Dear Father:—

The writing-room is a bower of gold leaf, electric-light fixtures, and Louis XIV brocade, but it is injudiciously placed where both the motion and vibration are greatest, and not even the marvelously developed yellow cherub, who holds a candelabrum over my shoulder, is inviting enough to induce me to stay here long. Not that I haven’t plenty to tell. I could easily use up all the ship’s paper in describing the various people and events of this memorable week.

The day we sailed was perfectly gorgeous. You remember. Mrs. Bigelow and I watched the big buildings and the Statue of Liberty slowly melt into the sunset, and then we went down to see what surprises the stateroom might reveal. And they were plenty. Letters upon letters and lovely presents. The atmosphere was a trifle charged as we passed the three-mile limit, and we all found billets—not so doux as they might have been—on our pillows assigning us to lifeboats and saying just what to do when the signal should be given to abandon the boat. Both Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short were assigned to Lifeboat No. 10, while I was shunted off in Lifeboat No. 8—a bad omen, I thought. We went up on the top deck and looked them over. No. 8 looks like a peanut shell—and then we looked over the edge where the great big blue rollers were beginning to make the boat creak, and decided rather hurriedly to go down to dinner. You can imagine yourself what it would be like to start off on the sea in a canoe at our island when there was a good dash at the rocks.

Now here is where the Shrinking Violet steps in. Miss Short lost her traveling-bag, and was in misery. She can’t speak or understand one word of French—and she appealed to me. I suppose you would have had me back coyly into the stern of the boat, and say that I didn’t know the word for suitcase and didn’t dare speak to the steward. But not so. I went up to a tremendous great gold-braided Frenchman and linked together the words “bagage,” “noir,” and “perdu,” by a series of what I considered intelligent sounds, and, by Jove, the man—being a genius anyway—got the idea that some one had lost a black suitcase, and had the whole ship’s service in action before I could wink. Soon the suitcase appeared, and I had Miss Short’s undying gratitude, coupled with complete dependence for the rest of the trip.

This was the beginning of Miracle Number One—that is, my French was perfectly understood, and I understood nearly everything. Oh, the joy of having the many hours spent over Chardenal at Hawthorne School under the vigilant eye of Miss Bourlard or Mlle. Delpit at college—of having them not spent in vain! Why, one of the Ambulance men told me yesterday that when he first saw me he thought I was French! (Of course, he speaks execrably himself, and my red tam might assume any nationality.) I order meals, carry on all our traffic with the stewardess and deck steward, and interpret right and left.

All during dinner you could see that people were rather waiting for a shot off our bows, and every one’s expression was bien pressÉ. After dinner I took myself up on the bridge in my fur coat and stood alone watching the most beautiful moon-path that ever I saw. It was cold and clear with a fine breeze. “O Sole Mio” floated up gently from the steerage below. Helpful thoughts came to me, and suddenly Miracle Number Two happened. I felt perfectly sure that we were all right and that nothing was going to happen to the Espagne. I haven’t thought of Germans or submarines or anything since. I slept like a top that night.

Just as I was about to get into my berth, Mrs. Bigelow asked me if I knew where the life-preservers were. I hadn’t thought of them. Well, I wasn’t dressed, and I couldn’t go and ask the steward, so I said, “Go and find the steward, and say, 'OÙ sont les gilets de sauvetage?’” “I suppose,” said Mrs. Bigelow, “that 'gilets’ means 'preservers’?” “Well, not exactly,” said I; “'gilets’ means waistcoats, and 'sauvetage’ means salvation; literally, the waistcoats of salvation; quaint, isn’t it?” “Oh, very,” said she; “Oo song lays geelays dee softadge—I can say that easily.” “Alors, allez-vous en,” said I, and bowed her out of the stateroom. She marched erectly down the corridor, and I could hear her voice,—firm, but growing fainter and fainter,—“Where are the waistcoats of salvation—oo song lays geelays dee softadge—where are the waistcoats,” etc.,—for all the world like “Fling out the Banner,” or something of the kind. It would make a good hymn, I thought.

Back she came with a mute and suffering steward. He had understood her and pointed to the top of the wardrobe. He was not at all disturbed by my nightgown, and I gave mental thanks to May for having run the ribbons in—I feel freer in the French tongue when I am in nÉgligÉ. So the evening ended with a pleasant chat about sauvetage and naufrage and the amenities of life.

The first morning was blue and clear, but oh! so rough. My head began to feel funny as I dressed, so I hurried into my sailor blouse and red tam and beat it for the deck. And here we have Miracle Number Three. I wasn’t a bit sick for one minute, and have felt better and fuller of pep than I have since I was at Bailey’s. I have been an obnoxious sight to most of the passengers because I have run, skipped, and jumped (figuratively) while they have rolled listless eyes at me. There were only about fifteen people in the dining-room that first luncheon, and I was the only woman. You should see this boat roll. Really, the Olympic or the Minneapolis would blush at such actions.

I hardly saw Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short the first two days, and so it was natural that I should get very chummy with the Frenchman whose chair was next to mine. He has long wiry mustaches that stick out at least five inches on each side. He is a widower, and very small. He speaks French the most beautifully I ever heard, and says lovely things, and makes jokes too. When he says anything funny he lifts his feet aloft and twinkles them very fast and goes into perfect spasms. He talks so fast that often I don’t understand him, but I laugh just the same, and the more he laughs the more I do, because it strikes me so funny to be making such a hullabaloo when I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s about. He went up with me on the bridge for the moonlight the second night (Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short were laid out in a tableau barely vivant), and we talked French and a little German—he recited Schiller—and I told him I was going to France, and he said, “Belle a de bon coeur,” and we were bien amusÉs. He is French Consul at Montreal, and is going to see his two little sons at ——.

The next day the captain asked to “be presented to” me. He invited me to sit at his table, and oh, how I hated to refuse. All the interesting French people sit there, and Mrs. Craigee—that lovely-looking girl that we saw on the dock—and I could have practiced French so wonderfully. Besides, Mrs. Bigelow and Miss Short nearly always eat on deck,—but of course I had to sit with them. I was very much flattered, however, although I needn’t have been, for there are so few girls on board.

There are thirty-six American Ambulance men, and some of them are dandies. About four in particular are most congenial, and we do everything together—shuffle-board, deck-walking, afternoon-teaing, card-playing, playing the piano, and generally exploring about the ship. I should like to describe every one, but I feel that this is getting boring as it is. The foreigners are delightful. Our French newspaper man took my picture for his paper the other day. He is exactly like a musical-comedy Frenchman—he raises his shoulders and says “la, la,” and wears checked trousers and patent leathers and gets so very excited—such gestures!

At luncheon the other day there was great excitement—a wireless for some one, and it was for me! From Robert and Harris and Johnny. Really, I was so pleased. We were nine hundred miles out, and it seemed almost like seeing them to have it come. I walked on air all afternoon. At dinner that night the steward came around again, saying, “TÉlÉgramme sans fil pour Mlle. Root,”—and there was a plate of salted almonds with the cards the Ambulance men had stuck in it, with all sorts of crazy messages written on them. I wirelessed back a poem as soon as I could gather my senses sufficiently, and a good time was had by all.

It is now Sunday and our last day. It is a glorious blue morning.

There is a good deal of talk of submarines and floating mines as we approach France. The lifeboats were swung out last night, our guns loaded, all the lights darkened, and everything was preparedness. We tried on the life-preservers before retiring, and the dust of ages that they bore made me sneeze frightfully. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to sleep on one’s passport! I have played the piano a good deal on the trip. The whole ship is singing “Liebes Freud.” This morning Mrs. Bigelow and I rose at 5.30, and saw a wonderful sunrise. We stood on the bridge together, and it was all gold and rose and purple. She is a peach,—Mrs. Bigelow. I can’t wait to land, although I love the ship. I had thought of crossing as just crossing; and not as such a wonderful time. I do appreciate it all so much, Father, and I will write very seriously when I get to Paris.