i-aircraft artillery disguised against enemy observers flying
above.]

How it is working out a glance at the men in the various buildings
clearly showed. Here was one group of men wearing smoked glasses
feverishly manufacturing brushes; as they worked they whistled. In the
next room another group was mending the seats of rattaned chairs; in
the next they were making raffia baskets; in the next willow baskets,
chairs and tables. Another lot was learning to set type for books for
the blind; others were learning typewriting, piano-tuning, barrel
making and boot repairing.

Perhaps the most interesting of all were the men learning to be
professional masseurs: This is a particularly suitable profession for
the blind because it depends for its success altogether on the sense
of feeling, and these chaps rubbed and manipulated each other's
muscles and joints in the most approved expert style, using one
another as patients. Some of the blind graduate masseurs were already
practising their profession in Paris.

One recent arrival was being conducted about the garden by one of the
white clad nurses, who was evidently trying to comfort him in some of
his bad moments. The poor chap looked heart broken and one felt, even
though dimly, something of his Gethsemane as he realized that the
glory of the sun and all the beauties of nature were no more for
him,--that before him was only night eternal. Yet a moment afterwards
when the supper bell rang the rattle of canes on the walks and the
sound of scores of men whistling and singing as they came from all the
buildings round about proved most convincingly that hundreds of others
had gone through this same struggle and had come out victorious.

My visit to the Institute for the blinded soldiers was to me the most
inspiring experience that I had in France, strange as that statement
may sound, for it showed more conclusively than war itself the
infinite capacity for courage that exists in almost every man. Yet the
sights that we saw--so terribly pathetic--made one realize as never
before the truth of the epigram "War is hell."

When we again passed through the gates of St. Denis on our way towards
our "home" in the field, it was a sunny day and all the fruit trees
were in full bloom, making a broad belt of white for three or four
miles around Paris. With the exception of a stop at the cathedral of
Amiens to see the wonderful old stained glass windows, unequalled by
any in Great Brit