, are the only signs remaining of the explosive shells. The
stone-mason and the plasterer have obliterated the work of the guns,
the tiny shops have been refilled, the tide of life has flowed back, and
in the streets the bareheaded women, their shoulders wrapped in black
woollen shawls, gather to gossip, or, with knitting in hand, call to
each other from the doorways.

There was the stable of a large villa in which I had seen five fine
riding-horses lying on the stones, each with a bullet-hole over his
temple. In the retreat they had been destroyed to prevent the French
using them as remounts.

This time, as we passed the same stable-yard, fresh horses looked over
the half-doors, the lofts were stuffed with hay; in the corner, against
the coming of winter, were piled many cords of wood, and rival
chanticleers, with their harems, were stalking proudly around the
stable-yard, pecking at the scattered grain. It was a picture of comfort
and content. It continued like that all the way.

Even the giant poplars that line the road for four miles out of Meaux to
the west, and that had been split and shattered, are now covered with
autumn foliage, the scars are overgrown and by doctor nature the raw
spots have been cauterized and have healed.

The stone bridges, that at Meaux and beyond the Chateau Thierry sprawled
in the river, again have been reared in air. People have already
forgotten that a year ago to reach Soissons from Meaux the broken
bridges forced them to make a detour of fifty miles.

The lesson of it is that the French people have no time to waste upon
post mortems. With us, fifty years after the event, there are those who
still talk of Sherman's raid through Columbia, who are so old that they
hum hymns of hate about it. How much wiser, how much more proud, is the
village of Neufchelles!

Not fifty, but only one year has passed since the Germans wrecked
Neufchelles, and already it has been rebuilt and repopulated--not after
the war has for half a century been at an end, but while war still
endures, while _it is but twenty miles distant_! What better could
illustrate the spirit of France or better foretell her final victory?

CHAPTER IV

FROM PARIS TO THE PIRAEUS

ATHENS, November, 1915.

At home we talk glibly of a world war. But beyond speculating in
munitions and as to how many Americans will be killed by the next
submarine, and how many notes the Pre