Preparations for war are going on rapidly; scores of automobiles are racing past like mad things, carrying Governmental messages no doubt and the Government itself, by its eternal prerogative, is commandeering for its use everybody's private property—horses, cows, automobiles, pigs, merchandise, provisions, etc. And how one gives for one's country! The men, their goods; the women, their sons. The spirit of the people is magnificent. Huge loads of hay in long processions like caravans are coming in from the country along with immense droves of cattle. In the orchard adjoining the chÂteau are already domiciled two hundred or more cows and the discordant melody from this hoarse-throated chorus, uninterrupted day or night, is driving us to madness. Indoors, we ourselves are laying in a supply of things in case of necessity and the kitchen is piled high with bags of flour, coffee, beans, tinned goods, etc., and in the pasture is a new cow. Beef will probably be the piÈce de resistance for many a day.

Monsieur X.'s old coiffeur came out from town today. He is French and by far the most volatile person about the news of the moment that I have seen. It is like a play to hear him declaim on the situation, but, poor man, having endured the Siege of Paris for six months in 1870, he doubtless has recollections. And he makes the most of them as well as of his dramatic ability, describing in an eloquent manner how he fried rats in a saucepan, which with some spice and plenty of onion all around, he admitted, were "pas mal du tout." Madame X. herself was in the "Siege of Paris" in 1870 and is therefore taking thought.

These details of the equipment and provisioning of the army will be as interesting to you as they are engaging to us here in the midst of it, for they are not commonly even included in a rapid conception of "War" though being in reality the biggest part of it.

What masses of convoys and munitions! They must constitute that same impressive "impedimenta" that one used to read about in CÆsar's Wars which by its unfailing late arrival constantly threw the old Romans into such a frightful dÉpit. But happily, in this case, it comes first instead of last.

The whole world seems to be changing place like sand on a moving disc and my mind is losing its grip on what is real—it's a curious feeling. Madame X. and her family, like everybody else, are extremely anxious, as one would naturally be with his country, his home and his future in peril, but I, in my superb (what shall I say?) Americanism or optimism, am sure it will come out all right: nevertheless I feel confused.