These old towns and villages look upon the American Army in their midst as the greatest miracle they have ever known, and a greater one than they ever could have dreamed of. One motors through scores of little towns and villages where the American soldier, in his khaki, his soft hat, (which I am told is soon to be abolished,) and his white gaiters, swarms. The villagers put up bunting, calico signs, flags, and have stocks of American "canned goods" to show in their shop windows. The children, when bold, play with the American soldiers, and the children that are more shy just venture to go up and touch an American soldier's leg. Very old peasant ladies put on their Sunday black and go out walking and in some mysterious way talking with American soldiers. The village Mayor turns out and makes a speech utterly incomprehensible to the American soldier, whenever a fresh contingent of the latter arrives. The 1919 class, just called up, plays bugles and shouts "Good morning" when an American car comes by. Vice versa, this Central France is perhaps even more of a miracle to the American troops than the American troops are to it. To watch the American trooper from Arkansas or Chicago being shown over a castle which is not only older than the United States, but was in its prime under Louis XII., and dates back to a Roman fortress now beneath it, is a wonderful sight. Here the American soldier shows himself a charming child. There is nothing of the "Innocents Abroad" about him. I heard scarcely anything (except about telephones and railways) of any American brag of modernism in this ancient part of France. On the contrary, the soldier is learning with open eyes, and trying to learn with open ears, all these wonders of the past among which he has been suddenly put. The officer, too, even the educated officer, is beautifully astonished at all this past, which he had read about, but which, quite possibly, he didn't really believe to exist. The American officers who speak French--and there are some of them, coming chiefly from the Southern States--are, of course, heroes in every town, and sought after in cafés at recreation hours by every French officer and man. Those who do not know French are learning it, and I remember a picturesque sight, that of a very elderly, prim French governess in black, teaching French to American subalterns in a Y.M.C.A. canteen.