irculate among each other
and open our hearts and talk it over in a brotherhood more
intimate than the ties of blood!

I lay that night at a little French town, and was kept awake
by a man, somewhere in the hot, still darkness, howling aloud
from the pain of his wounds. I was glad that he was alone,
for when one man gives way the others sometimes follow. Yet
the single note of misery was worse than the baying and
gulping of a whole ward. I wished that a delegation of
strikers could have heard it.

. . . . . . .

That a civilian should be in the war zone at all is a fair
guarantee of his good faith. It is when he is outside the
zone unchaperoned that questions begin, and the permits are
looked into. If these are irregular--but one doesn't care to
contemplate it. If regular, there are still a few
counter-checks. As the sergeant at the railway station said
when he helped us out of an impasse: "You will realize that it
is the most undesirable persons whose papers are of the most
regular. It is their business you see. The Commissary of Police
is at the Hotel de Ville, if you will come along for the little
formality. Myself, I used to keep a shop in Paris. My God,
these provincial towns are desolating!"

PARIS--AND NO FOREIGNERS

He would have loved his Paris as we found it. Life was
renewing itself in the streets, whose drawing and proportion
one could never notice before. People's eyes, and the women's
especially, seemed to be set to a longer range, a more
comprehensive gaze. One would have said they came from the
sea or the mountains, where things are few and simple, rather
than from houses. Best of all, there were no foreigners--the
beloved city for the first time was French throughout from end
to end. It felt like coming back to an old friend's house for
a quiet talk after he had got rid of a houseful of visitors.
The functionaries and police had dropped their masks of
official politeness, and were just friendly. At the hotels,
so like school two days before the term begins, the impersonal
valet, the chambermaid of the set two-franc smile, and the
unbending head-waiter had given place to one's own brothers
and sisters, full of one's own anxieties. "My son is an
aviator, monsieur. I could have claimed Italian nationality
for him at the beginning, but he would not have it." . . .
"Both my brothers, monsieur, are at the war. One is dead
already. And my fiance, I have not