I had a sort of habit, when I had time off from the work, or was "on my own," of sometimes going to the railroad stations of the different towns and more especially those of Paris. A railroad station is an interesting place at any time. It is an educational institution, for there you find all classes of humanity coming and going, just as they are. It is where the ebb and flow of the human tide of life is.

But I think in this time of war, especially, there is no place which so well shows up the psychology of the people as the railroad depot. Often have I stood in those large Paris stations and watched the people come and watched them go. The Gare du Nord, the Gare du Lyons, and the Gare la Chapelle are full of sentiment and pathos.

Once at the last named station I was standing in the background in the shadow of a pillar, where I was unobtrusive and unnoticed, and watched the anxious people. Some of them were looking for their loved ones back on leave, and some of them had come to see their loved ones leave, perhaps forever!

I saw a young wife approach the gate with her husband. The brave little woman had escorted her mari to the station as he was leaving for the trenches, to take his place there in the mud and blood. And yet, as she stood there and talked to him outside the gates, she was exceptionally merry and vivacious. Then just as he went through the gates to board the train, she kissed him and waved him a cheery au revoir and stood smilingly, waving as he went out of sight.

And then—I saw that brave French woman turn around, and, as she walked away or almost stumbled away, become shaken with a paroxysm of sobs and grief, as though the heart were wrenched out of her breast.

How she did weep!

But she would not let her husband see it for anything in the world, for she felt she must keep him up so that he could fight the battle. That was her bit for La Belle France. And I have seen that same thing repeated very many times.

I have often watched strong men come into the depots with their brothers who were going to the trenches. And as they talked with those dear ones who were going out to meet the foe, they would be happy and buoyant in their manner, and as they separated, they would kiss each other like young lovers, with prolonged and passionate kisses, for both realized that they might never meet again. And the cheery au revoir which they waved to each other meant "Till we meet again," probably "over West." But they did not then show a trace of sadness. The soldier would board his train and the man who was left behind would turn away, convulsed with weeping; but he wouldn't let his brother see it. It was all for La Belle France.

The soul of the French is a wonderful thing. They have a calm confidence that finally the invader will be vanquished, and that confidence goes a long way toward the goal. Not so many years since, the French were looked upon by many as being an enervated, effeminate people. I suppose the tourists who visited Paris had taken their impressions from a few of the men and women whom they had observed in the cafÉs and public places. At any rate, a great many Americans thought that as a nation she was degenerating and decaying, but France has proven to the world that such an impression is not true, and no one has learned this lesson better than the German. Today I believe Germany respects France more highly than any other of her enemies. This great Republic has conducted through these years such a remarkable war, and all the while kept up such a magnificent spirit that she has placed herself in the very front rank of the world's great powers. The secret of it all is the wonderful psychological attitude of the French people who go to make up the country, and if America can demonstrate a spirit which parallels it in the trying days to come, it will bode well for the outcome of the war.

I am glad I went. My part, though humble, in this great struggle for human freedom, has done worlds for me, and I shall always rejoice that I had that profound experience. Physically, I overdid things, yet I wanted to do more. Everybody does. I often took foolish chances as I now see, but I am not sorry for it. I got little sleep and insufficient food, but I was happy in my work. Not infrequently as I worked I had realized the danger, but I didn't seem to care. Forgetting my own best interests, I guess I often did more than I should have done. But these things cannot last forever. The body wearies, the brain tires, the nerves fatigue, there comes about a physical condition when the members of the body simply refuse to obey orders. Such a condition I suppose had come upon me. For some time I had felt it coming, but I still did not let up, though I was working like a man in a dream.

At last, however, my nerves completely gave way. I saw that I must give up the work entirely and with great regret was forced to do so. I was given my release and a military ticket, but I was loath to leave the country which had opened my eyes to the deeper values of life. The people that I had met and the atmosphere in which I had labored had brought a new meaning to the words "Life" and "Liberty," and I felt I was better fitted for my duty toward humanity. I had gained a something over there which I never got before in all the years of my academic education and a strange emotion tugged at my heart at the thought of leaving France. I vowed that if possibility presented itself I would return again to help the poilus.