The peak of the load; the waiting months on the hilltop from the entrance of the Stars and stripes to the second victory on the Marne

Front matter

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THE FRENCH CENSOR ALLOWED THE MANUSCRIPT OF THIS BOOK TO PASS. HAVING ALREADY PER- MITTED THE PASSAGE OF THE LETTERS V/HICH COMPOSE IT. BUT. IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE PRES- ENT REGULATIONS REGARDING PHOTOGRAPHS. THE PHOTOGRAPHIC ILLUSTRATIONS WHICH WERE TO ACCOMPANY THE MANUSCRIPT WERE NOT ALLOWED TO LEAVE FRANCE

HE WAITING MONTHS ON THE HILLTOP FROM THE ENTRANCE OF THE STARS AND STRIPES TO THE SECOND VICTORY ON THE MARNE

II

I HAD hardly mailed my last letter to you when things got very exciting here again.

Early in the morning of April 24 — that was Tuesday of last week — we heard that the cavalry was trotting Into the valley again, and that we were to have the 32nd Dragoons quartered on us.

Naturally, the first thing I said was, "What a pit}^ it Isn't the 23rd," which was so long with us In the winter that we felt It was really our regiment. When the 32nd began to ride in we learned that the 23rd was not far off — only five miles down the valley at La Chapelle, just opposite Crecy-en-Brle.

Well, I could not complain, for I had another charming young officer in the house — another St. Cyr man, a lieutenant with a "J^" to his name — a man a little over thirty, and very chic.

On Wednesday — that was the 25th — I was sitting in the library trying to work, when I heard an unusual movement in the road, and looked out to see a group of five officers of the 23rd, followed by a couple of orderlies, dismounting at the gate — coming to make an afternoon call — all booted and spurred and fresh-gloved and elegant, as if there were no such thing as war, though they were burned and bronzed by the campaign from which they had but just retired.

It was good to see them again, especially the Aspirant, and though I would have liked to hear all the details of the famous " strategic retreat," I got only a few, as of course you know it is forbidden the soldiers to talk to civilians, and a good thing, too.

However, I did hear a few interesting things, one of the most striking being that when the French cavalry dashed through Noyon, the poor French people did not recognize them. The population in the invaded district was waiting for the famous pantalon rouge. They did not even know that their army had changed its uniform, and when they saw the blue-grey cavalry coming they thought it was still the enemy and ran to hide again.

They told me that the joy of these poor people who had been two years and a half under the German heel, when they finally realized that it was their own army which had arrived, was pathetic.

Hardly had the group of officers taken leave, and ridden up the hill, when Lieutenant de G came in to sit down for a little

chat about home and children. I can't tell you how these men like to talk about home. In the course of the conversation I made arrangements with him to have some of his horses and men help in the fields the next morning, for the work here is terribly behind.

When he went down the hill to dinner I rushed to tell Amelie, and to have everything ready for next morning, and you can imagine my disappointment, when, at nine. Lieutenant

de G came in, quite disconsolate, to tell

me that orders had arrived to sound '' Boots and Saddles " at half past six the next morning.

I ought not to have been surprised for the officers of the 23rd had told me that it was not a long stay — only an etape.

The next morning — that was last Thursday — was a beautiful day. I was up early.

I met Lieutenant de G on the stairs,

where he bowed over my hand, and made me such a pretty, graceful speech of thanks for my hospitality — you can count on any French soldier, from an officer down to the ranks, doing that.

I had hardly got out into the garden after he left, when a detachment of the 23rd pulled up at the gate, and the soiis-officier in command, saluted, as he said: "Aspirant B^ 's

compliments. The 23rd is cantonning at Mareuil to-night. I am going ahead to arrange the cantonnement. If it is possible the Aspirant counts on calling on you this afternoon to make his adieux. We march again to-morrow," and with another salute the little troop galloped down the hill.

The 23rd rode away at half past seven, and they passed the 6th Dragoons riding in, to take their places.

The little body of cavalry that came up our hill was in command of a marechal des logis — a handsome, tall, slender lad of not over twenty, — who explained that it was only a twenty-four-hour rest for men and horses. They carried no kitchens at all, — no revictualment of any sort. Each man had two days' rations in his sac, and the horses carried their feed-bags and oats.

It was a new kind of cantonnement for me, and the most picturesque I had ever seen.

When everything had been arranged the marechal des logis came to the door and asked if I could conveniently put him up.

I led him to his room, and you would have laughed if you could have seen his expression when I showed him the big freshly made-up bed.

"Am I going to sleep in that?" he exclaimed, and then we both laughed as if it were a real joke. You see we need so little excuse to laugh these days.

The weather was beautiful.

The boys sat or lay all along the roadside p in the sun, and the horses, relieved of all equipment, and well brushed, were tethered to the banks and in the courts, wherever there was a blade of grass — in fact they were " turned out to grass " for the first time since last fall, — while the soldiers ate and smoked and slept beside them, or rolled, frolicking like youngsters full of springtime spirit. It was the most unmartial, bucolic sight Imaginable.

There was not much pasturage for the horses, and I looked at my lawn, and at what Louise calls the ^^ prairie ^^ under the fruit trees, and I went out in the road and ceremoniously invited as many of the bestbehaved horses as could feed there to come In to lunch.

The marechal des logis was writing letters in the salon when I led my little cavalcade along the terrace — they had selected the most obedient horses who did not even need halters — and he came out to say that It was a pity to trample my lawn — as if I cared for that !

You, who so adore horses, would have loved to see them. There was plenty of good feed. There was sunshine and shade, and they nibbled and snorted, while the soldiers who had charge of them rolled on the grass and smoked. I did wish I could have got a snapshot for you, but no one had a camera.

As it was Thursday Louise was working in the garden — Thursday is her day. Suddenly she shaded her eyes and looked down towards the Marne, and called out to me

that Aspirant B was coming. Sure

enough, there he was, coming on foot across the fields as if he had seven-league boots, and waving his cap. Mareuil, where the 23rd had gone, is only two miles away.

He arrived hot and breathless, to explain that, while he was not really out of bounds, still he had not asked permission and so had come on foot, and dared not stay long, but that he could not bear to leave the Seitie et Marne without coming ito say good-bye, as orders might come at any moment to advance, and no one had the faintest idea what their destination would be.

I had half a moment's foolish hesitation, as I remembered that the niarechal des logis was in the salon. I did not know what the military etiquette was, or how officers like to meet unceremoniously. So I said : " Shall we sit out here, or will you come into the salon? The marechal des logis of the 6th is there."

"Oh, let's join him, of course," replied the Aspirant.

As I led the way I wondered how I was going to introduce them. I did not know the marechaVs name. But I need not have fretted.

I opened the door. The marechal sprang erect. The two youngsters both so tall, so slender and straight — saluted, flung their names at each other, thrust out their hands and gripped. Then they smiled, sat down, crossed their long legs, and fell to. It was like a drill — so exactly in unison — and so young and charming, that I just leaned back in my chair and listened and thought a lot.

Don't you know how there used to be a tradition about "little Frenchmen"? I vow I don't know where they all are now. I thought of it Wednesday when the group of officers stood about in my salon — their heads almost to the rafters — and I thought of it again to-day as I saw these two twentyyear olds — both nearly six feet, if not quite.

When the brief visit was over the lads parted like friends.

As the Aspirant was saying good-bye on the lawn, and laughing at the idea of my having " the horses in to tea," as he called it, although I called it " spending the day," he directed my attention to the road across the field by which he had arrived, and I looked down.

" Hulloa ! " he exclaimed. " Here comes the 23rd racing to visit its pet cantonnement at Huiry. You know, Madame, they never have been so happy anywhere else as they were in what they call ' ce jolt petit pays de Huiry: "

Sure enough, there came Hamelin and

The PjEAK OF THE Load

Vincent, who had lodged at Amelle's, and Basset and all the rest who had lived about us in December and January.

So you see we had rather an exciting day.

The result was that I was very tired, and I slept very soundly.

As a rule when troops are here I always hear all the night movement. Whenever any officer in the house received a night message, in spite of all their precautions, I invariably heard the cyclist arrive. But that night I heard nothing. I waked at six. I opened my shutters. The sun was shining brightly. The morning was clear and warm. I looked out, wondering at the silence. I expected to see the horses being groomed all along the road. To my surprise all the stable doors were wide open — no one in sight, — no horses, no soldiers anywhere.

When Amelie appeared she said the order had come at midnight. They had marched at three — and I had not heard a sound. Am I not getting used to a military life?

But I must give you some evidence that the race famed for its politeness has not lost any of the quality in the war, and all its hurry.

Although Lieutenant de G , who left

Thursday morning, had formally thanked me for my hospitality, within twenty-four hours I received the following note from him.

I

Madame:

I must again express to you all my gratitude for the charming welcome you extended to me under your roof. Our roving life did not allow us to stay long at Huiry, but, thanks to you, we shall always cherish a charming recollection of our too short visit.

And, twenty-four hours after the 6th rode away in the night, I received the following letter from the young marechal des logis. It seems to me such a pretty letter for a lad of twenty that you deserve to see it.

With the Army, April 28, 1917 Madame:

I hope you will have the kindness to excuse me if, before my departure this morning, I did not have the opportunity of thanking you for the charming welcome you extended to me in your pretty home. It was late when I came in last night, and it was still dark when we took leave of your dear little village this morning, and I was therefore unable to see you, to my deep regret, and to express to you in person all the gratitude I felt, and my deep joy to find that the sympathy which the Americans, our new allies, express for us, is no vain word. Your kindness to us all was the best of evidence, and I beg you to believe, Madame, that the sentiment is reciprocated.

All my men, as well as my two comrades and I, were deeply touched by the welcome extended to us in your village, and especially by you in person, and we should have been only too happy had we been able to stay with you longer. We are much less comfortable to-night than we were last night, but a soldier is forced to consider himself comfortable anywhere. All the same he is more than happy, now and then, to find himself among kind people who offer him the comforts of home of which he has been deprived for nearly three years. Even our horses are less gay than they were yesterday. This afternoon they had no green lawn to nibble. I beg you, dear Madame, etc.

Marechal des logis G .

The politeness of these French boys and their aptness in writing letters promptly is remarkable. It is a national characteristic. It is a great contrast to the American sans gene manner, which surprises French people. For example, all the French soldiers nursed in our little ambulance write Immediately they get back to the Directrice, the Sisters, and their special nurse to reiterate the thanks they have so profusely expressed before leaving, and anyone to whom I have shown the smallest courtesy while there writes to me. The little hospital has^ never sheltered but one American. When he returned to his post every one gave him an address, and every one expected a postcard from him, at least. Of course he could not write French, but he could send a picture postcard with his name, and a line which he knew I would render Into French. No word ever came back. Dear Soeur Jules is sure he is dead. I never see her but she asks:

"Have you had news from ?" And

when I say, *' No," she shakes her head sadly, and exclaims, " Poor lad ! Of course he has been killed. Poor nice boy ! We were so attached to him." I let It go at that. It is so hard to explain that it is very American.

Lovely day — so good after the terrible winter.

I am already planting peas and beans and potatoes. But the flower garden will not be very pretty this year, I lost so many rose bushes In the awful long spell of January and February cold. But what of that? Potatoes are the only chic thing this year. They are planted everywhere — on the lawn at the chateau, In the front gardens, under the fruit trees. I was tempted to plant them on my lawn, only that would have been pretentious, as Pere had more land than we needed, and It would have cost more to turn up my lawn than the mere patriotic look of the thing was worth.

Ill

May i8, 1917 Just the loveliest day you can imagine. When I went into the garden early this morning I did wish you were here. A soft puffy breeze was blowing, and a thin haze veiled the sun. There was only one word for it — divine. I never see the country looking as it did at that moment that I do not long to own a big camera and become an expert with it. It would only be in that way one could ever get a proper picture of it. It is so wilfully changeable that to do it justice — to catch it at its best — the camera would have to be on the spot — ever ready.

We have had a week of really hot weather. It has been good for planting, and I 've planted carrots and turnips and beets and onions, tomatoes and cucumbers, and if this lasts, I am going to try golden bantam corn. What do you think of that for a farmer? Hush — Louise does the hard work, and I boss it. I sit in the field on a camp chair with the seeds in a basket, and a green umbrella over my head, and big gloves on my hands, while Louise grovels in the dirt and carries out my ideas. I get terribly tired, and very red In the face, but Louise, brown as a berry, comes out fresh as possible.

Well, anyway, I am going to have something to eat — in time — and that comforts me.

At noon to-day it clouded over, and a cold wind came up which drove me indoors. Though it is as cold here as outside, still I am out of the wind, and that is how it happens that, though I have nothing much to write about, I am going to try to make a letter. Everything in the world is still — but though we hear no sound of cannon, I have the thought of it always with me. It Is more persistent than the poor.

I have been looking over some of your letters, and I find that you have often asked me questions about my beasties, and because I have almost always had other things to write about I have never got to telling you about anything in the beastie line, except cats — and you got that, you remember because you were nasty about my efforts to " wake up the States," which had been hardly less successful at that time than dear Lord Roberts' great " Wake Up, England!"

Well, since you want to hear about beasties, so be it.

Of course, you remember that in the old days I never had any beasties in the apartment, except birds. When I came out into the country to live I did not see any place either in my little house or in my new life for that huge cage and the twenty birds that lived In it, In Paris.

I had loved them In the Paris apartment. High up in the air, with that broad open space across the Montparnasse cemetery to fill the wide balcony with sunlight and warmth, they had seemed quite in the picture. But the Idea of caged birds on this hilltop seemed to me silly. What happiness could a cage full of birds have when surrounded by singing birds in liberty? Also every one out here kept cats.

In Paris, high up above the street, the morning concerts had been the only gay thing in the sad and lonely house. I learned to love them. I loved giving them their bath in the morning, doing up their house for them, and preparing their meals. I loved seeing them flying about, dancing and singing, swinging and balancing, and eating.

I loved believing they were happy. But I could not Imagine them happy out here, so they did not come with me. I gave them and their gilded palace to some one whom they had always known, and now and then I still go to see them.

So when I came out here I had no beastles.

The first one I had was a dog. He was a beautiful Airedale — a big dog with a dear chestnut-coloured head and legs and belly, and a nicely fitting, undulated, black jacket.

I

But, alas ! I did not have him long, and it was altogether a sad experience.

When he arrived he was homesick.

Did you ever see a homesick dog? Or, what is worse, did you ever live with one? For days, before he learned to love me, he followed me about in a patient, resigned way which made me pretty sad. I had not had much experience in owning beasties, except birds. I had to get acquainted as well as he. It was hard on both of us. Besides, the house was all fresh and clean, and, as I was determined that he should feel that it was as much his home as mine, he was allowed everywhere, and brought in a lot of dirt, and my habit of having everything in apple-pie order — by the way, what kind of order is that? — got a shock.

But I grew used to all that, and reconciled to it, as he became attached to me, and, even in the little time he stayed, I got so that I did not mind when he leaped all over me, and wiped his muddy paws, and he could not walk out with me without embracing me every few minutes. I was so grateful to him for showing pleasure in my society that for a while I did not even try to break him of it. I ended by getting deeply attached to him, and he to me. I was so proud of him. I loved walking out with him, carrying his leash and whip, with a whistle in my sweater pocket. He was naturally obedient. He always walked close to my heels except when I told him to " go," and then he was off like a flash. But he never went out of sight. If he reached a turn, he stopped to look back and see if I were coming, and if I hid he dashed back and sniffed around until he found me. Of course this is all commonplace to people who have always had dogs of their own. But it was a new experience to me.

If he saw anyone coming towards me he retired quietly to my side — not as if afraid, but as if to assure himself that I was not going to be molested. For a few weeks that was all right. He seemed gentle and was as playful, once he was domiciled, as a small dog.

I had never had a watch-dog — didn't know anything about them. I had him for company. But one day Amelie was sweeping the terrace. Argus was lying in the sun. I was standing at the gate, which was closed. The postman came up the road and started to open the gate. Argus was there in one bound. He snarled, then growled deep down in his throat. The man did not come in.

Amelie laughed aloud. Instinctively I said, "No, no, Argus!" but Amelie simply screamed at me: ^'' Laissez donc,^^ and she patted him on the head. " At last," she said. " I was wondering if that dog was anything but beautiful. Pat his head," she com- [ 28 ]

I manded, " and tell him he Is a good dog." I obeyed orders, and Argus wagged his tall, and strutted, and from that day he was the terror of the commune. He never passed anyone on the road without growling, and he barked at every one who passed the gate.

Personally I thought he carried his ardour too far, since he could not bear a stranger near. He barked when they arrived, and he kept It up. Every one was afraid of him, though I was always convinced that he was not a dangerous dog. He never attacked anyone. On the road he always came the Instant he was called, and patiently allowed himself to be leashed.

I confess I never got at his psychology — he did not live long enough. As I say, he never attempted to attack anyone, though he did attack a big dog. He never attached himself to anyone outside of the household. I had heaps of theories about him. At times I thought there was a savage strain In him. At other times I Imagined he was as afraid of people as they were of him. But I don't know.

When he was 111, and I sent for the veterinary, Argus was upstairs lying at my bedroom door when the doctor arrived. I called him. He came half-way down the stairs and stood barking. The doctor said: *' As handsome an Airedale as I ever saw, but I would not touch him for a fortune."

"But, doctor," I said, "he's perfectly gentle."

"With you, perhaps. I can't touch him."

So I went upstairs with the dog, and he let me tie up his nose, and I held him while the doctor examined him.

Well — he died. Never mind about that. I don't like even now to remember it. I like to think of him as we used to walk out together, when he was the first comrade of my new life.

Oh, yes, I have another dog now, but he is just a dog to me. I like him well enough, and play with him, but my heart Is not set on him as It was on my big dog of whom I was so proud.

This dog's name is Dick. He is a big black poodle and a perfect fool. He Is what the French call ^' pas mechant pour deux soiiSy^ just a common or garden fool. He is a thoroughbred, but he has never been trained at all, and as he was nearly, If not quite, four years old when he came — with his character — training has been impossible. He was bought when a baby as a plaything for a child at Couilly. When the war broke out, his family went to Switzerland and left Dick a boarder at Amelle's. At Couilly he left a bad reputation. A child had hit him with a stick and hurt him, and Dick had sprung on her — the one naughty act of his life, but it was enough to give him a bad name — so he had to come up here to live.

No one knows everything about a dog except after long years of experience. Though he is the silliest, gentlest, most playful dog in the world, though he adores children, and the cats sleep all over him, I have to own that he has never forgotten the child at Couilly who struck him with the big stick, and the very sight of her to-day — after more than five years — brings out a quality of ugliness in him that he never shows at any other time. Apart from that one trait he is a comic, frolicsome dog, whose delight in life is to " go," and whose dream of happiness is to have anyone, no matter whom, throw stones for him.

He was boarding at Amelie's when I came here. While Argus lived he never came near the house. But after Argus had gone Amelie used to bring him down here with her, and I got used to seeing him about. Neither Amelie nor Abelard had been content that there was no dog here at night, and finally I consented to let Dick sleep in the kennel; he has been sleeping there ever since. The only protection he gives is to bark when anyone approaches the house, and that is really all that is necessary. When he barks furiously in the night — as every one knows his voice, — someone comes to be sure that I am all right.

[ 31 3

When I say he barks at every one, that 's not quite true. He used to bark at every one, but, for some reason, since we have had so many soldiers cantonned here, he never barks at a poilu. It is the only exception. He barks at the children, at the postman, at the neighbours he sees every day on the road, but he never barks in these days at a common soldier. Droll, that, I think! I have asked him to explain himself, but I am too stupid to understand.

Of course Melie has a big dog — a black retriever — who, though he is already huge, is hardly more than a puppy. He came last winter, and I named him Marquis, and it was at once abbreviated into Kiki. Amelie brought him in her apron one night when he was about as big as a small cat, and showed him to Khaki and Didine. Khaki gave one look at him, and asked for the door. He shrugged his shoulders as he went out with very stiff legs and a line of bristling hair down his back, as much as to say "Another? Dear me! " But Didine went up to him as he lay on Melie's knee, examined him, and deliberately cuffed him first on one side of his head, and then on the other, and hard cuffs, too. Marquis has grown up since then, but he has no taste for cats.

Although Marquis is still only a puppy, he is already much bigger than Dick, and Dick is still just as much of a puppy — and will be to the end of his days — and it is lovely to see them play together — such races and boxing matches as they have ! They don't always observe the rules of the Marquis of Queensbury to be sure, but they never get cross over their game. Marquis is just as good a sport as Dick, but though he is heavier he does not tire so easily, and often when Dick retires to his corner to get his breath back and lies with his tongue hanging out. Marquis goes and pulls him into the ring by his hind leg.