  Sunday. Dearest Family:— Here I go again in one of these cahier affairs. It seems to be the best and only way to write you. I am this minute out at Saint-Germain—an hour outside of Paris. It is the place where Ibby Coolidge nurses. Her hospital is closed down now, so she is in at the “Invalides” for a few months. Although she lives in Paris, I don’t see much of her, for she works from eight to eight, and is too tired to dine out after that. Rootie has been out here for ten days resting. The air is wonderful—so different from Paris, although so near. It has been getting warmer, and to-day we are sitting out under the trees writing. I can hardly believe it. If spring has only come, it will make so much difference. I have been working fairly hard these last two weeks, for Agathe, the maid, has been off on a vacation, and I have had to open the four vestiaires in the mornings—open the shutters, dust a little, arrange the chairs and such, build the fires in the offices, and generally start things. This, combined with doing Rootie’s work,—at least certain parts that could not be allowed to wait,—has made life fairly complicated. Mrs. Shurtleff is letting me have my Monday off this week, so I have two whole glorious days out here with Rootie. We do nothing but sleep, eat, and walk. We have sticks, and so feel very safe, and wander far into the woods. The youngest class is being trained out here,—at least, part of it,—and they come home from their lessons every night at about half-past six,—about five hundred of them, in every sort and description of uniform, all out of step, four abreast, except when they want to run ahead and speak to a friend a few rows in front; all singing “poilu” songs like regular soldiers. They are such a bright-faced crew, we love to go out to the terrace and watch them march to the center court, and there line up, be counted more or less—and mostly less—correctly, and then be dismissed. It makes you laugh to watch their antics as they march along. They all smile and salute us now, because we have been there so often. They are not fresh,—just amusing,—but it also makes me a little sad to think what they are training for—what is ahead of them. To think that these bright-faced boys will, in all probability, turn into some of the sad-faced, mutilated men that we see in the hospitals and on the streets. Although it sometimes disgusts you to have a rÉformÉ talk about getting so much for his arm, or lack of arm, or leg or eye, or so much more for a ball in his neck,—still I can hardly blame them. They have served their country when their country called them. They have given their health, and perhaps their happiness, to the country. Why shouldn’t they be paid for it, and paid well? If Rootie were writing this letter, she would tell you all the facts of historic interest about Saint-Germain, as she is well up in her Baedeker, but, as I am not, I will have to let you live in ignorance. I vaguely know that Henri IV was born in the pavillon here, and that FranÇois something started to build the chÂteau, got disgusted, and built Versailles instead. I can tell you, however, that the woods and park here are wonderful, that the church bell that rings every half-hour is most pleasing, and that there are many good restaurants here—one of which we are sampling this evening. Daddy writes that my letter about the trip has not arrived. I guess it must have sunk,—isn’t it just my luck? Well, I am going to send you the pictures we took, and I will write another shorter and much less interesting account. I will type it and send a carbon copy a week after the original, and, if you don’t get either, I give it up! I know I have missed some of your letters, but I haven’t been much over two weeks without word, so I certainly must not complain. Mrs. Willis, a friend of Rootie’s, took over a few little things to you which I was anxious for you to have. She had no room, so I could not send several other things I wanted to. This letter and Eleanor’s, a Mr. Whiting, a friend of mine, is taking for me. I hope that you will get them quicker than usual;—you ought to. I am also sending a couple of posters which I thought you might like for the bungalow in Marion. Tell Josey the little medal I sent her is a regular “croix de guerre,” and the palm leaf on the ribbon is the highest “citation” one can have. If you get a spare minute, read Helen Davenport Gibbons’s “Red Rugs of Tarsus.” It is Mrs. Gibbons’s first book. In some ways it is more interesting to read, when you do not know her. She is, of course, Dr. Herbert Adams Gibbons’s wife—the one Betty Colt is secretary to. Betty grows more and more attractive. I see quite a lot of her. She has tea every day in the studios after they stop work at half-past four. I blow in pretty often, at about half-past five, and Betty, dear soul, brews me a fresh cup of tea. There are usually interesting people there. Mr. Ayrault drops in often, also Mr. Griffiths, although the latter has broken my great heart by announcing that he has got to work so hard from now until June, he does not expect to take any time off. Paris has seemed to me a little more sober these last weeks. Ever since America entered the war, the enthusiasm has been mostly American, as far as I can see. The French do not seem too hopeful as to the difference it will make. Mr. Ayrault says that if Germany can hold out through August, or until the next crops,—Heaven help the Allies. He says that the German markets are pathetic now; that they are almost empty; that the poor people are actually hungry, and not from high prices, but because there isn’t any food to be bought. He himself would have been hungry if he hadn’t had outside help. The embassy gets eggs and butter and some meat from Norway, and also from Switzerland. Mr. A. also said that the discipline is so good there, and law and order so much the ordinary run of things, that the people are not likely to revolt. He feels that it is only possible to finish the war soon if the United States can build enough ships quickly to supply England, which, from all accounts, needs food. There are, after all, only a limited number of submarines, and each carries only seven or eight torpedoes, I believe. They do not get a ship every time that they fire, so that, if the United States can build enough ships, losing a hundred or more will not matter in the long run. Mr. Simons, of the American Embassy here,—I mean consulate,—tells me that no grain ship has come to Paris for fifteen days. That is why the new regulation about the cakes and pastries has gone through so suddenly. I personally am glad, for it does not seem quite right for us to be eating so many foolish, unnecessary things if flour is scarce. I suppose the shopkeepers will manage to get around the law somewhat, but it seems to be a step in the right direction. Harold Willis writes us the most thrilling accounts of the doings of the aviators now. He sent us some of the cards, printed in German by the French Government, which he and his fellow “flyers” drop by the thousands while flying over German territory. The cards say that the United States has joined the war, and recommend that the people surrender, as they will be well fed and taken care of. They are not very dignified, I think, and it is an amusing campaign, is it not? But in some ways I would rather have them drop cards than bombs on the villages, hadn’t you? It will seem queer to get home to Boston some day and go into street cars and public buildings, and not read on all sides such notices as “Taisez-vous, mÉfiez-vous, les oreilles ennemies vous Écoutent.” Also, “Versez votre or pour le Gouvernement.” Sunday, while we were wandering through the woods, we came upon a beautiful big tree,—a fairy oak,—all decorated with flags and flowers and prayers for victory. It stood in the middle of a clear space—benches around it. It was touching to see every passer-by take a few flowers from the bunch they were carrying home and lay them devoutly at the foot of the tree, praying as they did so. All the flags were weather-beaten except the latest addition, the American, which looked bright and hopeful in contrast to the others. I have never seen a tree like this. Mark Twain tells of the one at Arc in his “Life of Joan of Arc.” The terrace at night is in some ways more beautiful than in the daytime. One can see the various searchlights playing in all directions. They are really wonderful,—first one and then another combs the sky, as it were, looking for hostile aircraft, which, by the bye, never get here. The work continues to grow. Mrs. Sturgis is leaving us this next week, unfortunately, and we are all dividing up her duties. Work in the Food Department comes to me. I am both glad and scared. It will be interesting handing out the food and keeping the shop shelves supplied; but it requires lots of judgment to talk with the women each week, and decide when to stop giving them food, and to try to advise them on all sorts of questions. However, I am going to make a try at it. I think it is pretty nice of Mrs. Shurtleff to ask me to do it. I ran across a new thing the other day: one of the families we were calling on showed us their linen,—sheets and underclothes,—which were completely yellowed and rotted by the asphyxiating gases! They fell to pieces when touched. Another result of this new kind of warfare. Sometimes when I see so many children sick and diseased through the results of their privations while under the German rule, I can’t help wondering what the coming generation will be like when they grow up. They have had such hideous childhood. Gas-mask drills at school, lack of food, no homes for many of them, and goodness knows no future. Rootie and I are thinking of writing to the Mayor at Rheims to find out who it is that counts the number of shells falling in that town daily! It must be a splendid job, and the person who has it is delightfully accurate. Every day we see by the paper just how many thousand have fallen, except once, when they “fell so fast” it was impossible to keep count. How awful it is to make fun of it, and yet one has to make fun of something about this terrible, terrible war. Betty Potter has given me my wonderful package. When I saw the wrapper and Daddy’s writing, and all the flags and ribbon, I just almost went to pieces, but Miss Whittier being with me, I couldn’t. I tore home, and didn’t go in to luncheon, but sat and read and read and read. Oh, you dear, dear people, how did you ever think of doing such a wonderful thing? It pleased and thrilled me so that I am still walking on air. And the money. Oh, we do need it so, particularly just now! I shall write every one slowly, as I get time, but will you just tell everybody what a wonderful time it gave me, and how I can’t possibly express myself? All I can say is, thank you, thank you all, over and over again. It was pretty mighty good of you. I had already spent eighteen francs of Daddy’s money on a hot-water bottle for a poor dear old lady refugee, who is dying of cancer. It is only a question of time. Her two daughters care for her now. We have installed them, and are trying to make the end easier for them all. I found on one of my visits that they used a heated plate to give her relief when she had attacks in the night. The hot-water bottle is a great help, and they are pathetically grateful. I shall write you as to just what we do with all the money. Oh, you don’t know how much it means! The little pins have gone like lightning. It is so sweet to see the joy that they give the children. Incidentally the various “workers” have grabbed them also. Rootie is downtown this minute buying bright ribbons for the children. It will be too marvelous to have new ribbons to give them. Mrs. Shurtleff is driving with Miss Curtis to the front, or rather the evacuated district, next week. She has an opportunity and is seizing it, you can be sure. If we get enough clothes from America these next few months and can afford it, we are going to establish a regular station, and deliver clothes per Ford every fifteen days, and I shall do the driving!!! To say that the idea thrills me barely describes it. Of course, she is taking Miss Curtis this time because she is older and is the head worker, but next time she will take me. I can’t tell you how I long to hear the guns and actually see some of the things that I have been hearing about for so long. It will be splendid. The new jitney, having finally arrived, proves much more satisfactory than the old ambulance body. I will send you some pictures of it soon. We live on our balcony now, for the spring has really come. We purchased a chaise-longue and cushions at nine dollars, and take turns lying out on it. The balcony is so small we can only have one. We are just at the height of the tree-tops, and now the leaves are out and the little garden in front of us in the Square has many Japanese apple trees. The air is lovely; with the moon at night, it is marvelous. We hate to go to bed at all. I have got to stop now. Lots and lots of love to every one, and thank you again for the package of letters. Marje.
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