guide, a major belonging to the command in charge of the region
which we were to visit. He was another example which upsets certain
popular notions of Frenchmen as gesticulating, excitable little men.
Some six feet two in height, he had an eye that looked straight into
yours, a very square chin, and a fine forehead. You had only to look
at him and size him up on points to conclude that he was all there;
that he knew his work.

"Well, we've got good weather for it to-day, monsieur," said a voice
out of a goatskin coat, and I found we had the same chauffeur as
before.

The sun was shining--a warm winter sun like that of a February thaw
in our Northern States--glistening on the snowy fields and slopes
among the forests and tree-clad hills of the mountainous country.
Faces ambushed in whiskers thought it was a good day for trimming
beards and washing clothes. The sentries along the roads had their
scarfs around their necks instead of over their ears. A French soldier
makes ear muffs, chest protector, nightcap, and a blanket out of the
scarf which wife or sister knits for him. If any woman who reads this
knits one to send to France she may be sure that the fellow who
received it will get every stitch's worth out of it.

To-day, then, it was war without mittens. You did not have to sound
the bugle to get soldiers out of their burrows or their houses. Our first
stop was at our own request, in a village where groups of soldiers
were taking a sun bath. More came out of the doors as we alighted.
They were all in the late twenties or early thirties, men of a reserve
regiment. Some had been clerks, some labourers, some farmers,
some employers, when the war began. Then they were piou-pious, in