We stopped at a beautiful little farmhouse for lunch. It attracted us
because of its serene appearance and its cleanliness. A gray-haired
little old woman was in the yard when we stopped our machine.

The yard was literally sprinkled with blood-red poppies. As we walked
in and were making known our desire for lunch a beautiful girl of about
twenty-five, dressed in mourning, stepped to the doorway, her black
eyes flashing a welcome, and cried out: "Welcome, comrade Americaine."
Behind her was a little girl, her very image.

I guessed at once that in this quiet Brittany home the war had reached
out its devastating hand. I had remarked earlier in the day as we
drove along: "It is all so quiet and beautiful here, with the old-gold
broom flowering everywhere on hedge and hill, and with the crimson
poppies blowing in the wind, that it doesn't seem as if war had touched
Brittany."

A friend who knew better said: "But have you not noticed that women are
pulling the carts, women are tilling the fields? Look at that woman
over there pulling a plough. Have you not noticed that there are no
men but old men everywhere?"

He was right. I could not remember to have seen any young men, and
everywhere women were working in the field, and in one place a woman
was yoked up with an ox, ploughing, while a young girl drove the odd
pair.

"And if that isn't enough, wait until we come to the next cathedral and
I'll show you what corresponds to our 'Honor Rolls' in the churches