e gone through about passes.
I manage to hang on to a cart which is just going over the bridge; after
a thousand stoppages and a great deal of pushing and squeezing, I
succeeded in getting out, my clothes in rags. A desolate scene meets my
eyes. In front of us, is the open space called the military zone, a
dusty desert, with but one building remaining, the chapel of Longchamps;
it has been converted into an ambulance, and the white flag with the red
cross is waving above it. Truly the wounded there must be in no little
danger from the shells, as it lies directly in their path. To the left
is the Bois de Boulogne, or rather what used to be the wood, for from
where I stand but few trees are visible, the rest is a barren waste. I
hasten on, besides I am hard pressed from behind. Here we are in
Neuilly, at last. The desolation is fearful, the reality surpassing all
I could have imagined. Nearly all the roofs of the houses are battered
in, rafters stick out of the broken windows; some of the walls, too,
have fallen, and those that remain standing are riddled with blackened
holes. It is there that the dreadful shells have entered, breaking,
grinding furniture, pictures, glasses, and even human beings. We crunch
broken glass beneath our feet at every step; there is not a whole pane
in all the windows. Here and there are houses which the bullets seemed
to have delighted to pound to atoms, and from which dense clouds of red
and white dust are wafted towards us. Well, Parisians, what do you say
to that? Do you not think that Citizen Cluseret, although an American,
is an excellent patriot, and "In consideration of Neuilly being in
ruins, and of this happy result being chiefly due to the glorious
resistance organized by the delegate Citizen Cluseret, decrees: That the
destroyer of Neuilly, Citizen Cluseret, has merited the gratitude of
France and the Republic."

[Illustration: THE INHABITANTS OF NEUILLY ENTERING PARIS DURING THE
ARMISTICE OF THE 28TH OF APRIL

The firing ceased from nine in the morning until five in the afternoon,
when Paris cabs, furniture-vans, ambulance-waggons, band-barrows, and
all sorts of vehicles were requisitioned to bring in the sad remains and
dilapidated household goods of the suburban _bombardes_. They entered
by the gate of Ternes--for that of Porte Maillot was in ruins and
impassable. Many went to the Palais de l'Industrie, in the Champs
Elysees, where a commission sat to allot vacant apartments in