rpreter. This language my boys spoke very fluently; and our
charming hosts did them the honor to understand.

In the parlor was the wonderful piano, brought all the way from Paris.
Obligingly, charmingly, Mademoiselle Annette responded to our profuse,
overwhelming invitations to play first. Sweet and innocent she looked
sitting there; her cheeks fair as the roses in her garden, her eyes
modestly aglow with star light, her raven hair in a single braid of
ample length, neatly adorned with a red ribbon and bewitchingly tossed
over her shoulder. Never was a young lady better guarded at a piano;
five stalwart doughboys on either side, jealously turning the pages of a
sheet of music that was upside down. Artistically she played and the
loud applause that greeted her would have made envious our own Fanny
Bloomfield Zeisler.

Our turn came next. The polite piano from Paris fairly groaned beneath
the burden of our song. It was not used to such boisterous treatment.
Bravely it struggled on "The Long, Long Trail A-winding." It galloped
"Over There." It wailed bitterly "I'm Sorry, Dear," and it did its
bravest to "Keep the Home Fires Burning."

When, finally, the barrage of music lifted, we made our way to the line
of attack at the spacious dining-table our hosts had meanwhile spread.
How good it seemed to sit at a regular table, with tablecloth, napkins
and silverware! How delicious too the sweetbreads, the salad, the
fromage; and crowning all, the exquisite service of sparkling wine,
vintaged in the long ago in these famed Burgundian valleys.

[Illustration: THE MEN BEHIND OUR MESS AT BOUILLONVILLE.]

Call to Quarters sounded at 8:45 and "Tattoo" at 9:00. It was now time
to go. Cordially each boy thanked our gracious hosts. "And should I live
a thousand years I'll ne'er forget." Reverently, gallantly, devotedly,
each said bon jour to darling Annette. To each she represented
womanhood--beautiful, modest, lovable. Each saw visualized in her, as it
were, his own mother, sister, sweetheart, back home. Would he ever see
his own loved ones again? God only knew. And when the last good-bye
was said, and the door slowly closed and we walked away into the night,
the bugle call of "Taps" plaintively sounding through the quiet streets
found sad and mystic echo in our souls.

Our last day in Ancey-le-Franc dawned chill and rainy. I breakfasted in
the old Chateau with Senior Chaplain of the A. E. F., Bishop Brent,
Episcopal Bishop of Eas