Do you know that it is not until now that I have had a passport from my own country?  I have never needed one.  No one here has ever asked me for one, and it was only when I was in Paris a week ago that an American friend was so aghast at the idea that I had, in case of accident, no real American protection, that I went to the Embassy, for the first time in my life, and asked for one, and seriously took the oath of allegiance.  I took it so very seriously that it was impressed on me how careless we, who live much abroad, get about such things.

I know that many years ago, when I was first leaving the States, it was suggested that such a document might be useful as an identification, and I made out my demand, and it was sent after me to Rome.  I must have taken the oath at that time, but it was in days of peace, and it made no impression on me.  But this time I got a great big choke in my throat, and looked up at the Stars and Stripes over the desk, and felt more American than I ever felt in my life.  It cost me two dollars, and I felt the emotion was well worth the money, even at a high rate of exchange.

I did practically nothing else in Paris, except to go to one or two of the hospitals where I had friends at work.

Paris is practically normal.  A great many of the American colony who fled in September to Bordeaux and to London have returned, and the streets are more lively, and the city has settled down to live through the war with outward calm if no gaiety.  I would not have believed it would be possible, in less than five months, and with things going none too well at the front, that the city could have achieved this attitude.

When I got back, I found that, at least, our ambulance was open.

It is only a small hospital, and very poor.  It is set up in the salle de recreation of the commune, which is beside the church and opposite the mairie, backed up against the wall of the park of the Chateau de Quincy.  It is really a branch of the military hospital at Meaux, and it is under the patronage of the occupant of the Chateau de Quincy, who supplies such absolute necessities as cannot be provided from the government allowance of two francs a day per bed.  There are twenty-eight beds.

Most of the beds and bedding were contributed by the people in the commune.  The town crier went about, beating his drum, and making his demand at the crossroads, and everyone who could spare a bed or a mattress or a blanket carried his contribution to the salle.  The wife of the mayor is the directress, the doctor from Crecy-en-Brie cares for the soldiers, with the assistance of Soeur Jules and Soeur Marie, who had charge of the town dispensary, and four girls of the Red Cross Society living in the commune.

The installation is pathetically simple, but the room is large and comfortable, with four rows of beds, and extra ones on the stage, and it is heated by a big stove.  Naturally it gets more sick and slightly wounded than serious cases, but the boys seem very happy, and they are affectionately cared for.  There is a big court for the convalescents, and in the spring they will have the run of the park.