My dearest Daddy:—

Writing nowadays is rather like the shooting the men do at the front; they never can see if their shots get there. I am never sure if my letters get to you, there has been so much trouble with the mails. The head man at Morgan, Harjes told Dr. G. the other day that they had just received a great deal of mail—the first for a long time—which was all wet. The papers were ruined, but the letters had fared better as a whole. I wonder what that meant?

As you probably know by the papers, we had a Zeppelin raid or alarm last week. It was very exciting. I have never heard such a noise as the “gare À vous” trumpets or horns—or whatever they are—make. Esther Root and I stood out on our balcony for a long time watching the aeroplanes overhead. They had searchlights and made a beautiful effect. The Zeppelin was, of course, brought down way outside Paris. They never get here, because the air guard is so very efficient; also they have to go right over the army and are always discovered. However, I can now say that I have been in Paris during a “near-raid,” at least! This almost makes up to me for the disappointment of not having had one during my interminably long stay in London.

I have one very serious confession to make to you. I have been religiously keeping accounts ever since I left New York, first in dollars on the ship, then in pounds, shillings, and pence while in London, and then shifted to francs when I got here. You have no idea what a gorgeous account-book it was, or still is, but—here is the tragedy—I lost the dear book last week, somewhere in the metro. There is only one chance in hundreds that I will find it again. I don’t know just what I can do about it. I can’t possibly remember what I spent, but I will make a rough account which will give you some idea.

This room which I have now is only ten francs a day, and is much nicer. It has splendid hot running water in the closet, a nice balcony, and the food is delicious. Mme. H—— is very nice, and so are the other boarders. Some queer ones, too,—two sisters from Poland who tell us stories that make our hair curl! Also a Mlle. Germain, who is studying to be a doctor, and tells us, at meal-time, about the latest corpses from the Morgue she has cut up! It is wonderful to me the way the French don’t mind what they say at table.

I am wondering if I shall do all the queer things that I am now doing, when I get home. I take my fork and knife off my plate every course and lay them on the tablecloth. I “swab” (it’s the only word) my plate with a piece of bread, to get all the gravy. I eat bread by the yard (literally), while I never touch it at home. You would laugh to hear what we have for meals, and yet they are delicious,—mostly vegetables, a little meat, very well done, and with delicious sauce, and never anything but cheese and confitures for dessert. Although the tea-shops are all open, you can notice a slight difference in their cakes. They no longer have frosting in the real sense of the word, but are covered with cream or paste or powdered sugar. The fillings are not as sweet as they once were, but they are still delicious. Do you suppose I will want white wine with luncheon and red with dinner, when I get back? I can’t get along without it over here. It is so funny when you once begin to think it over. It does make me tired when I hear people say that living in Paris in war-time “is very different,” and then heave a sigh. Of course, I don’t know what it is like here in peace-times, but I do know that we are all very comfortable. We all have luxuries, and there are wonderfully few restrictions, I think. You should hear Mr. Ayrault—who has just come back from a four months’ tour of inspection of prison camps in Germany—talk. He says we don’t know what war means here, compared with Germany, where everything is distributed by cards,—everything except goose, and that, as a result, is prohibitively high. He is most interesting in his accounts of Germany. I wish I could write you all, but I don’t suppose Mr. Censor would approve. By the bye, of all my letters from America, only one from C. Morss has ever been opened.

In one of your letters you spoke of fighting the “White Rats.” I don’t care much for the idea. Don’t, for goodness’ sake, get stabbed in the back or poisoned by a lot of bum vaudeville artists! I speak of stabbing and such. If you hear of a young American being killed by a bicycle over here, you may be sure that it is I, and it will be such an ignominious death. A taxicab I could bear, but I seem fated to be killed by a bicycle. They don’t use horns here, and just go whizzing by. I have just avoided two already.

Spring seems to be trying hard to get here,—not too successful so far in its attempts, but there is some green grass in the gardens, and on Sundays the Punch and Judys and merry-go-rounds are open on the Champs ÉlysÉes.

I know I am getting cross-eyed, and walking up and down the Champs ÉlysÉes is doing it. There are so many interesting people, so many uniforms, that it is horrible. I try to look both ways at once. Then tea. I have been to Rumpelmeyer’s several times. It is very popular here, although in London no one would go to Rumpelmeyer’s, for it was considered too “Boche.” I am afraid the French love their cakes too much! Such people as you see there, regular “coo-coos,” you would say. It is very amusing to sit in a corner, and watch and listen, and, of course, the food—to say nothing of the joy of having ice cream—is to be considered.

I have been going over several other Vestiaires lately, and I am becoming more and more convinced that Mrs. Shurtleff’s is among the best organized institutions of its kind. Naturally some of the Government things are much more complicated and wonderful. I can’t help asking myself more and more what France would have done and would do without the assistance she receives from America.