I think we both feel a good deal better for the change. The Shurtleff car has been running fairly well lately. I must tell you about my birthday--Marje wished me merry birthday the first thing in the morning, and then over at the Vestiaire Miss Curtis and Miss Sturgis presented me with a jar of real guava jelly. They had some left over from a steamer box when I first came, and remembered how fond I was of it. I was tremendously pleased to have any one think of my birthday, over here where everything is so different. I went visiting all morning and took packages for prisoners, in the car, and sent them off. In the afternoon Marje and I did more visiting and hurried home for tea at five. Mrs. Shurtleff and Gertrude had tea with us and admired the salon, which had lately been fixed up, and then Miss Curtis blew in. She was going away the next day for two days to the country and wanted the Association car to go to the Ford place in her absence. She mentioned also some chairs and tables to be delivered up in Montmartre and a bed that had to go to Neuilly. It was after half-past five,--still later, I guess,--and she looked dead. So we offered to do it for her. She is always so wonderful to us. The car had the things all loaded on, but it's always a job to go to Montmartre. The streets go straight uphill--so straight that they often end in a flight of steps, not marked on the map, and you have to back down and try another. Finally, we found the little back alley which was our first stop. The concierge's husband helped unload the table and chairs and he was obsequiously drunk. He was too polite for words, and after the furniture was installed he explained that he was no mover, but a marchand de vin, and wouldn't ces dames step in pour se refraichir. I couldn't believe what he was saying, and Marje got hysterical over my tact (so-called), and I wanted to start off quickly, but dignifiedly. The car wouldn't move. Crowds gathered. Suddenly I bethought myself of pushing the car--it was so very steep. But, of course, we were headed wrong, and you never can start the engine by pushing the car when you're going backwards. However, we decided to push until we came to a cross street and could then turn around. We did this amid cheers. Then Marje took off the brake and let her coast. Not a leaf stirring. She said the carburetor must be wrong, and that she needed priming. So I pulled out the primer, backing along the cobblestones as fast as I could while the car coasted; all women and children drawing hastily away at the sight of a girl apparently pulling a camion down the street with one finger. But she started that way, and off we went. One has to be habile quelquefois. I think that Santa Claus in the shape of a lady from America is bringing us a self-starter.