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Up the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, bearing fog and rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, tossing the branches against the low sky, tearing the last Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling the skirts of the women and the white garments of the priest, as the mournful little band struggles towards the church.

The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, alas! three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," wet and draggled, whipping above the heads of the little troopers who have lain down their lives that it may float free and unsubdued over France.

What a sad little procession it is! First, a chorister bearing a cross; then two others chanting, with the priest, the dirge for the dead.

On either side of the three hearses limp a few soldiers, their red trousers the only spot of color in the black and gray landscape.

A group of the Red Cross nurses follow, their dark cloaks and white head-dresses straining in the gale, and then the crowd of sorrowing people. Poor, humble folk they are, in sabots and heavy black peasant costumes. Old women tottering along together, bending their white-coiffed heads to the blast. Young women, white and broken-hearted. Tragedy written in changeless lines on their faces, innocent victims of this unspeakable war, bearing their last poor little offerings in their red hands, a few rain-beaten bunches of chrysanthemums, the only tribute they can offer to their dear ones.

The bell still tolls mournfully; the bowed, black figures grow fainter in the mist. In from the Atlantic sweeps the storm, raging above the piteous mourners. Shrieking! Whistling! Howling! Where now the sunny France sung by the poets? Where the gaiety and life, so typical of the charming French?

Gray clouds, wind-swept roads, black skeleton branches, straining away from the sea. Rain in gusts. Cold, sorrow, desolation in all the land!

Since the war began, seventy-five thousand Frenchmen have fallen on the field of honor. Some on the battlefields, some in the trenches, others destroyed beyond human recognition. Nameless graves cover the northern plains. In innumerable hospitals lie the broken remnants of French manhood.

Five hundred thousand they are today, suffering untold agonies, helpless, uncomplaining.

What can Americans, in the happy safety of their homes know of the tragedy, the death, that overwhelms us here?

It is so far-reaching, so stupendous, so heart-breaking, all energy and activity become paralyzed.

Where begin? What can one do? If one helps only a few hundreds, how about the thousands one cannot reach?

England, in fine generosity, has sent supplies of all kinds: medicines, garments, hospital stores, surgical instruments; five hundred tons have crossed the channel.

Beyond praise, the pitying help of England! She has poured her wealth, her supplies, her splendid armies, into France, giving ungrudgingly and constantly. But for her timely assistance, we should be in unimaginable straits. But now England needs for her own.

With her great losses in men, fifty-seven thousand; her own wounded the end of this October; her thousands upon thousands of refugees—one cannot expect her to do for all.

How are her cousins across the Atlantic coming to our aid?

Can we count on the Americans? Will their warm hearts send out to us these necessities for the wounded not only now, but during the long weary months that stretch in such dreary perspective before us?

The melancholy little funeral is a daily occurrence; so used to it are we, one scarcely notices it. The wounded living claim all our pity and work.

Darkness closes down early these bleak November days, and the few straggling lights illumine streets deserted. At 8 o'clock all cafes close, the lamps are put out, and only the military patrol with their feeble lanterns traverse the gloom. Nothing more until the cold November dawn wakes us to another day of hard work.

Where fashionable women in luxurious motor-cars sped through the avenues, now soldiers hobbling on sticks and crutches, or wheeled in chairs, appear. Women and children swathed in crepe wander in dumb groups on the Esplanade. The shops are full of soldiers' necessities, and everywhere high and low, young and old, the seamstress, the shop-keeper behind her counter, the young girls taking their morning walks, even little schoolgirls, grandmammas and nurses, all are knitting.

If a friend come to call (a rare pleasure nowadays, as all are too busy for social amenities), out come the needles from a bag. The tea hour is interrupted by the click of steel and the counting of stitches.

Those who cannot nurse are knitting socks, comforters, chest-protectors, cholera belts, for the nights are cold on the battlefields and the trenches are often full of water. The chilling fogs creep up from the Flemish marshes and the little soldier, the little Piou-Piou, has many long hours to face the cold and darkness. Happy he who has some loving women to knit for him.

Strong, vigorous young men one never sees! Only wounded fellows, old men in mourning, and priests ceaselessly on their errands of consolation and pity.

In this hour of tribulation, France has turned devoutly and repentantly to religion. The tone of the press has changed. A reverent and humble seeking after Divine help is felt in their supplications.

It is not only the women and the ancients who now pray, for over many hospital cots hang a crucifix, and hardened, indifferent men turn in their agony to the ever-present clergy.

One dying man told me with great pride that though he had been a great scoffer and unbeliever for many years, "Now that he had confessed and received absolution, he was at peace and willing to go;" so, during the long watches of the night, the old priest, broken as he was with fatigue and sleeplessness, sat beside the poor chap comforting him through the Valley of the Shadow, and when dawn came shortly, closed his eyes, placing the crucifix between the stiffening fingers.

When the next day I placed a few flowers about the quiet form I found the rugged features softened, all coarseness had disappeared. He lay at peace with God and man.

Who was he? A peasant? A shoe-maker? A factory hand or street cleaner? Perhaps an Apache? I do not know. But he gave all he had—his young life! Surely he has gone to his reward.

Dinard, November, 1914.