nes that they do
not attempt to fulfil. I remember last winter, passing through a town
in the provinces, I noticed that the elderly men appeared to be
scantily clad in spite of the bitterness of the weather. It appeared
that the call had gone forth for fur coats for the troops, and all the
worthy citizens of the town forwarded to the trenches their caracul
coats. Only those who are well acquainted with French provincial
life can know what it means to them to part with these signs of
opulence and commercial success.

It is perhaps in the Post Offices that you find yourself nearest to
the heart of "France behind the lines."

One morning I endeavoured to send a parcel to a French soldier. I
took my place in a long line of waiting women bound on the same
errand. A white-haired woman before me gave the Post Office
Clerk infinite trouble. They are not renowned for their patience and
I marvelled at his gentleness until he explained. "Her son died five
weeks ago, but she still continues to send him parcels."

To another old lady he pointed out that she had written two
numbers on the parcel. "You don't want two numbers, Mother.
Which is your boy's number? Tell me and I will strike out the
other." "Leave them both," she answered. "Who knows whether
my dear lad will be there to receive the parcel. If he is not, I want it
to go to some other Mother's son."

Affection means much to these men who are suffering, and they
respond at once to any sympathy shown to them. One man informed
us with pride that when he left his native village he was "decked
like an altar of the Blessed Virgin on the first of May." In
other words, covered with flowers.

There are but few lonely soldiers now, since those who have no
families to write to them receive letters and parcels from the
Godmothers who have adopted them. The men anxiously await
the news of their adopted relatives and spend hours writing replies.
They love to receive letters, but, needless to say, a parcel is even
more welcome.

I remember seeing one man writing page after page. I suggested
to him that he must have a particularly charming Godmother.
"Mademoiselle," he replied, "I have no time for a Godmother since
I myself am a Godfather." He then explained that far away in his
village there was a young assistant in his shop, "And God knows
the boy loves France, but both his lungs are touched, so they
won't take him, but I write and tell him that the good God has given
me strengt