BY SUSANNE R. DAY AUTHOR OF "THE AMAZING PHILANTHROPISTS," ETC. London SKEFFINGTON & SON, LTD. 34 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C. 2 PUBLISHERS TO HIS MAJESTY THE KING TO CAROL FOR WHOSE EYES THIS BOOK WAS WRITTEN...

TO CAROL Dear, you asked me to write for you the story of my work and adventures in France, and through all the agonising hours of incubation and parturition you have given me your unfailing sympathy, encouragement and help. You have even chastened me (it was a devastating hour!) for my—and, I believe, for the book's—good, and when we discovered that the original form—that of intimate personal letters written directly to you—did not suit the subject matter, you acquiesced generously in a change,

MAINLY INTRODUCTORY Relief Work in the War Zone. It did sound exciting. No wonder I volunteered, but, oh dear! great was the plenitude of my ignorance. I vaguely understood that we were to distribute clothes and rabbits, kitchen utensils, guano and other delectable necessaries to a stricken people, but not that we were to wear a uniform and that the uniform would be made "by post." If I had there might never have been a chapter to write nor a tale to tell. That uniform!—shall I ever forget it? O

EN ROUTE—SERMAIZE-LES-BAINS I Like Bartley Fallon of immortal memory, "if there's any ill luck at all in the world, 'tis on meself it falls." Needless to say, I was not allowed to remain in the arms of that nice young man; and indeed, to give him his due, he showed no overwhelming desire to keep me there. The embodiment of all Quakerly propriety, he conducted me with befitting ceremony to the station just as the sun began to drop down the long hills of the sky, and sent me forth once more, this

FIRST IMPRESSIONS I Sermaize, however, was not to be the scene of my future labours. The honour was reserved for Bar-le-Duc, the captital city of the Meuse, the seat of a Prefecture, and proud manufacturer of a very special jam, "Confitures de Bar-le-Duc." The mouth waters at the very thought of it, but desire develops a limp when you have seen the initial processes of manufacture; for these consist in the removal by means of a finely-cut quill of every pip from every currant about to be boiled

À TRAVERS BAR-LE-DUC Whether it was or not, it has come rather too soon in my narrative, I am afraid. It has carried me far away from the days when the quaint individual charm of Bar-le-Duc began to assert itself, little by little, slowly, but with such cumulative effect that in the end we grew to love it. Our work took us into every lane and street, but it was the Ville-Haute that I loved best. I wish I could describe it to you as it lies on the hill; wish I could take you up the steep narrow l

SETTLING-IN Our first duty on arriving in the town was to go to the Bureau de Police and ask for a permis de séjour . We understood that without it there would be short shrift and a shorter journey into a world which has not yet been surveyed. So we sallied forth to the Bureau at break of day, and there we interviewed an old grognard —the only really grumpy person I met in France—who scowled at us and scolded us and called the devil to witness that these English names are barbarous, the chatter

THE BASKET-MAKERS OF VAUX-LES-PALAMIES The long hot days of summer pursued their stifling way, yet were all too short for the work we had in hand. There were families to be visited, case-papers to be written up, card-indexes to be filled in, and bales to be unpacked. There were clothes to be sorted, there were people in their hundreds to be fitted with coats and trousers and shirts and underlinen and skirts and blouses, and the thousand and one things to be coped with in the Clothes-room. When S

IN WHICH WE PLAY TRUANT I Without wishing in the least to malign my fellow-men, I am minded to declare that a vast percentage of them are hypocrites. Not that they know it or would believe you if you told them so. Your true poseur imposes acutely on himself, believing implicitly in his own deceptions; but the discerning mind is ever swift to catch an attitude, and never more so than when it is struck before the Mirror of Charity. Consequently, when people tell me they go to the War Zone in singl

THE MODERN CALVARY I One day, not long after our visit to the battlefield, our composure was riven to its very foundations by an invitation to play croquet in the garden of Madame G. Could we spare an hour from our so arduous toil? For her it would be a pleasure so great, the English they love "le sport," they play all the games, we would show her the English way. Monsieur her husband he adored croquet, but never, never could he find any one to play with him. Madame, a little swarthy woman who a

IN WHICH WE BECOME EMISSARIES OF LE BON DIEU Now the coming of M. le Curé was in this wise. We were making up paquets in the Clothes-room, we were grimy, dishevelled and hot, we were in no mood for visitors, we were pining for tea, and yet Madame insinuated her head round the door and announced, "M. le Curé de N." She would have announced the Czar of Russia, or President Wilson, or General Joffre, or the dustman in exactly the same emotionless tones, and with as little consideration for our feel

PRIESTS AND PEOPLE I Having tasted the delights of a mild vagabondage, we now turned our thoughts to other villages, modestly supposing that by degrees we could "do" the Meuse. (Had we but known it the whole of France lay before us, refugees everywhere, and every refugee in need). Having requisitioned a motor-car we planned tours, but first we investigated Behonne on foot. It lies on the hill above the aviation ground, so let no man ask why it came first in our affections. I suppose it would be

REPATRIÉES I "Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, the children are coming!" Christmas had come and gone in a convulsion of parties, January had dripped monotonously into the abyss of time. The day was dank and cheerless, rain—the imperturbable rain of France—was falling placidly, persistently, yet through the unfathomable seas of mud that engulf Bar-le-Duc in winter I saw Madame Lassanne running towards me. I was miry, wet and exceedingly cross; Madame was several times mirier, her clothes were a sodden

STORM-WRACK FROM VERDUN I "The French are evacuating some villages near Verdun, and I hear there are a number of refugees at the Marché Couvert to-night," one of the coterie remarked as she came in one evening from her rounds. It seemed a little odd that villages should be evacuated by the French just then, but we had long since ceased to be surprised at anything. In the War Zone everything is possible and the unexpected is the probable, so we piled on waterproofs and goloshes and woollies, for

MORE STORM-WRACK A small volume might be written about those days at the Marché Couvert, about the war gossip that circulated, the adventures that were related. In spite of the terrific shelling of Verdun only one civilian was reported to have been killed during that first week, and she imprudently left her cellar. The bombardment was methodical. Three minutes storm, then three minutes calm, then three minutes storm again. Then the pulse-beat lengthened: fifteen minutes storm, fifteen minutes ca

AIR RAIDS I Where the grey gas-bags failed, Taubes often succeeded. At first they came "in single spies," but later "in battalions." And after one of the early and abortive raids which did no damage—a mere bagatelle of three bombs and one soldier with a cut over his eye—posters of such exquisite import were plastered over the walls that I must tell you about them. They emanated from the Mayor, kind father to his people, who told us—we thrilled to hear it—"that in these tragic hours—of war—we had

M. LE POILU I If you had ventured into Bar-le-Duc during the stormy days of 1916, when the waves of the German ocean beat in vain against the gates of Verdun, you might have thought that the entire French army was quartered there. Soldiers were everywhere. The station-yard was a wilderness of soldiers. In faded horizon-blue, muddy, inconceivably dirty, with that air of je ne sais quoi de fagoté which distinguishes them, they simply took possession of the town. The pâtisseries were packed—how the

And so the tale is written, and the story told in strange halting numbers that can but catch here and there at the great melody of the human symphony. Just for one moment one may lay one's finger on the pulse of a great nation, feel its heart beat, feel the quivering, throbbing life that flows through its veins, but more than that who dare hope to gain? Not in one phase, nor in one era, not in one great crisis nor even in a myriad does the heart of a people express itself fully. From birth to de