How many pictures I've seen marked, "Somewhere in France," or, "Results of German Shells." How endlessly have I pored over Sunday supplements or watched miles of film click by, trying always to imagine myself really standing on French soil, seeing real things. But the pictures were always just black and white, and I never managed to step into them. The refugees at the Vestiaire tell vivid stories, and they all have that inborn dramatic instinct which can make live the scenes they describe. But even from their background I had no idea of the look and atmosphere of the ruined towns as they now are. No one ever told me that the trenches taken from the Germans a few months ago would now be half hidden by long grass and brilliant red poppies, nor that the summer sunshine could ever soften the grimness of barbed wire and dug-outs. Yesterday I saw for myself. Compiègne is the sentinel to the "zone des armées." At the railroad station you must present your sauf-conduit before you go through the gate, and frown as you do so, for certainly the official will frown at you. The streets are full of soldiers and officers, blue with them, and great military trucks grind past at every turn. Even the churchyard is filled with lines of military wagons, and horses were tethered at its portals. We arranged to have a bite to eat at the hotel, and I, for one, was surprised at the naturalness and comfort of the atmosphere. One of us, after standing at the elevator shaft several minutes, turned to the manager of the hotel and asked if she would have long to wait. "I hope not, Madame," he said,--"just until the end of the war." As we ate our luncheon we looked from the dining-window across the big square to the palace, now used as military headquarters. The sentries passed and repassed with their heavy guns before the entrance gate. Our military cars, painted dull gray with the numbers in white across the wind shield, were waiting to take us on our wonderful journey. As we left the narrow streets of Compiègne, we passed several motors bearing important-looking officers going to or from the front; they tore around corners in just my idea of a warlike way--very little gold braid, but business-like and grim. The country was lovely: rolling fields, and deep woods, rich with foliage. My idea of a devastated region had been a large plain, covered with small ruined villages, blackened by smoke. I had pictured everything bare and muddy--no grass, lowering clouds; but here was blazing sunlight, and such grass and flowers as I had never seen. At Noyon we were joined by a French lieutenant, who acted as guide to us, and was High Mogul to all guards and officials along our route. He looked skeptical of a party of women, even Americans (who are known to be wild), tearing along on the roads where only soldiers, trucks, and beasts of burden are seen.