When the Yankees return home after the great war is over, those who have been quartered in Brittany will carry back a vivid impression of long stretches of green forests and fields, of tumbling green waters, of gray-and-white skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting sunshine lying warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages huddled about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of unknown antiquity—and some may carry home recollections of yellow- or auburn-haired girls, rosy-cheeked, clad in heavy black peasant costumes and white muslin "coiffes."

It rains often in this west country, skies hang low, and there is much hazy atmosphere and blue-wrapped distances, but the temperature is so mild, roses bloom all winter, mimosa spread their golden sprays over southern walls. The hedgerows and uplands are aglow early in January with primroses and gorse, all shades of golden yellows, cutting sharp against green backgrounds and vapory skies.

The air is mild and damp, and it is probably due to this purity of atmosphere, that the Breton is as hardy and as vigorous as he is, for their cottages, with the dirt floors, walled-in beds, and lack of cleanliness, are about as sanitary as in the days of Anne of Brittany.

Since 1914 these good people have been called upon to provide hospitality for all kinds of foreigners; strangers who, in ordinary life, had never even heard of this part of the world, and who probably never had any desire to see it—but Kaiser Wilhelm arranged otherwise, and they poured in in their thousands. Somehow or other, food and lodging were found for them, and they became tremendously at home. Some, much too much so!

First came the Belgians, poor, driven, dazed creatures, carrying all sorts of parcels and bundles, footsore, limping, weary; fleeing before that first dreadful on-rush of Germans in August, 1914. Everyone worked to get them food, clothing and lodging; but, scattered all over the province, they were wretchedly unhappy crowds, knowing no language but Flemish or Walloon, isolated and lost in France, and with their families in Belgium. English and Americans took charge of them, and, by tireless generosity and exertion, provided them with the necessities of life.

I know of one Belgian hospital at St. Lunaire, which, for the last four-and-a-half years, has been dependent on five English girls, who, through all sorts of trouble, complications and work have kept it going—and going competently and well.

From England they obtained the necessary surgical and hospital supplies, but often and often they had to dip deep into their own pockets—it was a flimsy summer hotel, in no way suited to a hospital service; but, nothing daunted, they stuck at it courageously, giving time, health, and wealth, never relaxing their efforts, or becoming discouraged—brave, unselfish, untiring volunteers!

Many a Belgian, exiled, wounded, homesick, has a special little shrine in his heart for the Misses de Montmorency and Miss Amscott.

After the Belgian invasion, came the French wounded.

I would not dare say how many thousands have passed through the Dinard hospitals, where they were nursed by French, English, Belgian and American Red Cross ladies. For years, the streets were full of bandaged, limping creatures, happy to recuperate in our soft climate. While these were in our town, we were suddenly inundated by hordes of Russians; strong, vigorous young men, with a charming disregard for all discipline, and an ardent determination to do exactly as they chose. When remonstrated with, they just laughed and said: "Kaput czar, kaput Russia—kaput tout," and that is all there was to it. They weren't going to fight any more, or obey anyone. They traveled when it pleased them, getting on or off of trains, without inquiring about their destination, carefully ignoring all formalities, such as tickets, time, or overcrowding, and behaved themselves generally as if law and order had disappeared with the czar. Great, strapping chaps they were, too; in clean, well-brushed uniforms and fine boots, apparently not concerning themselves in the least as to the war or the future, sauntering about our streets, amusing themselves as they saw fit, and finally becoming so unbearable that a few were hauled up and shot by the authorities at St. Malo, and the rest sent off somewhere, at the unanimous request of St. Malo and Dinard.

In ordinary times, these Belgians and Russians would never have heard of Dinard, and been perfectly satisfied not to, but then so would we have been, had William the Kaiser permitted them to remain at home.

Last March, the third invasion took place—twelve hundred boys and girls from Nancy, aged four to twelve years. They were quartered at the Royal Hospital and at St. Lunaire, and the American Red Cross sent down nurses and doctors to look after them. They needed everything—clothing, boots, medical attendance and hygiene—being in a shocking condition, having hidden in cellars for months during the bombardment of Nancy; their faces were yellow and pinched, their bodies unhealthy and sickly, their morale at its lowest ebb.

Mr. Thomas Ewing Moore, representative of the American Red Cross, formed a committee of ladies, with the Marquise de Sigy as president, who tells me they distributed, in four months, over ten thousand garments, shoes, boots, hats, underwear, etc.

After the Nancy children had been comfortably installed and attended to, French refugees from the Aisne began to pour in, fleeing before the German offensive of last March. Again the American Red Cross came to their relief, and over $100,000.00 was spent on them—clothing, food, medicines, coal were purchased, homes found, furniture bought—a tremendous work all over Brittany.

All these invasions gave a great deal to do, no one could afford to be idle, and I must say the call was nobly responded to. A branch of the Surgical Dressings Service (American Red Cross) was installed by Mrs. Austin, an "ouvroir" opened, which did splendid work from October, 1917, to September, 1918. 300,000 dressings were sent to Paris; English, French, Belgian and American ladies worked all day and every day; and, thanks to President Mrs. John C. Howard's tact, it proved to be a most harmonious circle. From accounts one hears on all sides of other "ouvroirs," harmony is not precisely their most conspicuous feature.

Elmer Stetson Harden is the one American volunteer serving in our Brittany regiments. He won the highest praise for his fine courage under fire, which earned him the Croix de Guerre. His officers and companions consider it rather splendid of him, a rich and independent American, to volunteer as a simple "poilu," and to refuse all promotion, satisfied to remain with them through dangers and discomforts, sharing their everyday life out of love for France. It is the more praiseworthy, as he is beyond the age limit; Medford, Mass., may well be proud of this son of hers. He has been wounded twice. After months of suffering in a Dinard hospital, is now cheery and well. I met him yesterday at a luncheon and was glad to see such a wholesome American in horizon-blue.

After all these different invasions—Belgian, French, wounded, children—you can imagine we looked with some misgiving on a Yankee one. The American Y. M. C. A. opened in August, 1,200 men in Dinard, 2,000 across the bay at St. Malo and ParamÉ; but now, after three months, I can frankly say they are welcome everywhere.

Well-behaved, well-mannered, cheery, healthy, young, they come like a fresh breeze from the sparkling Atlantic, bringing hope, courage and enthusiasm in their wake.

It is so delightful for us war-weary Dinardais to come in contact with anything so vital, and vigorous, that we open our doors to them, bidding them welcome, with patriotic fervor.

All the Anglo-American colony, as well as the French aristocracy at Dinard, have entertained them, either at luncheon or teas, and the Y. M. C. A. has done its utmost to make their short vacation a happy and memorable one. Trips to Mont St. Michel, Dinan and Combourg are included in their week's stay. Vaudeville performances, dances, concerts, everything to make them feel at home and "comfy." My French friends are much impressed by their intelligence and manliness. My friend, the Countess de Durfort, receives 200 every Friday at her feudal Castle of Combourg, and often tells me what pleasure it gives her to entertain "ces braves AmÉricains."

La Baronne de Charette, nÉe Miss Antoinette Polk, of Tennessee, great-niece of President Polk, and widow of GÉnÉral de Charette, the famous leader of the Papal Zouaves in the war of 1870, has opened her old Chateau every Wednesday to 200 Yankees.

Her Brittany home lies in a hollow surrounded by gray-bearded oaks, near the river Ranee. It is full of historical souvenirs of all kinds. Royalty has spent many happy days beneath its high-peeked roof; parties and festivities of all sorts taking place here.

Wednesdays have always been the reception days of the

General and Mme. de Charette, since 1883. Notabilities who came to Brittany, made it a pleasure as well as a duty to pay their respects to the venerable hero and his charming American wife; they enjoyed a truly southern hospitality, inspected the various historical souvenirs, the flags, the banners, the presentation swords (gifts of devoted admirers all over France), walked in the beautiful park, feasted on good wine and good cheer, and departed with a pleasant recollection of all the charms of this old-world manor, given to the famous general by his ardent followers, the Papal Zouaves.

Madame de Charette wanted to offer the same hospitality to her American compatriots as was offered to European royalty and distinguished foreigners. So every Wednesday her doors are opened to 200 Yanks.

They find an excellent "goÛter," a charming hostess, surrounded by the ladies of the nobility from the neighborhood, who put themselves out to amuse the "doughboys."

Music, singing, dancing, fill in the hours from 3 to 8, but what they seem to like the most is to sit in the halflight in a circle, before the great granite chimney-place, the logs burning and snapping, casting weird shadows over these fighters from afar, on the heavy oak beams of the "Salle des Zouaves," flitting here and there over the dark oak furniture, catching a sheen of light from steel helmets, of a bit of color from some pendant war flag. They listen to the old southern tales and the history of the general's battles, or tell, themselves, of what they have seen or done in this war of wars.

Among the French and Italian flags is one—a poor, tattered, faded silk American one—cherished reverently by the family; for, in 1862, Mme. de Charette (then Miss Polk) rode on horseback by a black night to warn General Forrest of the approach of the Union troops. After the victory, General Forrest presented this trophy to the young girl, saying: "My child, thanks to you, we have won the battle; to you, therefore, I give the flag."

Mme. de Charette's only son, the Marquis de Charette, was wounded April 16, 1917, being the only man in his tank to escape alive; he has fighting blood in his veins, for, besides his father's, his ancestors, General de Charette fought at Yorktown with General Lafayette—as well as General Leonidas Polk of the Southern army. We consider it a privilege for our Yankee boys to see such an interior; our own entertainments for them in our modern villas at Dinard being much inferior in interest and attractions, but it is a great pleasure to receive them.

Every Saturday a certain number—20 to 25—come to our home, "Val Fleuri," and we give them American pumpkin-pie, cornbread, potato-chips, cakes, chocolate, etc. Pretty girls dance with them, we sing war songs, and old-fashioned ones, too, and although each Saturday brings a new set, my husband and I are glad to be able to offer to these "boys from God's country" an afternoon in our American home.

October, 1918.

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