Chapter III

This Holy vow of wrath, this oath of hate,
Before high Heaven solemnly I swear,
Before the waters of the Marne and Aisne,
Still crimson with French blood, I consecrate
Myself. Oh, Rheims sublime! Thou torch whose glare,
Still shows the sacred ruins of thy fane,
Burning and crumbling on the horizon,
Hear, thou, my vow of vengeance on the Hun!

Henri de Regnier.
1917, Translated by Elsie Deming Jarves.

WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING IN WAR TIME

With the full blast of war sweeping over this old Continent, with the young manhood of France forming a wall of steel between us and the enemy who would annihilate, with the prospect of this tragedy continuing for an indefinite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the living barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How to use her individual capacities to the best advantage for the sustenance and comfort of those dear ones—the son or grandson in the trenches, the husband or brother at the front, the children and the old folk left behind in her care.

As one looks abroad over this beautiful country, seeing what she is accomplishing, one is inspired with a sincere and fervent admiration for her devotion, self-sacrifice and patriotism.

These noble qualities are not restricted to one class, but are universal in all ranks; from the peasant to the comtesse, from the little working girl to banker's wife; dressmakers, actresses, school-teachers, shopkeepers, nuns, the erstwhile rich and idle, as well as the wage-gainer, all feel the same enthusiasm; the same spirit of courage and endurance fills their souls; the pressing desire to "soul-ager" (help) the sorrow and privation brought on by this war of wars.

All through the summer and autumn the women have worked manfully in the fields. I use this word advisedly.

The physical strength to gather the wheat, cut the hay, garner the fruit and vegetables, care for the cattle, toiling every day and all day to replace the men at the front, shows what healthy living for generations will do.

I have seen them down on the beach raking up the heavy piles of sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts and hauling it back to their farms, sometimes miles away, as fertilizer for the soil.

Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up high above their thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in the stinging wind blowing in from the channel, broad faces and muscular arms, red from exertion; very often even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitchfork to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy mass in the two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working at the cider mill in the farmyard; ploughing the fields for the winter wheat; driving carts piled with farm products to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey being about the only means of transport left now, since the horses and men have gone to the war.

The old men and women, who might confidently look forward to a comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out in the fields in all weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic joints, the bronchitis and the colds; the wind is piercing, rain falls almost every day in Brittany, but warm garments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim the hedges and trees; collect the apples and cabbages; potatoes and turnips must be dug Many are the little gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of passemontagnes (hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these women are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open fire, with only its light and a candle to brighten the dark interior, knitting needles glisten and click, and thoughts roam afar to the trenches, where, behind the barbed-wire and fortifications, "the man" is watching each day.

Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers going to, and coming back from the front. Here they can get a warm drink and food—tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good bread and meat, etc.—served by the ladies of the French Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing from carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous or francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing station, where wounds are washed and rebandaged, a bed for a weary body, and a quiet hour are provided free of all charge. They are constantly used, I can tell you.

In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red Cross nurses are working with unexampled devotion. No task is too menial for them, no work too repulsive; their only thought is to relieve the suffering of the poor creatures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touching sight to go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and see these chaps follow gratefully with boyish eyes, the little white-robed figure, which represents so much to them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops to inquire about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien aujour d'hui, Madame (It goes well today, Madame);" no matter how much they suffer, or what acute agony they may be undergoing, they will not admit it.

I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, who was told by the doctor, while dressing his wound for the first time after his third operation, "Scream, my boy, scream, if it does you good, it will help."

"No, doctor," he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled "Nous les aurons" (We'll get 'em)—the latest song from the trenches.

Many women who would gladly work in the hospitals are prevented by other duties. They have their homes and children to look after, or old people or invalids dependent on them, or also they must tend the shops in their husbands' absence, or run the auberge or hotel, or work in the factories, but each one does something on the side for the "Union sacrée." It may not be more than a pair of knitted socks sent weekly to the trenches, or a cushion made of snipped-up cotton rags, cut fine and close, or a package of tobacco bought by carefully saved sous. From this universal wish have been created many good and useful works. During a recent visit to Paris I was impressed by the number of charities Frenchwomen have established and keep in fine running order. Let me mention a few:

1. Oeuvre des Blesses au Travail (work of wounded soldiers).

2. Oeuvre du Soldat dans la Tranchée (fund for the soldier in the trenches—send warm clothing).

3. For sending food and clothing to the French Prisoners in Germany.

4. The "Quinze Vingt" the government establishment for teaching the permanently blind a trade.

5. The Duchesse d'Uzes' organization for sending clothing and money to the soldiers from the invaded districts; men who have no news from their families or relations since the German invasion.

6. Soup kitchens—good, wholesome meals provided for ten cents. There are a number scattered over Paris, frequented by men and women of good positions before the war. Old artists and musicians out of work, professors who have lost their jobs, refugees from Lille, Courtrai and the invaded provinces, widows and girls with no means, little dressmakers and milliners without custom—a sad patient crowd who come silently and humbly to eat the bitter bread of charity. One group of ladies at the Hotel Mercedes (placed at their disposal) provides four hundred meals daily.

L'Oeuvre du Blesse au Travail (objects made by wounded soldiers) are showing in handsomely arranged shops, articles made by the men as they lie wounded in their beds. These articles consist chiefly of baskets of finely plaited straw, some artistically colored and of charming designs; others made by clumsier hands, crude but interesting—lace mats of plaited ribbon; string bags of macramé work; penholders and pencils, fashioned from spent cartridges. Rings made from the aluminum tips of exploded German shells picked up in the French trenches—these are very cunningly made and are often very handsome in design and execution. Every man, woman and child wants one of these rings, but as their only value is being "genuine," i. e., made in the trenches by a soldier, from the real shell tip, there are naturally not enough to go 'round.

Flowers made out of bread, tinted and modeled to an exact imitation of Dresden flowers, stand in little gilt baskets, also made by the soldier. Dolls as Red Cross nurses, soldiers, doll furniture and houses, boxes, baskets, no end of tempting little things are displayed and sold by the ladies of the committee, who guarantee the genuineness of each object.

Then there is the "Journée," or a day is chosen with the approval of the government, committees are formed in all the cities, towns, and villages of France. Bands of young girls and children start out early to sell flags or boutonnierés or rosettes, on the steps of the churches, at the railroad station, in the public squares and streets, holding their little pincushions stuck with flags, or scraps of ribbon, with a sealed tin box for coins. Thus, enormous sums are collected for the various war works, and every one, no matter how poor or humble, can give his offering.

Besides these charities, innumerable "Ouvroirs" exist in every city. Sewing-rooms, where poor women are paid (and fed) to make shirts, chemises, belly-bands, socks, pyjamas, etc., and everyone is thus helped through the long, hard winter.

Women are taking men's places all over France. Women are in the munition factories, in the government postoffice and telegraph service, as tramway conductors, as metro ticket collectors—places they never dreamed of filling before the war, for the Frenchwoman is essentially a home-body, her "intérieur" (home) being dearer to her than all else; to take these masculine occupations is especially hard.

The great dressmakers of the Rue de la Paix, the Rue de Rivoli, and the Place Vendôme are doing their share, too. One floor is usually devoted to some charitable purpose, either an "Ouvroir," or a convalescent home, etc.; and that the little "midinette" (apprentice) may feel that she, too, is working for France, a work has been started called "la marraine" (the godmother). Through proper channels, any woman or girl can be put in communication with some lonely soldier in the trenches. She writes him long, encouraging letters. She keeps up his spirits by letting him know someone is thinking of him. When, by strictest economy, she can scrape a few sous together, she buys him a ten-cent packet of tobacco, or a few postal cards, or a pencil, and back in due time comes a soiled card, written in pencil, telling her the news of the trenches, how they will soon throw the "sales boches" out of France, and promising to spend many a happy hour with his "marraine" if he is lucky enough to escape the German bullets.

PRISONERS AND AMBULANCES

So many friends have asked me to tell them about our life here in Brittany, that I have selected a few facts, hoping that these little wavelets, on the ocean of war-literature at present inundating the country, may prove of interest.

Let me first tell the story of an American girl of whom we are all very proud—a girl whose courage and devotion has won her the Croix de Guerre and the Médaille d'or des Epidemes.

The Vicontesse de la Mettrie, daughter of the late Comte Amedee de Gasquet—James of New Orleans and Dinard—and grand-daughter of the late Colonel George Watson Pratt, of Albany, has lived in Dinard all her life. On the 18th of August, 1914, she offered her services as a nurse, and since that date has been constantly on duty, never sparing herself in her devotion to her wounded.

I cannot do better than translate from the order of the day, read at the army headquarters, the following citation:

"The Vicontesse Henri de la Mettrie, whose husband went to the front early in August, 1914, became hospital-nurse in the military hospitals, first at Rennes, and afterwards at the front on the Somme, and on the Aisne, these last places since 1916. She has just become the object of highly laudatory 'citation' in general orders of the army for the 18th of February, 1918, in the following terms: 'Has shown, during the bombardment of the ambulance of ————, the utmost courage, devotion and sang froid. On the 30th of November, 1917, her ambulance was subjected to a prolonged bombardment and, although slightly wounded herself from bursting shell, she immediately rescued two dangerously injured stretcher bearers, who fell at her side. She refused to seek shelter and showed the greatest courage throughout all danger.

"The Croix de Guerre is accorded with this citation. Madame de la Mettrie has further earned the gratitude of her compatriots by giving her blood, by infusion, to save the life of one of her wounded men (dying in her hospital at the front) and she had the joy of knowing she had saved his life." Let me add in passing, that, before the war, the Vicontesse de la Mettrie was a lively, gay young woman of fashion, fond of automobiling, hunting, traveling and dancing. The contrast of these carefree days before the war when young, rich and lovely, with a devoted husband and a loving family about her, she could reasonably look forward to every happiness—and the present tragic months under the German guns must be at times overwhelming.

Her last posts have been in such dangerous zones, often under bombardment night and day, that, before the war-office allowed her to go, she was obliged to sign three papers, stating, respectively: First—that she had no children or parents dependent on her; second—that she fully realized the danger, and went at her own risk and peril; third—that her husband knew when and where she was going, and fully gave his consent.

Those people in America who think war-nursing consists of attending to nice, clean, interesting young men in big, airy, spotless wards, with sunshine pouring in at the open windows, flowers on a table near the bed, and pretty Red Cross nurses serving wine, jellies and afternoon tea, would be rather surprised to look in upon these ambulance-stations at the front, behind the first dressing stations.

Imagine a shelltorn, gunswept desert; low, wooden encampments partitioned off into long rooms, full to overflowing with wounded; ankle-deep mud separating the different sheds; appalling food; no possibility of baths or even elementary cleanliness; no comfort of any kind. For sleeping quarters each nurse has a cubicle 5 feet by 9 feet, a cot, a chair, a washbasin on a box, and a small trunk for her clothes. Under the cot is a hole, long and large and deep enough for a person to lie in, into which they pop when the bombardment alarm is given. The damp cold is intense in these desolated regions, the work equally so. Always on the alert for gas attacks or shells, always ready, night and day, for the arrival of freshly wounded from the trenches, only a few yards away, operations often, deaths often, fatigue always, dirt, stenches, vermin, the sacrifice of youth, good looks and ease—these are some of the demands that a military nurse under army orders must consider all in a day's work.

The Croix de Guerre is the highest decoration given by the French Government for deeds of valor or endurance under fire, and many are the sons of France who wear it on their blue tunics. That it also gleams on the uniforms of some of her daughters, shows how unfailing is the heroism and patriotism inspiring alike the men and women of France.

All these four long, weary years this has been the lot of the French.

Behind the lines reigns a constant anxiety. In the cities, in the villages, in the lonely farms, everywhere, the homes are empty of their men-folk. Millions of families living in fear of what crushing news the next hours may bring. Lucky those households whose men are still in the fighting line.

A slight idea of the degradation and misery endured in the German prison camps may be gathered from a letter received from the brother of one of my maids. He is now at Leysin, in Switzerland, trying to regain his health and recover his eyesight. At times he is almost blind, the result of the typhus. If he loses it completely, he will indeed be a helpless burden to his family, as he is a cabinetmaker by trade. His father and mother are humble folk who have brought up their nine children honestly and well, educating them, giving each a good trade, and, before the war, looking forward themselves to a well-earned rest in their old age. Now this large family is completely ruined and broken up. This eldest son almost blind, the second son disappeared since 1914 in the holacust of the war, the third son fighting in Italy. Next month the fourth boy, barely eighteen, joins the colors.

The poor old father, struck down by paralysis, has been slowly dying for months. The rest of the family, the old mother, four small children and a young girl, are entirely dependent on the wages of my maid, except for 110 francs ($23) a month, given as allowance by the French Government to those whose men are fighting. The old mother has a patch of ground where she grows a few vegetables. One boy of fourteen receives a few francs as electrician (the only wage earner at home). Out of her wages of $20.60 a month, my good Marie has helped her family, bought clothes and medicines for the sick father and the children, and managed to send twice a month, for the last three and one-half years, a box to the prisoner brother. Naturally, all her savings are gone. This is typical of thousands of families all over France—it is not a hard-luck story.

These monthly boxes sent to the prisoners usually contain a half pound of coffee, costing 28 cents; a quarter pound of sugar, costing 5 cents; one-half pound of chocolate, costing 25 cents; one-half pound of rice, costing 18 cents; one-half pound of butter, costing 50 cents; one-half pound of figs, costing 14 cents; one box of sardines, costing 42 cents; one jar of jam, costing 25 cents; one can of condensed milk, costing 55 cents; one box of dates, costing 35 cents; one piece of soap, costing 20 cents; two packages of cigarettes, costing 25 cents; one pair of wool socks; one cotton shirt; packing, costing 50 cents; one box of meat and beans, costing 39 cents.

The letter of Marie's brother is as follows:

"Madame permits me to address to her my sincere thanks for the money which allows me to purchase some strengthening food, which my poor state of health so greatly demands.

"Since my arrival in Switzerland, I asked no further help from my sister nor my family, who, as Madame knows, have struggled against such great difficulties, due to present conditions. How much they have voluntarily borne during my stay in Germany, when it was so urgent! It is absolutely certain that if I am still in this world it is to thanks of the solicitude of my sister and of my family, who deprived themselves daily in order to send me food.

"Being wounded the 29th of August, 1914, and made prisoner, I dragged about the hospital for five and one-half months. The 15th of February, 1915, I was sent to the camp at Cassel at the very moment of the outbreak of typhus, which appeared the 29th of February. I would not know how to describe to you, Madame, the scenes of horror which I witnessed at that time. I would have to write a book, even then I would lack words to give you the smallest conception of all the great misery whose ghastly impression will remain forever engraved in my soul.

"After nursing a large number of my comrades, attempting by my goodwill to make up for my inexperience, my own turn came. I was struck low by this appalling sickness the 19th of April, 1915. After a few days in the hospital I conquered this awful illness, but in what a state. I could not walk but with the aid of crutches. I was a human rag. The care which I ought to have had was substituted by a complete neglect on the part of the authorities, even the most ordinary and needful precautions were denied me.

"For the following two months I lay on the floor, only a threadbare blanket for covering. It is useless, Madame, to recite to you the treatment of utmost rigor to which I was subjected. It was the same for all of us. Alas, how many unfortunates have died of it! Two thousand five hundred are the official figures recognized by the German authorities in our hospital.

"They will have to answer before the tribunal of humanity for this horror added to so many others of which they are guilty. They are entirely responsible, for they never made the slightest effort to prevent contagion, or to attenuate, in any way, the hideous results. Quite the contrary! They remained inert, rejoicing in the work of desolation passing before their eyes. Their cynical ferocity permitted the German general commanding our camp to explain in the presence of these dying prisoners: 'I make war in my own way.' He made us feel, we unfortunate mori-bunds, that if we were left without the most elementary care of nursing, abandoned in a most tragic state, it was entirely due to him, the German general commanding.

"After a long time, the Red Cross, horrified by the ravages caused by this scourge, and by the indifference of the German authorities, obtained after great difficulty, the privilege of sending some French doctors to our camp at Cassel. These devoted men did their whole duty, more than their duty, no matter how trying and disheartening. There, where the deepest despair reigned, their arrival gave us a gleam of hope. By their sublime abnegation and absolute devotion, they succeeded in stamping out this pest; alas, by the sacrifice of their lives. Two of our dear doctors thus paid the debt, but to those who saw them at their work—courageous, cheering, consoling their poor comrades, prey to this vile disease, the remembrance of them will remain forever vivid and holy—these two heroes.

"I have witnessed the most horrible misery, but I would do wrong to let you think I was the greatest sufferer. Whoever has been prisoner in Germany has seen the same spectacle, the acts of refined cruelty one hoped had disappeared forever from the world. I enclose two photos, which will give you some idea of the actual conditions endured by so many thousand unfortunates fallen into German hands. One shows the interior of a shed where the prisoners are crowded, a bed of infection for all kinds of diseases. The other shows the punishment meted out for the merest peccadillo. They need no comment.

"I cannot close this recital of misery without a word, which I judge very necessary, about this unhappy life, so bravely supported by so many thousands of unfortunates. What would have become of us, but for such kind souls as you? How many of my wretched companions have only been sustained morally and physically, through these days of trial, by the regular arrival of parcels sent by kind unknown friends!

"If these charitable people could hear half of the expressions of gratitude, and see the pleasure caused by these shipments, they would assuredly feel rewarded. I want you to know this, as I feel it will especially interest you. Your kindness towards me proves it. Thanks from me and thanks from them.

"I long to return to France. I await with impatience the day of expatriation, which will permit me to see again my old parents, my family, and to embrace once more my little girls—poor darlings, deprived so early of my affection and care. But I am resigned to wait, and to re-establish here in Switzerland my health, so necessary after this war. I know, Madame, you have given things to my little ones; from me many thanks.

"Receive, Madame, my sincerest salutations and the assurance of my profound gratitude.

"Your devoted,

"F. F.

"Interne Français.

"Hotel du Chamessaire, Leysin, Suisse."

With this authentic picture before us, shall we not do well, we Americans, to realize what our own boys will have to face, should they fall into German hands?

Dinard has recently been obliged to open her doors to one thousand homeless children from Nancy. That historical and beautiful old town in Lorraine is no longer a safe place for kiddies. Twelve thousand have been sent here to Brittany, escorted by American Red Cross doctors and American nurses, and their school-masters and mistresses. Poor little mites, they look white and frightened and suppressed, but they must be relieved to feel they can run about the beach without the fear of bombs—that terror, night and day, which for so many months has haunted them.

Now the soft lapping of the waves replaces the roar of cannon; the green fields of Brittany, the crumbling buildings of their old home; but their little hearts are heavy, many a baby is crying for "maman" when bed-time comes. Their wan cheeks are growing rosy in the breezes from the Atlantic. Good butter, milk, eggs and peaceful sunny days, freedom from the fear of bombardment, are building up their fragile little bodies, and the strained look is leaving their eyes, and they are becoming normal children again.

We are constantly suffering from the spy fever. Every once in a while it breaks out in a virulent form. Everyone looks askance at his neighbor. The most absurd rumors circulate through the whole community, and the world and his wife are in a feverish state of exasperation, each one offering excellent advice as to the suppression of spies, German agents, pro-boches, etc., etc.

Of course, there is some foundation for their fears. If you take up a map of Brittany, you will see that the coast line is greatly indented. There are high, rocky cliffs and innumerable caves which might easily shelter whole cargoes of enemy supplies. Remote little beaches might serve as landing places, and there are all sorts of rumors about tanks of gasoline, barrels of butter, piles of fresh vegetables and meat being hidden in these natural warehouses, and as to how the submarines come in, signalled from shore by their spies, telling them when and where to land.

Undoubtedly there are bases for supplies along the coast. It is wild and uninhabited for miles, the little fishing villages, sheltering along the shore-line in rocky bays and inlets, are practically denuded of able-bodied men; only women, children and old folk living in these little stone cottages facing the rough Atlantic, and who are they to dare to withstand armed Germans?

All the waters along the coast are infested with the German U-boats. Last week the little English packet, running between Saint-Malo and Southampton, was torpedoed ten miles off the Isle of Wight. Only the captain and four others, who happened to be on deck, were saved by clinging to wreckage. All the crew, the two stewardesses, and the cabin boys were drowned before they could reach the deck. We knew them well, these courageous people who have so often made the journey since the war began, and now they are lying under these green waters, martyrs to their duty.

The submarines take weekly toll, but no names are mentioned in the papers, only the total amount of tonnage lost each week. So, added to the horror of the war, is the horror of the sea. In many a little home along the coast, the wife and mother waits for the man who will never return.

At Paimpel, seventy-five miles away, sixty-six out of the seventy anti-bellum fishing smacks have been sunk. What it means to the poor fishing folk can be better imagined than described. Four or five families would often put the savings of a generation into a fishing boat, and the whole population of many villages lived entirely off the product of the sea. Naturally, their poverty is great, and they don't know where to look for help. As one sits on the rocks, looking at the beautiful turquoise ocean with the great space of radiant blue above, and the coast-line stretching away for miles into the hazy distance, it is hard to realize that beneath these sunny waters, perhaps a mile or two away, lurks that hideous instrument of death, the German submarine.

One cannot deny their presence—they make themselves too often conspicuous. Ten days ago, a British transport was torpedoed and went down off Jersey, about fifty miles from here. Every once in a while a French destroyer comes into Saint-Malo harbor, or a military balloon mounts guard in the translucent air.

A story was told recently which bears out these facts, but I don't believe, myself, that it is possible. During the high spring tides we had this month of March, the sea went out on the ebb to a great distance, leaving exposed many rocky islets and long sandy beaches. One small island has deep water on one side, where a U-boat could be safely hidden, and a sandy stretch to the landward side forms an ideal harbor.

The story runs that a few days ago two well-dressed men walked into a little country inn, in a small village, ordered a lunch of young vegetables, chicken, cigars and liqueurs. Smiling pleasantly over their meal, before leaving, they called for paper and ink.

They paid for their food in French money, and left a note for the Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo. Imagine that official's chagrin, on opening it, to find the following:

"Monsieur le Sous-Préfet—We had an excellent lunch and wish to state that we perceive you still eat well in France.

"Captain Fritz.

"Lieut. Johann.

"U-boat off Brittany, March, 1918."

TO A POILU

Hail to you, Poilu! Before the world you stand
Clad in the glory of your deathless fame;
War had no terrors for the dauntless band
That held the line 'gainst bombs, and shells, and flame.

Through tragic months of winter cold and rain,
When snow and water filled the narrow trench,
Steadfast and patient you did bear the strain;
Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French.

From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm,
From mountain village, or town's crowded mart,
When first the Toscin shrilled its fierce alarm,
Gladly you rushed to play your noble part.

Oh, Sons of France! How quickly you forgot
The easy comfort of your tranquil life;
When high and low have shared a common lot
There is no room for friction or for strife.

Beneath the August sun, two years ago,
Life fiercely throbbed and beat in your young frame;
You battled, struggled, panted in the glow
Of love for France, and for her precious fame.

'Midst rye and wheat of cultivated fields,
Where now the harvest waits the reapers' glaive,
Only a wooden cross and rain-stained kepi shields
You—unknown hero in your nameless grave.

Afar, 'perhaps, some woman mourns your end,
Wondering, in sorrow, where your body lies;
She cannot come with loving hands to tend
Your humble tomb beneath the Argonne skies.

No flowers shall fade upon your lowly mound,
So soon by storm and time effaced to be;
But where you died, His France's holy ground,
An altar and a pledge to Victory.

Hail to you, Poilu! In all the years to come,
You'll represent the Fighting Soul of France;
Verdun, the Meuse, the Champagne and the Somme,
Are clarion notes which thrill, inspire, entrance.

That rolling down the misty vales of Time
Proclaim your strength, your courage, fine and true,
Raising you to the ranks of men sublime;
The World salutes you! Hail to you, Poilu!

Dinard, 1918.

OUR WAR WORK

Deming Jarves August 14, 1918

Since the following article, "Our War Work," was written, Mr. Deming Jarves has been decorated by the French government with the cross of the Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur.

The Jarves Family were represented in the Great War by Mrs. Jarves' brother, Capt. John P. Jackson, U. S. N., commanding American transports bringing soldiers to France, and the following great-nephews of Mr. Jarves:

Captain Francesco Marigliano, Duke Delmonte of the Cavalliera di Udine, Italian Army, received two of the highest awards for valor in the Battle of the Piave.

Count Pio Marigliano (his brother), First Lieutenant in the Italian Navy, killed in the blowing up of the battleship Leonardo di Vinci.

Captain Howard Kerr, 11th Hussars, British Army, served through the War on the British Front in France and Belgium.

Captain Graham Lindley of the U. S. Army.

Eric and John Higginson (brothers), petty officers in the U. S. Navy, served on destroyers on the Irish Coast.

Charles Higginson (youngest brother of above), took an intensive course at Annapolis, and then received his commission from the U. S. Navy as an Ensign, on a Cruiser doing convoy work.

Mr. Jarves' father and two uncles took part in the War of 1812, and his grandfather in the Revolutionary War.

(From the Paris Edition of the New York Herald of May 12, 1917)

When the wounded from the Marne began pouring into Brittany, there were no adequate hospitals to receive and care for the thousands of gravely injured men. Everyone was called upon to give money, supplies, beds and bedding, lamps and heating apparatus, surgical instruments, bandages, dressings, hospital garments, all the paraphernalia of great military hospitals, to be installed immediately. The confusion was great, the goodwill endless, but the material lacking.

Upon these tragic circumstances everyone, from peasant to American pleasure-seeker, gave of their best.

Twelve large hospitals were opened in Dinard alone; in the two large casinos, in the hotels, and in private villas in the neighborhood of Dinard.

From St. Malo, St. Servan, Paramé, St. Briac, St. Lunaire, all within walking distance of Dinard, came urgent calls for help.

From remoter convents, where everything had to be provided, came even greater demands.

Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves, seeing the necessity for immediate help, gave very largely personally, and wrote to relatives and friends in America for assistance. How generous the response was, is indicated in the following list of friends who responded at once:

Cases were sent by:

The Red Cross Society of Washington.

Philadelphia Emergency Aid Society.

British War Relief Association, New York.

Vacation War Relief Association, New York.

Junior War Relief Association, New York.

Surgical Dressing Committee, Philadelphia.

Princeton Chapter of the American Red Cross.

Detroit Drug Company.

Princess Louis of Battenberg.

Mme. Jusserand (wife of the French Ambassador in Washington). Mme. Ekengren (wife of the Swedish Minister in Washington). Lady Swettenham.

Lady Wolseley, of Wolseley.

Miss Martha Codman, Washington.

Mrs. Morehead, Washington.

Mrs. McGowan, Washington.

Miss May Moulton, New York.

Major Louis L. Seaman (President British War Relief Association New York).

Mrs. C. Wolcott Henry, Philadelphia.

Mrs. Freeman, Wissaluckon Heights.

Mrs. Norman, Newport.

Mrs. Charles Pike, Chicago.

Mr. W. M. Kozmenski, Chicago.

Mrs. G. H. Rowland, New York.

Mrs. Russell A. Alger, Detroit.

Money was sent by:

Mr. George A. Russel, Detroit, President People's State Bank, Michigan.

Mr. M. F. Barbour, Detroit, President Michigan Stove Company. Mr. J. T. McMillan, Detroit, President Detroit Steamship Company.

Mr. H. H. Campbell, Detroit.

Mr. G. E. Lawson, Detroit, Vice-President People's State Bank. Mr. Angus Smith, Detroit.

Mr. J. Dwyer, Detroit, President Detroit Stove Co.

Mr. H. B. Ledyard, Detroit, President Michigan Central Railway. Mr. H. Russel, Detroit, Vice-President Michigan Central Railway. Mr. R. A. Alger, Detroit, Vice-President Packard Motor Car Co. Mr. C. H. Freer, Detroit.

Mr. J. C. Hutchings, Detroit, Detroit United Railway.

Mr. Howie Muir, Detroit.

Mr. F. J. Hecker, Detroit.

Mrs. R. S. Mason, Detroit.

Mrs. Butler, Detroit.

Mr. Truman H. Newberry, Detroit, former Secretary of the United States Navy.

Mr. J. S. Alexander, New York, President National Bank of Commerce.

Mr. Myron T. Herrick, New York, former Ambassador to France. Mrs. Helen A. Noyes, St. Paul.

Mrs. Coudert, Washington.

Mrs. Thompson, Washington.

Mrs. Julien-James, Washington.

Mrs. C. Howe Johnson, Washington.

Mrs. Lorthorpe Bradley, Washington.

Mr. Gibson Farnstock, Washington.

Mr. Hudnut, New York.

Mr. John Aspergren, New York.

Mrs. Sheffield Phelps, New York.

Mrs. Moses Taylor Pyne, New York.

Mrs. John Innes Kane, New York.

Mrs. Edward Walker, Detroit.

Mrs. J. J. White, Atlantic City.

Mrs. Barker Gummere, Washington.

Mme. Ekengren and Miss Helen Patten sent a sum of money, being the proceeds of a concert arranged by them.

Villa Transformed Into Warehouse

Mr. Jarves converted two salons of his Villa Val Fleuri into receiving and storing rooms, engaged a secretary and two women for the packing and re-sorting of supplies, and used the garage for opening and receiving the cases. It is estimated that over 97,000 articles have been thus distributed, not to mention tobacco, candies, fruit, cocoa, chocolate, Liebig's Extract, Valentine's Essence, Benger's Food, tetanus serum, etc.

To give a more complete idea of the extent of the work done, it is only necessary to say that 6,393 beds have been installed in the various buildings converted into hospitals.

Besides these immediate demands for medical and surgical supplies, came the call of the homeless, the refugees, prisoners in Germany (Dinard men). From all sides, these appeals poured in from the unfortunate victims of the war.

Thousands of Belgians sought refuge in Brittany. Baronne Raymond de Saint-Gilles, at Le Fretay, has over 4,000 dependent on her for assistance, and Abbé Destroopers at Avranches, and Mlle. Powis de Tenbossche at Rennes, both of whom have over 3,000 Belgians on their refuge lists, all have been supplied with great quantities of garments.

The convents were especially deserving of assistance; many throughout Brittany were of the poorest description. These religious women found themselves face to face with, for them, unparalleled conditions, and were occupied in attending Arabs, Senagalais, Turcos, Bretons, Chasseurs Alpins and Paris "gamins."

The accommodations were poor enough and the medical and surgical supplies utterly inadequate, for they simply did not exist.

To them, Mr. Jarves was able to give a large quantity of necessary articles, including a hot-air apparatus, a full set of surgical instruments, clothing, medicines, comforts and money. The supplies from America have been divided with the conscientious desire to see American generosity help as far as could be.

97,610 Articles Distributed The following list is an estimate of the numbers and kind of articles distributed:

Compresses of all kinds... .. 37,000 Bandages of all kinds... .. 22,000 Pairs of socks .. 4,290 Shirts .. 2,095 Articles of children's clothing.. .. 4,000 Articles of men's and women's clothing .. 2,500 Pyjamas .. 375 Miscellaneous articles... .. 24,500 Cotton wool (pounds)... .. 850 Total .. 97,610

About six hundred surgical instruments have been distributed to various hospitals in Brittany.

Gifts of money have been distributed as follows:

November, 1914—Five thousand francs to the Oeuvre des Belges, Dinard.

November, 1914—Ten thousand francs to M. Crolard (Mayor of Dinard) for the poor of Dinard and the French and Belgian refugees.

The balance was spent in England in purchasing provisions, surgical instruments and dressings for the hospitals.

In December, 1916, Mr. Deming Jarves gave to the town of Dinard the sum of 5,800fr., to form a fund called the "Deming Jarves Fund" (which was increased later to 10,000fr.), which the mayor is distributing to the poor, residing permanently in Dinard and having need of immediate assistance.

All automobile expenses, transport, storage, cartage, distribution and Custom House expenses have been paid by Mr. Deming Jarves. These expenses are estimated at not less than 15,000 fr.

The work still continues, although for the last year, through the courtesy of the American Relief Clearing House, the cases are sent through free of charge from Bordeaux.

France's Thanks

On July 8,1915, Mr. and Mrs. Deming Jarves were notified by M. Julliard, the Préfet of Ille-et-Vilaine, that he would call on them on July 11, at three o'clock, accompanied by M. Lacouloumére, Sous-Préfet of Redon; M. Revilliot, Sous-Préfet of Saint-Malo; General Grillot, commanding the district; M. Crolard, Mayor of Dinard, "en grande tenue," to thank them in the name of France for their generous help in the great crisis of this war.

AMERICANS IN BRITTANY

When the Yankees return home after the great war is over, those who have been quartered in Brittany will carry back a vivid impression of long stretches of green forests and fields, of tumbling green waters, of gray-and-white skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting sunshine lying warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages huddled about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of unknown antiquity—and some may carry home recollections of yellow- or auburn-haired girls, rosy-cheeked, clad in heavy black peasant costumes and white muslin "coiffes."

It rains often in this west country, skies hang low, and there is much hazy atmosphere and blue-wrapped distances, but the temperature is so mild, roses bloom all winter, mimosa spread their golden sprays over southern walls. The hedgerows and uplands are aglow early in January with primroses and gorse, all shades of golden yellows, cutting sharp against green backgrounds and vapory skies.

The air is mild and damp, and it is probably due to this purity of atmosphere, that the Breton is as hardy and as vigorous as he is, for their cottages, with the dirt floors, walled-in beds, and lack of cleanliness, are about as sanitary as in the days of Anne of Brittany.

Since 1914 these good people have been called upon to provide hospitality for all kinds of foreigners; strangers who, in ordinary life, had never even heard of this part of the world, and who probably never had any desire to see it—but Kaiser Wilhelm arranged otherwise, and they poured in in their thousands. Somehow or other, food and lodging were found for them, and they became tremendously at home. Some, much too much so!

First came the Belgians, poor, driven, dazed creatures, carrying all sorts of parcels and bundles, footsore, limping, weary; fleeing before that first dreadful on-rush of Germans in August, 1914. Everyone worked to get them food, clothing and lodging; but, scattered all over the province, they were wretchedly unhappy crowds, knowing no language but Flemish or Walloon, isolated and lost in France, and with their families in Belgium. English and Americans took charge of them, and, by tireless generosity and exertion, provided them with the necessities of life.

I know of one Belgian hospital at St. Lunaire, which, for the last four-and-a-half years, has been dependent on five English girls, who, through all sorts of trouble, complications and work have kept it going—and going competently and well.

From England they obtained the necessary surgical and hospital supplies, but often and often they had to dip deep into their own pockets—it was a flimsy summer hotel, in no way suited to a hospital service; but, nothing daunted, they stuck at it courageously, giving time, health, and wealth, never relaxing their efforts, or becoming discouraged—brave, unselfish, untiring volunteers!

Many a Belgian, exiled, wounded, homesick, has a special little shrine in his heart for the Misses de Montmorency and Miss Amscott.

After the Belgian invasion, came the French wounded.

I would not dare say how many thousands have passed through the Dinard hospitals, where they were nursed by French, English, Belgian and American Red Cross ladies. For years, the streets were full of bandaged, limping creatures, happy to recuperate in our soft climate. While these were in our town, we were suddenly inundated by hordes of Russians; strong, vigorous young men, with a charming disregard for all discipline, and an ardent determination to do exactly as they chose. When remonstrated with, they just laughed and said: "Kaput czar, kaput Russia—kaput tout," and that is all there was to it. They weren't going to fight any more, or obey anyone. They traveled when it pleased them, getting on or off of trains, without inquiring about their destination, carefully ignoring all formalities, such as tickets, time, or overcrowding, and behaved themselves generally as if law and order had disappeared with the czar. Great, strapping chaps they were, too; in clean, well-brushed uniforms and fine boots, apparently not concerning themselves in the least as to the war or the future, sauntering about our streets, amusing themselves as they saw fit, and finally becoming so unbearable that a few were hauled up and shot by the authorities at St. Malo, and the rest sent off somewhere, at the unanimous request of St. Malo and Dinard.

In ordinary times, these Belgians and Russians would never have heard of Dinard, and been perfectly satisfied not to, but then so would we have been, had William the Kaiser permitted them to remain at home.

Last March, the third invasion took place—twelve hundred boys and girls from Nancy, aged four to twelve years. They were quartered at the Royal Hospital and at St. Lunaire, and the American Red Cross sent down nurses and doctors to look after them. They needed everything—clothing, boots, medical attendance and hygiene—being in a shocking condition, having hidden in cellars for months during the bombardment of Nancy; their faces were yellow and pinched, their bodies unhealthy and sickly, their morale at its lowest ebb.

Mr. Thomas Ewing Moore, representative of the American Red Cross, formed a committee of ladies, with the Marquise de Sigy as president, who tells me they distributed, in four months, over ten thousand garments, shoes, boots, hats, underwear, etc.

After the Nancy children had been comfortably installed and attended to, French refugees from the Aisne began to pour in, fleeing before the German offensive of last March. Again the American Red Cross came to their relief, and over $100,000.00 was spent on them—clothing, food, medicines, coal were purchased, homes found, furniture bought—a tremendous work all over Brittany.

All these invasions gave a great deal to do, no one could afford to be idle, and I must say the call was nobly responded to. A branch of the Surgical Dressings Service (American Red Cross) was installed by Mrs. Austin, an "ouvroir" opened, which did splendid work from October, 1917, to September, 1918. 300,000 dressings were sent to Paris; English, French, Belgian and American ladies worked all day and every day; and, thanks to President Mrs. John C. Howard's tact, it proved to be a most harmonious circle. From accounts one hears on all sides of other "ouvroirs," harmony is not precisely their most conspicuous feature.

Elmer Stetson Harden is the one American volunteer serving in our Brittany regiments. He won the highest praise for his fine courage under fire, which earned him the Croix de Guerre. His officers and companions consider it rather splendid of him, a rich and independent American, to volunteer as a simple "poilu," and to refuse all promotion, satisfied to remain with them through dangers and discomforts, sharing their everyday life out of love for France. It is the more praiseworthy, as he is beyond the age limit; Medford, Mass., may well be proud of this son of hers. He has been wounded twice. After months of suffering in a Dinard hospital, is now cheery and well. I met him yesterday at a luncheon and was glad to see such a wholesome American in horizon-blue.

After all these different invasions—Belgian, French, wounded, children—you can imagine we looked with some misgiving on a Yankee one. The American Y. M. C. A. opened in August, 1,200 men in Dinard, 2,000 across the bay at St. Malo and Paramé; but now, after three months, I can frankly say they are welcome everywhere.

Well-behaved, well-mannered, cheery, healthy, young, they come like a fresh breeze from the sparkling Atlantic, bringing hope, courage and enthusiasm in their wake.

It is so delightful for us war-weary Dinardais to come in contact with anything so vital, and vigorous, that we open our doors to them, bidding them welcome, with patriotic fervor.

All the Anglo-American colony, as well as the French aristocracy at Dinard, have entertained them, either at luncheon or teas, and the Y. M. C. A. has done its utmost to make their short vacation a happy and memorable one. Trips to Mont St. Michel, Dinan and Combourg are included in their week's stay. Vaudeville performances, dances, concerts, everything to make them feel at home and "comfy." My French friends are much impressed by their intelligence and manliness. My friend, the Countess de Durfort, receives 200 every Friday at her feudal Castle of Combourg, and often tells me what pleasure it gives her to entertain "ces braves Américains."

La Baronne de Charette, née Miss Antoinette Polk, of Tennessee, great-niece of President Polk, and widow of Général de Charette, the famous leader of the Papal Zouaves in the war of 1870, has opened her old Chateau every Wednesday to 200 Yankees.

Her Brittany home lies in a hollow surrounded by gray-bearded oaks, near the river Ranee. It is full of historical souvenirs of all kinds. Royalty has spent many happy days beneath its high-peeked roof; parties and festivities of all sorts taking place here.

Wednesdays have always been the reception days of the

General and Mme. de Charette, since 1883. Notabilities who came to Brittany, made it a pleasure as well as a duty to pay their respects to the venerable hero and his charming American wife; they enjoyed a truly southern hospitality, inspected the various historical souvenirs, the flags, the banners, the presentation swords (gifts of devoted admirers all over France), walked in the beautiful park, feasted on good wine and good cheer, and departed with a pleasant recollection of all the charms of this old-world manor, given to the famous general by his ardent followers, the Papal Zouaves.

Madame de Charette wanted to offer the same hospitality to her American compatriots as was offered to European royalty and distinguished foreigners. So every Wednesday her doors are opened to 200 Yanks.

They find an excellent "goûter," a charming hostess, surrounded by the ladies of the nobility from the neighborhood, who put themselves out to amuse the "doughboys."

Music, singing, dancing, fill in the hours from 3 to 8, but what they seem to like the most is to sit in the halflight in a circle, before the great granite chimney-place, the logs burning and snapping, casting weird shadows over these fighters from afar, on the heavy oak beams of the "Salle des Zouaves," flitting here and there over the dark oak furniture, catching a sheen of light from steel helmets, of a bit of color from some pendant war flag. They listen to the old southern tales and the history of the general's battles, or tell, themselves, of what they have seen or done in this war of wars.

Among the French and Italian flags is one—a poor, tattered, faded silk American one—cherished reverently by the family; for, in 1862, Mme. de Charette (then Miss Polk) rode on horseback by a black night to warn General Forrest of the approach of the Union troops. After the victory, General Forrest presented this trophy to the young girl, saying: "My child, thanks to you, we have won the battle; to you, therefore, I give the flag."

Mme. de Charette's only son, the Marquis de Charette, was wounded April 16, 1917, being the only man in his tank to escape alive; he has fighting blood in his veins, for, besides his father's, his ancestors, General de Charette fought at Yorktown with General Lafayette—as well as General Leonidas Polk of the Southern army. We consider it a privilege for our Yankee boys to see such an interior; our own entertainments for them in our modern villas at Dinard being much inferior in interest and attractions, but it is a great pleasure to receive them.

Every Saturday a certain number—20 to 25—come to our home, "Val Fleuri," and we give them American pumpkin-pie, cornbread, potato-chips, cakes, chocolate, etc. Pretty girls dance with them, we sing war songs, and old-fashioned ones, too, and although each Saturday brings a new set, my husband and I are glad to be able to offer to these "boys from God's country" an afternoon in our American home.

October, 1918.

VICTORIOUS BELLS OF FRANCE

It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time.

We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with longing for Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so impossible.

All the morning the town was alive with rumors—a word, a suggestion, a guess, all light as a zephir, but gaining stability as they spread—until people crowding in the streets with radiant faces and happy eyes, became aware of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced:

"Is it true the boches are beaten?"

"Have we the victory?"

"Foch has signed today."

"The Kaiser has fled."

"The Crown Prince is killed."

A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing definite but a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. I met the mayor at 11 o'clock.

"Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? (There is Victory?)"

"But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official."

"But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?"

"Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but—" with a twinkling eye, "you can have your flags ready."

All along the streets are little groups of people chattering excitedly, joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant newsmongers, each with his own special brand of rumor. At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has gathered, waiting for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in a new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of importance in our little town, is gesticulating and laughing with the commandant de place. Peasants, shopkeepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and Belgian wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowding, jostling, each with perfect good humor.

Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines of bunting stretch across from window to window, flowers appear in buttonholes, out of church-tower windows lean the bell ringers; a little French flag has been hoisted high on the tower, the first in four years.

"Will the great news never come?"

Presently a loud clattering of sabots; the schools are out, 'round the corner they stream at full speed, twenty abreast, little chaps from eight to twelve, their pink faces aglow, their capes streaming in the wind, a tricolor grasped in red fists, bobbing in front line. Dear little chaps, each has lost someone—a brother or a father—one's eyes fill with tears of relief of what they have escaped, these little citizens of the future, they at least can grow to the fulness of manhood without a dreadful menace hanging over them. The world is safe for them.

The clock points to 3. Suddenly a great peal of bells rings out on the sunny November air; louder and louder the sound reverberates over the autumn trees and far out to sea, loud and clear and joyous, carrying the glorious news over land and water to the hearts of the waiting people.

Ah! ring, bells of France! Ring out over all this beautiful martyred land, over towns and villages, over country, river, sea. Messengers of God, bringing joy and hope. Ring in long, swelling notes, full of harmony and Peace. Bring to all who listen the certitude of victory; the knowledge that the vast sacrifices have not been in vain; that Peace soon will spread her healing breath over this sore-tried nation. As the carillons ring, a shout bursts out, people weep, laugh, embrace each other. They sob and cheer in the same breath, all hearts united in one over-whelming wave of gratitude and thanksgiving.

Then a slow booming from the cannon at Saint-Malo sounds across the water—only a few days ago what fears it would have caused—but today, thrice blessed guns!

The doughboys raise a terrific shouting; some whistle, shriek, cat-call; tin pans are banged as cymbals; a procession is formed, French and Belgians with their flags in front, singing the "Marseillaise," then the Yanks, cheering and dancing arm in arm, thirty abreast, zigzaging down the boulevard. I ran out with some thirty small national flags, and in a second they were whipped out of my arms and went careering away over the heads of the shouting men.

The procession swept on, catching up bystanders; infirmières had flags thrust at them, and joined the ranks, their white veils and dresses gleaming ahead; some of the Americans picked up the tiny children, carrying them shoulder high, the kiddies clutching them in a stranglehold, their necks craning to see their mothers and sisters running along the sidewalk near them.

The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute their wounded comrades, to the mairie, to the commandant de place, singing "Over There," the "Star-Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la Brabançonne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, operation or no operation they hung out of the windows and balconies, to the horror of their nurses, waving handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips, slippers—anything that came to hand. One boy, with the Croix de Guerre and four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved a crutch, sang the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and then fainted dead away. Another hung over a balcony cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated with and told to remember his operation of two days ago, declared he didn't care if he had to spend six more weeks in bed, he had been wounded five times for his country's good, and now he would have one for his own pleasure.

All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, a group of Belgians with an accordion, the player with an arm in a sling clutching it somehow, playing the "Brabançonne." Yanks decked out in paper caps and tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking about the town. All the week, festivities have been in full swing, in the cafes, the hotels, the American Y.M.C.A.—entertainments, flags, cheering, songs, music, games—the world is alive again, and fear, death, horror banished.

So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. I quote from a letter from a French officer:

"The enthusiasm is indescribable! Sammies, Tommies, Poilus, Midinettes, dance the farandele in the streets, singing. More serious people content themselves with round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have their hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper caps. Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving flags. Add to this the firing of cannon and bombs as if we were back in the evil days of avions last spring. Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic, content themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope they withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges with flags, drums, trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, whistled. Some drag the German cannons surmounted by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all sides a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la Opera, but every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have been no fights.

"On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, Wilson and Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands all day and all night acclaiming them. Clemenceau himself ventured out on the boulevards, and only escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by rushing into the Grand Hotel and having the portes cocheres closed."

As soon as the news of the signing of the armistice was known in official circles yesterday morning, the Paris Municipal Council sent out, to be posted all over the city, a stirring appeal to the population to celebrate the greatest victory ever won. The poster read as follows:

"Inhabitants of Paris"

"Victory! Triumphant Victory! On all fronts the defeated enemy has laid down his arms! Blood will cease to flow!

"Let Paris throw off the noble reserve for which she has been admired by the whole world.

"Let us give free course to our joy and enthusiasm and hold back our tears.

"To show our infinite gratitude to our magnificent soldiers and their incomparable leaders, let us decorate all our houses with the French colors and those of our dear allies.

"Our dead may rest in peace. The sublime sacrifice they have made of their lives to the future of the race and the salvation of France will not be in vain.

"For them, as for us 'the day of glory has arrived.'

"Vive la Republique!

"Vive la France immortelle!

"For the Municipal Council,

"Adrien Mithouard, President.

"Chausse, Chassaigne-Goyon, Adolphe Chérioux, Henri Rouselle, Vice-Presidents;

"Georges Pointel, Le Corbeiller, Lemarchand, Fiancette, Secretaries;

"Andre Gent, Syndic."

News Flashed Throughout France

While this appeal was being drawn up, the magnificent news was flashed by telephone to the Prefects throughout France by M. Pams, Minister of the Interior, with the following orders:

"Put out flags immediately. Illuminate all public buildings this evening. Have all bells ring out in full peal, and arrange with the military authorities to have guns fired, in order that the people may know of the signing of the armistice.

"Dinard, November 11th, 1918"