very fitful: one time we sleep for three days and three
nights; another time, the opposite.

Now Nature gives me her support once more. The frightful spell of rain
is interrupted by fine cold days. We live in the midst of beautiful
frost and snow; the hard earth gives us a firm footing.

My little grade gets me some solitude. I no longer have my happy walks
by night, but I have them in the day; my exemption from the hardest work
gives me time to realise the beauty of things.

Yesterday, an unspeakable sunset. A filmy atmosphere, with shreds of
tender colour; underneath, the blue cold of the snow.

Dear mother, it is a night of home-sickness. These familiar verses came
to me in the peace:

'Mon enfant, ma soeur,
Songe a la douceur
D'aller la-bas vivre ensemble
Au pays qui te ressemble.'

Yes, Beaudelaire's _Invitation au voyage_ seemed to take wing in the
exquisite sky. Oh, I was far from war. Well, to return to earthly
things: in coming back I nearly missed my dinner.

_January 20, evening._

Acceptation always. Adaptation to the life which goes on and on, taking
no notice of our little postulations.

_January 21._

We are in our first-line emplacements. The snow has followed us, but
alas, the thaw too. Happily, in this emplacement we don't live in water
as we do in the trenches.

Can any one describe the grace of winter trees? Did I already tell you
what Anatole France says in the _Mannequin d'Osier_? He loves their
delicate outlines and their intimate beauty more when they are uncovered
in winter. I too love the marvellous intricate pattern of their branches
against the sky.

From my post I can see our poor village, which is collapsing more and
more. Each day shells are destroying it. The church is hollowed out, but
its old charm remains in its ruins; it crouches so prettily between the
two delicately defined hills.

We were very happy in the second line. That time of snow was really
beautiful and clement. I told you yesterday about the sunset the other
day. And, before that, our arrival in the marvellous woods. . . .

_January 22._

. . . I have sent you a few verses; I don't know what they are worth,
but they reconciled me to life. And then our last billet was really
wonderful in its beauty. Water running over pebbles . . . vast, limpid
waters at the end of the park. Sleeping ponds, dreaming walks, which
none of this brutality has succeeded in de