they are nicknamed, told me that it was his special but difficult duty to muster the children directly a Taube was signalled, and chase them down into the cellar.  Mopping his brow, he assured me that it was not easy to catch the little beggars, who hid in the ruins, behind the army wagons, anywhere to escape the “parental” eye.  It is needless to add they consider it a grave infringement of their personal liberty and think that they should be allowed to remain in the open and see all that goes on, just as the little Londoners beg and coax to be allowed to stay up “to see the Zepps.”

Passing the railway-station, we stopped to make some inquiries, and promptly ascertained all we wished to know from the chef de gare.

In the days of peace there is in France no one more officious than the station-master of a small but prosperous village.  Now he is the meekest of men.  Braided cap in hand, he goes along the train from carriage door to carriage door, humbly requesting newspapers for the wounded in the local hospitals.  “Nous avons 125 blesses ici, cela les fait tant de plaisir d’avoir des nouvelles” ("We have 125 wounded here, and oh! how they love to have the latest news").

In addition to levying a toll on printed matter, he casts a covetous and meaning glance on any fruit or chocolate that may be visible.  Before the train is out of the station, you can see the once-busy and in his own opinion all-important railway official vanishing down the road to carry his spoils to his suffering comrades.  Railway travelling is indeed expensive in France.  No matter what time of day or night, wet or fine, the trains are met at each station by devoted women who extract contributions for the Red Cross funds from the pockets of willing givers.  It is only fair to state, however, that in most instances the station-master gets there first.

From the time we left Revigny until we had passed into the Champagne country, upon the return journey from Verdun, we no longer saw a green tree or a blade of green grass; we were now indeed upon the “White Road which leads into Verdun.”  Owing to an exceptionally trying and dry summer the roads are thick with white dust.  The continual passing of the camions, the splendid transport-wagons of the French Army, carrying either food, munitions, or troops, has stirred up the dust and coated the fields, trees, and hedges with a thick layer of white.  It is almost as painful to the eyes as the snow-fields of the Alps.

I saw one horse that looked exactly like a plaster statuette.  His master had scrubbed him down, but before he dried the white dust had settled on him everywhere.  Naturally “humans” do not escape.  By the time our party reached the headquarters of General Petain, we had joined the White Brigade.  I excused myself to the General, who smilingly replied, “Why complain, mademoiselle?  You are charming; your hair is powdered like a marquise.”  The contrast with what had been a black fur cap on what was now perfectly white hair justified his compliment.