There are four thousand wounded in Dinard this winter, and the need for chemises, antiseptic cotton, sacks and bandages, never diminishes. I, fortunately, have a few things left from what I brought over, and I am dealing them out, as if worth their weight in gold. Socks are much appreciated, as many are wounded in the feet, and cannot put on slippers or shoes. One poor wretched Belgian hospital has depended all the winter on what we gave them. The Matron told me but for us they would have had nothing. She has been up two or three times since my return begging socks, chemises and slippers, but, alas, I had none to give her! She said the men were obliged to stay in their rooms or beds as their uniforms were so dirty, torn, and shot-riddled, they had to be repaired, and, having nothing else to wear, they had to stay in hospital. I went by there the other day, a glorious sunny summer afternoon, and I saw such poor, white faces looking out so longingly, so young, and so suffering—mere boys of twenty, twenty-two and twenty-four.

I hate to say too much about the sorrowing and suffering over here—so much has been given, especially from America, where the generosity has been overwhelming. One cannot see such wistfulness and patience without finding a renewal of sympathy and a wish to help.

I was notified last week, that on Saturday, July 10th, at 4 o'clock, the Prefet of our department (the governor of the state) will come to Val Fleuri, officially, in full uniform, surrounded by his staff, to thank us in the name of France, for what we have obtained from our friends in America, and to express through us the Government's grateful recognition of America's generosity. French people tell me it is a rare honor which the government is showing us, and is an expression of France's gratitude to America. The Prefet asked for a report (which we sent), and the government has perfect cognizance from whence came our supplies. So that you may be sure that full recognition has been made for the shipments.

Many wounded there are always, but the spirit of the French people is magnificent. No sacrifice is too great to make, no economy too severe. All France has the utmost confidence in the soldiers and their generals, and everyone feels it is time for endurance, economy and work. And all, high and low, rich and poor, are putting their hearts and courage into the affair, with an enthusiasm and devotion quite surprising to those who thought of France as a decadent nation.

Yesterday I met at tea a French duchess, last year the most frivolous and worldly person, always dressed in the height of fashion and devoted to golf, bridge, and motoring. Yesterday she was dressed in a cheap, ready-made black serge suit, with a black straw sailor hat, trimmed with a black taffeta bow, such as a poor little governess or an upper housemaid would have worn a year ago. And she said she was proud to wear the costume, bought ready-made at the "Galleries Lafayette" for 50 francs.

She has had a hospital in her chateau since the war began, where one hundred little Pious-Pious have been taken care of and nursed back to health, and, alas, to a quick return to the trenches! So she said she had no money "pour la toilette."

What these French women are doing is beyond praise. A sober, quiet determination has taken the place of their erstwhile frivolity. And when one sees delicately nurtured ladies doing the most ordinary menial work in the hospitals, not day by day, but month by month, rising at 7 a. m., and only returning home for meals and bed at 8.30 p. m.—women who in former times thought of nothing but extravagance, luxury and display—one realizes that there is good, red blood left in France, and the Gallic strain, having supported the trials of centuries, is still able to make a stand for justice and freedom.

The best English and French authorities say that the war will last at least a year or eighteen months. An English colonel told me recently that the British government was preparing to make heavy-calibre guns for August, 1916, and the French are settling down to another year or two of war, but after the Lusitania horror I should think all Americans would feel it their bounden duty to help the allies. If they are defeated, what chance has America against the German spirit of world dominion? And we want to remember that every pair of socks, every bandage, every roll of cotton is a stone in the barricade against these abominable Huns. There is no uncertainty, no discouragement, no failing in French lines or English, which hold 580 miles from the North Sea to Switzerland.

I often go to the "Arrivee des Blesses." Alas, they come too often to the railroad station, long stretchers filled with broken humanity. Does one ever hear complaints, groans or repinings? No, never! One said to me as I gave him a cup of beef tea, after he had been lifted from a box car where he had passed three days and three nights: "Madame, I am a homeless cripple, my eyesight is gone and I am forever dependent on my family, my poor wife and my children. But, in the future, when France is victorious and at peace, they will not begrudge their old father his sup and board, for he was decorated by the guns of Arras" (meaning, poor wretch, his sightless eyes).

The Belgian soldiers are strong, able-bodied, silent fellows, and speak eagerly of their return to their country. They do not seem to realize that such a consummation is most unlikely.

I am sending by express a few baskets made by them as they lie crippled on their hospital cots. The little money I paid for them will buy them tobacco, chocolate, post-cards and pencils. I should be glad if you will give these baskets to your friends who have so kindly sent us things. They are of no value, but they will show our appreciation of all you have done. There are also some rings made out of the aluminum which forms the point of the German shells. The men have picked them up on the battlefields and in the trenches—these bits, so full of interest and personal strife—and have made them into rough rings, but carrying a pathetic interest of their own.

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The first of the "Grands Blesses Prisonniers en Allemagne" have arrived. They came via Switzerland to Lyons, and from there have been distributed through the country and seashore places. Nineteen came to Dinard, very severely injured—blind, many one-legged, and some badly disfigured, but so rejoiced, poor chaps, to find themselves once more in France. Some have been in Germany since September. They say they were kindly treated in the hospitals, but had precious little to eat. Their looks show it, being quite emaciated. Being also accustomed to little food, their capacity for digesting has also decreased—much to their regret; but, no doubt, that misfortune will correct itself now they are back in the "land of plenty."

It appears that when the train drew up in the Lyons Gare, they saw hundreds of enthusiastic compatriots cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs, flowers everywhere, and heard the "Clarions de France," some broke down and cried like children. They had borne the privations and sufferings consequent to imprisonment for ten long months, but when they heard those sweet, clear notes, and saw the "tricolor" once more (Ils Avaient le Coeur Gros) they just gave way; that is, the weaker ones did.

At the mother-house of the Little Sisters of the Poor, at St. Bern, one hundred and twenty-five are installed in that quiet convent, in the midst of the rich fields, and the green and peaceful woods of Brittany, with those good little sisters to wait upon them and nurse them; with fine milk, butter and eggs, chickens and fresh vegetables to eat, they will soon recover and they can hardly express their feelings, poor fellows, but just sit smiling and cheery in the sun. Mere boys, many of them—thin-cheeked, fresh-colored, bright-eyed, but crippled for life. Older men, fathers of families, bronzed and calm, thankful to be in France, with the thought of soon returning to their wives and children. May they there regain their health and strength. To these brave ones, we all, Americans and French alike, owe an immense debt of gratitude, for, but for them and their like, we would be facing now a very different outlook.

What impresses one above all is their modesty, patience and patriotism. Whether they are doctors or lawyers, peasants or little artisans, they all show the same soul-stirring love for France, they count their sufferings as nothing compared to the welfare of the nation.

The life of the last ten years which we knew and loved so well, has vanished like the snows of yester-year. Where the tango was danced are now long rows of hospital cots. The music of the Hungarian band has given place to the silence of the ambulance corridors. Crippled men are sitting on the casino verandas where fashionable women in former years strolled in idleness and elegance. Horrid odors of iodoform and chloroform assail one, instead of the perfume of the flowers. The gay young girls of other days, who laughed and flirted and danced in these airy halls, are now demure Red Cross nurses, in severe white linen gowns, the Red Cross embroidered on their white veils; a vivid testimony to their real nature and pitying compassion for the helpless.

What a few awful months of this World's War seems to us over here. You in America, who continue to live as much as usual, can really have but little conception. To you that pageant and tragedy of war is as "A Tale that is Told"—very horrible, perhaps, but of necessity it cannot affect you intimately. You can know little of the heartrending day-by-day experience and hourly ordeals demanded of those men and women of France.

Some few weeks ago I attended a class for "first aid" to the injured, whose matron was rather a formidable Frenchwoman, laden with years and honors. As I went in, a friendly Red Cross nurse murmured: "The poor Marquise had just received a telegram two hours ago announcing the death of both her sons; but, you know, her husband was killed in September, and she has given her boys to France. She does not wish it mentioned—do not refer to it." As I looked at that wrinkled but composed countenance, so stern and so calm, as I listened to her instructions, given in a quiet voice, it was quite evident that the old French proverb still holds good, "Bon sang ne peut mentir." There she was, an old, stricken mother, looking drearily into the future. Her two dear sons killed on the same day on the field of honor, her home forever desolate. But she came down, nevertheless, to show us how to bandage the wounded men, to teach us patience, endurance and control under all circumstances. At night she returns to her lonely hearth to mourn these brave boys. But did she not need our sympathy? To us, watching this superb example, she seemed to embody the spirit of courage, which admits of no defeat. The valiant heart rising above the wreck of happiness and home to do its duty to "La Patrie."

Only a short distance separates us from the battlefields, where the manhood of France and England are daily laying down their lives in defense of their countries. God grant that no such sacrifice may ever be demanded of America. To us who have remained in France, life has become a very solemn reality; as we go forth in sober garb and spirit to do what we can for these suffering hundreds, wounded men and boys, lonely young widows, stricken parents, we realize intensely that life in Europe has utterly changed. The old order of things has passed away. What will replace it? Who can tell?

Letter Written to Dr. Livingston Seaman,

British War Relief in New York,

July, 1915.