For there they died bereft of all that inspires, and
with no pomp or thrill of war to make glad their chivalrous souls.

The village carpenter was never so busy. Reinforcing his working staff,
he set speedily to work building coffins. These he made of plain pine
boards, staining them to a dull brown, and furnishing with each a cross
and marking stake. Thirty-two of these it was my sad duty to provide and
distribute during our stay in Burgundy.

We soon outgrew the old churchyard at Ancey-le-Franc; and the good Cure
and Monsieur le Docteur Thiery of the local hospital, set aside for us
ground for another cemetery just outside the village. We enclosed this
with a white picket fence and felt confident, when we marched away, that
the graves of our brave boys there resting, would always be tenderly
cared for by the devoted people.

"On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the Dead."

At the place of honor, just inside that "God's Acre," I buried Sergeant
Omer Talbot of Kansas City, Kansas, one of the bravest and most beloved
of Headquarters Troop, who received the last Sacraments, and died in my
arms.

[Illustration: THE BATTLE SWEPT ROADSIDE WAS SANCTUARY AND CHOIR.]

Our burials were always religiously attended by the villagers. A French
veteran would go through the streets sounding his drum and giving early
notice of the burial of an American soldier. The people would gather at
the church, the farmer from the field, the artisan from the shop, all
dressed as for Sunday. The cure, the mayor, the councilmen, the town
major, all would be present. On foot, bearing flowers, they would follow
the military cortege to the cemetery. There, following the Benedictus,
the mayor would give an impassioned address, expressing the profound
appreciation of France for the service and sacrifice of the gallant
American soldiers. His closing words, repeated and echoed through the
cemetery by the multitude, would be, "Vive l'Amerique! Vive Pershing!
Vive Wilson!"

Among the most devoted attendants at our funerals were Monsieur and
Madame Moidrey and their beautiful daughter Annette, a girl of sixteen
years. In rain and shine they came, always with flowers most beautiful
to place upon coffin and grave.

Returning one day from the cemetery, Monsieur respectfully addressed
me--"If it would please Monsieur le Chaplain to ever visit our home
(th