"Five men were wounded here yesterday by pieces of flying shell," said one of them; "so, Mon Dieu! it is not worth the trouble to make one's self a target to-day." That seemed sensible enough, but it had never occurred to me that anything would ever come down and hit me. I'm not a soldier, I'm not even French, and everything about the front has always been a name to me until now. What am I usually doing the first week in July? I'm helping the kids set off firecrackers down on the beach--on a good old American beach; or getting the mail at the post-office to read the latest war news. Zum-zum! and here I am crouched down in an abri with some poilus, and a German biplane a mile in the air straight over my head. Wouldn't it be funny if--I wonder how thick the roof of this place is, anyway? Zum, zum, ZUM! How foolish to drop bombs on a place that is destroyed, anyway. The firing became less frequent and the explosions farther off. We climbed out to the great outdoors again, and looked around. Nothing to be seen or heard. Just as we started off, a last zum! and a fleeting glimpse of the Boche disappeared gayly into a cloud. That was a week ago; I'm wondering if they have got him by now. Along the road on the way to Ham were rows of neat little brick and stone houses, so unlike anything I had seen that their very neatness looked strange. "The soldiers have already begun rebuilding," said the lieutenant. And they have done well, may I add; the architecture is of an unimaginative, cubelike variety, but a touch of poetry is supplied by the white muslin curtains and climbing nasturtiums! The soldiers, working with sleeves rolled up and with gorgeous red sashes round their waists, smiled and waved as we passed, and if we had slowed down who knows but that we should have had an invitation to tea; with a Boche avion only just lost from view. It was an interesting road all the way. We met a priest trotting comfortably down the road on a fat chestnut mare. His gown fluttered and his beads swung by his side in time to the horse's gait. We all felt included in his smile as he lifted his shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed hat in greeting; we Americans bowed, the militaires saluted inflexibly. Next we saw--or rather were stopped by--a herd of cows. They looked utterly peaceful and oblivious, and along with the window curtains and nasturtiums that we had just seen on leaving Flavy-le-Martel, they seemed to give hope that the forlorn shells of houses might one day become homes again. I asked our lieutenant what the enemy had done with the cattle that they had found when they came. He answered, smiling broadly, "Zay ett heem!"