At Oulchy, half-way to Soissons, we halted at a railway crossing to let a long, lazy train drag out of the station. When at length the bars were drawn up, much excitement reigned on the little platform which we had been unable to see from the other side of the rails. Young girls with pails and dippers in their hands stood chattering with women in wrappers, whose disheveled appearance told plainly that they had been hastily awakened and had hurried thence without thinking of their _toilette_. "What is it?" I asked of the _garde-barriere_. "Wounded!" "Wounded?" "Yes--the first. Not badly wounded and they are able to travel, but unable to hold a gun. And they were all so thirsty!" Poor fellows, thought I, already out of the ranks and the first week is not yet passed. More persuaded than ever of the utility of my mission, I did not stop longer but pushed on towards Soissons. Half a mile further up the road, an elderly man carrying a package, hailed the motor. We slowed down, and hat in hand he approached. "I beg pardon for the liberty I'm taking,"' he said, "but might I ask where you're bound?" "Soissons." "You would be rendering a great service to the municipality if you would allow me to ride with you in the empty seat. You see, the youngsters who are left to reap the crops have broken the only machine in the community, and we can't go on harvesting until it is repaired or replaced. There are no mechanics left, and moreover, no horses that could take us to Soissons to find one, so I've offered to go on foot--but that means at least two full days lost before we can continue our work." "Get in at once," I said, and we rolled off. It was not long before I had drawn his history from this village alderman, an Alsatian by birth, and his tales of the war of 1870 helped to wile away the time we were obliged to spend idling along the roadside while our chauffeur repaired our first puncture. The emergency wheel clapped on, we were soon en route again. My companion duly uncovered as we passed the monument to the soldiers of the Franco-Prussian War, almost hidden in a lovely chestnut grove, in the heart of the forest of Hartennes. On the outskirts of Soissons we came upon a squadron of the Ninth Territorial Regiment, resting after the morning exercises. These soldiers much resembled the "bushy-bearded" creatures whom I had seen guarding the Eastern Railway, save that they were even more picturesque, for most of them wore straw sombreros. As we passed the captain on his horse, my companion lifted his hat and the officer replied with a salute. "A friend of yours?" I ventured. "No. Never saw him before." "But you bowed, I thought." "Certainly. He's an officer on duty in time of war, and all civilians owe him that courtesy." I liked that and fancied it were old-time urbanity, though often since I have seen it proved that the custom is not obsolete.