in the other, I make a d

there until Amélie has built the fire a

to it, and probably minded less than I do. I am not really complaining, you know. But you want to

that I needed a change, and clinched the matter by thinking that they needed me. Besides I wanted to get p

nversation with a woman who chanced to sit beside me

which there was a brief account of the wonderful dash made by the Royal Scots at Petit Bois and the Gordon Highlanders at Maeselsyeed Spur, under cover of the French and British art

, "You are not French?" I told her that I was an American. Then s

much for him. Now if I lose that one, what have I to live for? I am not the sort of woman who can marry again. My boy is a brave boy. If he dies he will die like a brave man, and not begrudge the life he gives for his country. I am a French mother and must offe

e, because I thought that if, in the face of a disaster like this, French women w

ck of the half dark room, sat the concierge, whom I had known for nearly twenty years, a brave, intelligent, fragile woman. She was sitting there in her black frock, gently rocking herself backward and forward in her chair. I did not need to put a questi

minutes later what they were-and her only reply was like the

folly. Now I have nothing-and I

the States tales of women in hysterics, of women fainting as they bade their men goodbye. I have never seen any of it. Something must be wrong with my

toile, and when I got home, I found the letters of thanks from the boys awaiting me. Among them was one from the little corporal who had pulled down my flags in September, who wrote in the name of the C c

rain on our nerves that trying day. I know nothing about him-who he was-what he had for family-he was just a brave, kindly, human being, who had met me for a few hours, passed on-and passed out. He is only one of thousands,

to send at this season, I simply could not. It seemed to me too absurd to even celebrate the anniversary of the days when the angel hosts sang in the skies their "Peace on earth, good will to men" to herald

il the spring campaign opens. Here we still hear the guns whenever Rheims or Soissons

last week, I can say, with all my heart, m