battle of the Marne, there were many towns in the districts
where it was impossible to obtain tobacco, spirits, or food staples.
This condition has entirely abated, and the commissariat is now so well
supplied that soldiers have sufficient tobacco even in the trenches.

It was my privilege to take a brief ride at the front in an antebellum
motor bus of glorious memory--there being nothing left in Paris but the
subway. Buses are now used to carry fresh meat, although they have been
used in transporting troops and also ammunition. We trundled quite
merrily along a little country road in Northern France, the snow-white
fields on either side in strange contrast to the scenery when last I
rode in that bus. I am sure I rode in the same bus before the war in my
daily trips to the Paris office of THE NEW YORK TIMES. Its sides are
bullet riddled now, but the soldier conductor still jingles the bell to
the motorman, although he carries a revolver where he used to wear the
register for fares.

Trench life was one of the most interesting surprises of the trip. Every
night since the war began I have heard pitying remarks about "the boys
in the trenches," especially if the nights were cold. I was, therefore,
prepared to find the men standing in water to the knees, shivering,
wretched, sick, and unhappy. I found just the contrary--the trenches
were clean, large, and sanitary, although, of course, mud is mud. I
found the bottoms of the trenches in every instance corduroy-lined with
modern drains, which allowed the feet to keep perfectly dry, and also
the large dugouts where the men, except those doing sentry duty, sleep
comfortably on dry straw. There are special dugouts for officers and
artillery observers.

I also visited a large, perfectly equipped Red Cross First Aid camp, all
built underground, extending from one line of trenches to another. All
trenches, communication traverses, and observatory dugouts have received
names which are printed on shingles affixed to the trenches on little
upright posts. For instance, we entered one section of the trenches
through Boyau d'Espagne, we traversed Avenue de Bois, Avenues Wagram and
Friedland, and others commemorating Napoleonic victories. The dugouts of
officers and observers were all called villas--Villa Chambery, Villa
Montmorency being examples. It all seemed like cozy camp life
underground except that three times the morning of our visit it was
necessary to flatten ourselves against