_November 16._ We received a phone message in the morning asking us to go to the "Mairie" to meet a high official. Four of us went over. A number of large cars were drawn up in the Place D----. One bore the flag of the President of France. We were to meet Poincaré. We formed a line inside the sandbag barricaded arcade. The President and his _entourage_ passed. He stopped in front of us. "One finds you everywhere," he said; "you are very devoted." Then he shook hands with each of us and passed on. We wandered on down the arcade to watch the party go down into the shelled area of the town. A sentry standing near us entered into conversation. He addressed himself to Pottle: "Did he shake hands with you?" he asked. "Oh, yes," replied Pottle. "Hell," said the sentry; "he isn't a bit proud, is he?" _November 25._ Thanksgiving--and we celebrated it in the American style. We had purchased and guarded the turkeys, and they were prime. C---- did wonders with the army food, and it is doubtful if any finer Thanksgiving dinner was eaten any place in the world than the one we enjoyed two thousand yards from the Huns. _November 26._ An enemy plane, flying high above us this morning, was forced to make a sudden descent to a height of three hundred metres from earth. He was either touched by shrapnel or his mixture froze and he had to seek a new level. He passed very low over us. One of the Frenchmen attached to our Section fired at him with a rifle, but did not get him. _November 30._ B---- was shelled and a few stray shots were sent into town and on the troop roads near us. Under S---- the meals have been sumptuous repasts and we marvel at the change. The writer, with two others of the Section, was crossing the Place ---- after dark. As we passed the breach in the sandbag barricaded roads made by Rue ----, we were lighted up by the yellow glare coming from the shops next to the "Mairie." The sentry there on duty saw us. "Pass along, my children, and good luck--you are more devoted than we are," he cried to us. I was startled by the voice out of the darkness and the surprising remarks. I glanced towards the sentry's post, but the light blinded me and I could not see him. From his voice I knew he was old--one of the aged Territorials. "Oh, no!" I answered, for lack of anything better to say. "Yes, you are. We all thank you. You are very devoted," he said. "No, not that, but I thank you," I said; and we were swallowed up in the darkness. Then I was sorry one of us hadn't gone back to shake hands with the kind-hearted old fellow. It seemed to me that it was the spirit of France speaking through him, voicing as usual her appreciation for any well-intentioned aid, and that we should have replied a little more formally. JAMES R. MCCONNELL [Illustration] _From Another Diary_ [Illustration: A WINTER MORNING] [Illustration: ALSATIAN WOODS IN WINTER]