ube will turn into
a Zeppelin, or perhaps a fleet of airships.

XIII

June 20, 1915

Having an American neighbor near by again has changed life more
than you would imagine.

She is only five miles away. She can come over on horseback in half
an hour, and she often arrives for coffee, which is really jolly. Now
and then she drives over unexpectedly, and carries me back with her
for the night. I never feel like staying longer, but it changes the
complexion of life. Besides, we can talk about our native land--in
English--and that is a change.

Now don't imagine that I have been lonely. I have not. I was quite
contented before she returned, but I have never concealed from you
that the war is trying. I needed, now and then, to exchange words
with one of my own race, and to say things about my own country
which I'd be burned at the stake before I 'd say before a French
person.

Beside, the drive from here to Voulangis is beautiful. We have three
or four ways to go, and each one is prettier than the other.
Sometimes we go through Quincy, by the Chateau de Moulignon, to
Pont aux Dames, and through the old moated town of Crecy-en-Brie.
Sometimes we go down the valley of the Mesnil, a hilly path along the
edge of a tiny river, down which we dash at a breakneck speed, only
possible to an expert driver. Indeed Pere never believes we do it. He
could not. Since he could not, to him it is impossible to anyone.

Just now the most interesting way is through Couilly and St. Germain,
by the Bois de Misere, to Villiers-sur-Morin, whence we climb the hill
to Voulangis, with the valley dropping away on one side. It is one of
the loveliest drives I know, along the Morin, by the mills, through the
almost virgin forest.

The artillery--territorials--is cantoned all along here, at Villiers, at
Crecy, and at Voulangis. The road is lined with grey cannon and
ammunition wagons. Every little way there is a sentinel in his box, and
horses are everywhere.

Some of the sentinel boxes are, as we used to say in the States, "too
cute for words." The prettiest one in the Department is right here, at
the corner of the route Madame, which crosses my hill, and whence
the road leads from the Demi-Lune right down to the canal. It is
woven of straw, has a nice floor, a Gothic roof, a Gothic door, and the
tiniest Gothic window, and a little flag floating from its peak.

It is a little bijou, and I did hope that I could beg, borrow, steal