em back everywhere; the Germans have been absolutely
_stupefied_ to find such troops before them." The General then paid a
tribute to the Canadian and Australian troops, and told me that that day
the Australians had taken new territory, adding, "And not only have they
taken it, but like their British and Canadian brothers, what they take
they will hold."

I explained to General Joffre that, whilst I was not collecting
autographs, I had with me the menu of the dinner in the citadel at
Verdun, and that it would give me great pleasure to have his name added
to the signatures already on that menu. All the signatures were on one
side, so I turned the menu over in order to offer him a clear space, but
he turned it back again, saying: "Please let me sign on this side; I
find myself in good company with the defenders of Verdun."

At departing he said to me: "We may all be happy now, since certainly we
are on the right side of the hill" ("Nous sommes sur la bonne pente").

In case this little story should fall into the hands of any woman who
has spent her time working for the men at the front, I would like to
tell her the great pleasure it is to them to receive parcels, no matter
what they contain. Fraternity and Equality reign supreme in the
trenches, and the man counts himself happy who receives a little more
than the others, since he has the joy and the pleasure of sharing his
store of good things with his comrades. There is seldom a request made
to the French behind the lines 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