Left Calais at nine A. M. The sun was pouring its cheerful rays over the glorious land. It ought to be free—this smiling France! Wherever the eye rested were soldiers drilling, building, maneuvering and digging. Every few hundred yards the railroad was intersected by lines of trenches. These latter appeared to be about seven feet deep—cut true as a die into the ground and were braced with a lining of woven reeds, like basket work. The front wall of these trenches was crenated about every two feet, forming little niches for the soldiers and protection against flank shots. The poppies and corn flowers blowing over the edges were holding on for dear life to their tiny inch of soil and nearly obliterated those brutal gashes in the earth which had swallowed up their brothers and sisters. An unsuspecting army might well be lured into such a pleasant bear-trap.

Train progress was very slow for we had to switch off continually to allow ammunition trains and troops to pass. All the railroad stations were packed with soldiers and grieving women, though there was nothing in the way of heroics in these leave-takings, just grim resolve on the faces of the men and silent sorrow on the lips of the women. It seemed as if clasped hands could not release each other and eyes held eyes in a long farewell. Husbands were tearing themselves from their wives; white-haired mothers were adding one word more of caution to their departing sons; and there were young boys, of perhaps the last class, who, touched at the moment to say au revoir, were yet eager to plunge out into the future. I shall never know how many last good-byes I witnessed this day.

Train after train of cattle cars passed us, with a big cannon in the middle, three horses stabled in one end and three in the other. Along the road were several regiments of Indian troops—the Girkhas. They were tall, splendidly handsome men of fine features, light, chocolate-colored skin and brilliant, black eyes. They wore long, khaki coats, belted in like a Russian blouse, and khaki turbans and they waved their hands and smiled continually, showing flashing, white teeth. They were evidently well pleased with the turn of events which had led them to this wondrous, new world, where was plenty of opportunity for killing—this reputed trait, however, was quite belied by their amiable faces.

About four P. M. (three hours yet to Paris) I was dead with fatigue and seeing so much. Also I had not had a bite to eat since eight A. M., having counted on a basket lunch on the road, or at least a solitary sandwich, but all the convenient station buffets have been closed up since the war and civilians are tacitly understood to look after themselves and not to bother the Government by racing needlessly over the country. But I do not think there were many making aimless journeys.

Since noon the cars had been steadily filling up, until the compartments destined for ten persons were accommodating twenty, not including bundles, lapdogs, bandboxes and bird-cages—even then there was always room for one more. And nobody was indignant, but rather complacent and obliging, for had they not all sons at the front and the same great grief at heart? The conversation was general as to people and on one sole topic, the "War," including the strategic achievements of the French army, "Eux" (they, i.e., the Germans), and the marvellous qualities of their beloved GÉnÉral Joffre, affectionately termed "GrandpÈre" by the soldiers.

And so we rolled slowly and more slowly on, packed like sardines, the removing of one meaning the displacement of all, as when one heedlessly snatches a potato from the middle of a bushel basket. But very few got down except the soldiers, the objective point for all being Paris.

The twilight shadows were welcome, for they swallowed up all the phantasmagoria of the day and we relapsed into silence. It was one of those moments when Reality, or the fear of it, battles with our courage and each one grew thoughtful as he neared the great city, dreading to meet the spectre he feared.

The wheels of the cars sang on in a hollow, monotonous tune, the windows rattled systematically and outraged brakes screeched at every recurrent jolt. Finally we saw a dim row of lights and a long, thin whistle from our engine told us that the journey was done. Again was that noticeable lack of excitement: everyone calmly took his personal belongings and prepared to get down when the guard, in an unimportant voice, should call out "Paree," which you would not hear if you were not listening.

After the Customs, I was in a frenzy to get out into the street, to be welcomed back, as one always is here, and to be cheered and warmed by the bright lights—the flashing eyes of Paris. But the streets were dim, the shops and restaurants closed and few people circulating about. How different it all was! I felt like Rip van Winkle after his twenty-years' sleep, for at the apartment (I thought I had come to the wrong house) was a new concierge, young and pretty, replacing the old, white-haired one. Had we gone back twenty years instead? The rooms were empty—all my friends had disappeared, the dust was inches thick, the furniture pushed mostly into the middle of the rooms and some of the beds were gone. Thickly sprinkled over the floor of my room and on my bed were pieces of the window glass, broken like all the others in the house, by a German bomb which fell and exploded in front of the Prince of Monaco's house, two doors from us—not one hundred and fifty feet away. Half dazed, I dusted a place large enough for my hat and coat, extracted some clean linen from the closet and went to bed, sick at heart.