confirmed, and a veil drapes her childish head. She is married, and a
trailing lace veil half conceals her happy smiles. She mourns, and a heavy
veil of black crape covers her from head to foot.

We of the Canadians learned to know the wonderful emotion of the French. As
we marched along the streets we would see a Frenchwoman approaching us. She
recognized the strange uniform of an Ally and her eyes would sparkle, and
perchance she'd greet us with a fluttering handkerchief. The shadow of a
smile would cross her face; she was glad to see us; she wanted to welcome
us. And then she would remember, remember that she had lost her man--her
husband, her son, her sweetheart. He had been just as we, strong and
virile. He had gone forth to a victory that now he was never to see on
earth. His had been the supreme sacrifice. She would pass us, and the tears
would come to her eyes, and we'd salute those tears--for France.

[Illustration: Over the top]

And the men, what of them? There are no men. You will see old men, shaken
and weak; possibly they have experienced the German as he was in 1870, and
they know. You will see boys, eager strong boys, who impatiently await the
call to arms. You will see young men who now look old. You will see them
blind, and led about by a younger brother or sister. You will see the
permanently crippled and those that wait for death, a slow and lingering
death from the Hun's poisonous gases.

[Illustration: With the best of luck]

It is no uncommon sight to see the peasantry of France and Belgium, the old
and young women, the children and the very old men, working in their fields
and on their tiny farms, less than a mile from the trenches. It is their