ht the French watched that wall.
One day a slight scratching was heard. The men prepared to face
the crumbling of the barrier when through a small hole popped out
the head of a brown rabbit. Down into the trench hopped Mrs.
Bunny, followed by two small bunnies, and although rabbit for
lunch would have improved the menu the men had not the heart to
kill her. On the contrary they fed her on their rations and at night-
fall she departed, followed by her progeny.

From all the dug-outs heads popped out and the first movement of
surprise at seeing a woman in the trenches turned to a smile of
delight, since the Poilu is at all times a chivalrous gentleman. One
man was telling me of the magnificent work that had been
accomplished by his "compagnie." I congratulated him and told
him he must be happy to be in such a company. He swept off his
iron casque, bowed almost to the ground, and answered: "Certainly
I am happy in my company, Mademoiselle, but I am far happier in
yours." The principal grief of the Poilus appeared to be that a shell
two or three days before had destroyed the store of the great "dragee"
(sugared almond) manufactory of Verdun. Before leaving the
manufacturer had bequeathed his stock to the Army and they were
all regretting that they had not been greedier and eaten up the
"dragees" quicker.

In the trenches near Verdun, as in the trenches in Flanders, you
find the men talking little of war, but much of their homes and their
families. I came once upon a group of Bretons. They had opened
some tins of sardines and sitting around a bucket of blazing coals
they were toasting the fish on the ends of small twigs. I asked
them why they were wasting their energies since the fish were
ready to be eaten straight from the tins. "We know," they replied,
"but it smells like home." I suppose with the odour of the cooking
fish, in the blue haze of the smoke, they saw visions of their
cottages and the white-coiffed Bretonnes frying the fresh sardines
that they had caught.

The dusk was now falling and, entering the car, we proceeded
towards the lower part of the town at a snail's pace in order not to
draw the German fire. We were told that at the present time
approximately one hundred shells a day still fall on Verdun, but at
the time of the great attack the number was as high as eight
hundred, whilst as many as two hundred thousand shells fell daily
in and around Verdun.

Just before we reached the entrance to the cita