Then we passed in review with our wagon trains, cannon, and machine guns, the people cheering in their way, and showering us with wreaths and flowers. Even our mules, because they were American, came in for a share of attention. One fractious animal, that on account of bad conduct had been taken from a baggage wagon, drew attention by standing on his front feet and waving his hind legs and tail in the upper air, as though trying to make holes in the sky, and paint his displeasure with his tail. He was saluted with applause and laughter. One thing was preeminently seen, we American soldiers held the hearts and minds of all. Later in camp we came to know more of our hosts. The enlisted man has this advantage of his officers in learning to speak a language. He is not kept from trying to speak, by fear of making mistakes. He blunders on, and at last makes himself understood, though he makes fearful mistakes. I was not long in the camp before I was hailed by a _poilu_ who spoke the “American language.” He greeted me by saying, “How is little old New York?” He told me that he had lived there, but had come back when the war started to fight for his country. One day while I was writing a letter to the home folks, with Muddy lying by my side, Jot, accompanied by a woman, the English-speaking poilu, and with a little girl in his arms, came to me saying: “Dave, I want to show the dog to this baby and its mother.” So Muddy was put through his cunning tricks, and was played with and petted to his doggish heart’s delight. At this time I was in my eighteenth year--broad shouldered, and five feet eleven and one-half inches in height. My uniform emphasized my stalwart form, now filled out and straightened by military training. Though I was never considered a big man at home, I felt myself, by the side of the smaller French soldiers, somewhat of a giant. I stood up and saluted the little sad-faced woman and the “poilu”, and heard, or rather saw that she had asked some question about me. “What is it she is saying?” I inquired. “She wants to know,” replied the poilu, “if I knew the blond giant in America. Our people don’t know what a big country America is. They think it mostly New York city. You Americans are taller than our people but,” he added proudly, “my countrymen are big in courage and spirit.” I remarked upon the large number of women who wore long crepe veils, when he replied, “Yes; there are many in mourning for their dead. This little woman had already lost two sons in this war, and has just now got word that her only remaining son had been killed in battle.” “She is not crying,” I said. “No,” he replied. “Her loss is too deep for tears, and she is consoled by knowing that she has given them to France.” “Express to her my sympathy,” I said, and Jot added, “Tell her that we are very sorry indeed for her.” Then seeing that she had made some reply, we asked what she had said.