er strain. Up to this time I have
been too happy. I have existed in a magic Bohemia, largely of my own
making. Hope, faith, enthusiasm have been mine. Each day has had its
struggle, its failure, its triumph. However, that is all ended. During
the past week we have lived breathlessly. For in spite of the exultant
sunshine our spirits have been under a cloud, a deepening shadow of
horror and calamity. . . . WAR.

Even as I write, in our little village steeple the bells are ringing
madly, and in every little village steeple all over the land. As he
hears it the harvester checks his scythe on the swing; the clerk throws
down his pen; the shopkeeper puts up his shutters. Only in the cafes
there is a clamor of voices and a drowning of care.

For here every man must fight, every home give tribute. There is no
question, no appeal. By heredity and discipline all minds are shaped to
this great hour. So to-morrow each man will seek his barracks and
become a soldier as completely as if he had never been anything else.
With the same docility as he dons his baggy red trousers will he let
some muddle-headed General hurl him to destruction for some dubious
gain. To-day a father, a home-maker; to-morrow fodder for cannon. So
they all go without hesitation, without bitterness; and the great
military machine that knows not humanity swings them to their fate. I
marvel at the sense of duty, the resignation, the sacrifice. It is
magnificent, it is FRANCE.

And the Women. Those who wait and weep. Ah! to-day I have not seen one
who did not weep. Yes, one. She was very old, and she stood by her
garden gate with her hand on the uplifted latch. As I passed she looked
at me with eyes that did not see. She had no doubt sons and grandsons
who must fight, and she had good reason, perhaps, to remember the war of
_soixante-dix_. When I passed an hour later she was still there, her
hand on the uplifted latch.

August 30th.

The men have gone. Only remain graybeards, women and children. Calvert
and I have been helping our neighbors to get in the harvest. No doubt we
aid; but there with the old men and children a sense of uneasiness and
even shame comes over me. I would like to return to Paris, but the
railway is mobilized. Each day I grow more discontented. Up there in
the red North great things are doing and I am out of it. I am thoroughly
unhappy.

Then Calvert comes to me with a plan. He has a Ford car. We will all
t