of the little beast for me; I am going to a
dangerous corner and I do not want it killed."

I have seen the Mass celebrated on a gun-carriage. Vases made of
shell-cases were filled with flowers that the men had risked their lives
to gather, in order to deck the improvised altar. A Red Cross ambulance
drove up and stopped near by. The wounded begged to be taken out on
their stretchers and laid at the foot of the altar in order that "they
might receive the blessing of the good God" before starting on the long
journey to the hospital behind the lines.

Outside the prison-camp of Cannantre stood a circle of French soldiers
learning the bugle calls for the French Army. I wondered how the Germans
cared to listen to the martial music of the men of France, one and all
so sure of the ultimate victory of their country. Half a kilometre
farther on, a series of mock trenches had been made where the men were
practising the throwing of hand grenades. Every available inch of space
behind the French lines is made to serve some useful purpose.

I never see a hand grenade without thinking how difficult it is just now
to be a hero in France. Every man is really a hero, and the men who have
medals are almost ashamed, since they know that nearly all their
comrades merit them. It is especially difficult to be a hero in one's
own family. One of the men in our hospital at Royaumont had been in the
trenches during an attack. A grenade thrown by one of the French
soldiers struck the parapet and rebounded amongst the men. With that
rapidity of thought which is part of the French character, Jules sat on
the grenade and extinguished it. For this act of bravery he was
decorated by the French Government and wrote home to tell his wife. I
found him sitting up in bed, gloomily reading her reply, and I inquired
why he looked so glum. "Well, mademoiselle," he replied, "I wrote to my
wife to tell her of my new honour; and see what she says: 'My dear
Jules, we are not surprised you got a medal for sitting on a hand
grenade; we have never known you to do anything else but sit down at
home!'"

It was at Fere Champinoise that we passed through the first village
which had been entirely destroyed by the retreating Germans. Only half
the church was standing, but services are still held there every Sunday.
Very little attempt has been made to rebuild the ruined houses. Were I
one of the villagers, I would prefer to raze to the ground all that
remained of the