this fighting soul of the nation. What if it grumbles as it fights;
it will still fight on. Of course it is sick of war; but it will
not stop. It is a spirit that is fighting in France, the spirit of
a brave people.

We have in France a few hundred thousand men and will soon have a
million and more who are offering their lives in Service. But the
whole French nation is giving thus. And it is without hate. One
finds instead of hatred in France a feeling of deep disgust for the
German and all his works. The spirit of the French is not vicious.
It is beautiful. When the war ceases that may subside, may retire
to the under consciousness of the people. But it will not depart.
It also will remain eternally a part of the salvage of this war.

By the time the transgression of our car had been sufficiently
atoned for, dusk was falling. And Henry broke away from the gothic
arches of the trees and made for a tavern. He had learned that
one must take food in France where he can find it, and ten minutes
later we came upon him in front of the inn, talking in a slow loud
voice to what was either the inn-keeper's daughter or his pretty
young wife thus: "I said," Henry paused and nodded his head and beat
the thing in with his hand; "we want some supper--de jurnay--toot
sweet!" She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders very prettily
and said she could not "say pa." And Henry laughed and went on,
still enunciating each word distinctly. "Ah, don't tell us you can't
'Say pa': say 'wee wee.'" And again he told her "toot sweet." That
was the only part of the French language that Henry was entirely
sure of--that and "comb be-ah!" But we could not get it through
her head. So we loaded ourselves into the car and headed back for
St. Dizier, where at least they understood Henry's gestures, and