I am sending by express a few baskets made by them as they lie crippled on their hospital cots. The little money I paid for them will buy them tobacco, chocolate, post-cards and pencils. I should be glad if you will give these baskets to your friends who have so kindly sent us things. They are of no value, but they will show our appreciation of all you have done. There are also some rings made out of the aluminum which forms the point of the German shells. The men have picked them up on the battlefields and in the trenches—these bits, so full of interest and personal strife—and have made them into rough rings, but carrying a pathetic interest of their own. [Illustration: Wounded Arriving at the Hospitals] [Illustration: Wounded at the Grand Casino Hospital—Mrs. Deming Jarves in Civilian Dress in Center of Group] The first of the "Grands Blesses Prisonniers en Allemagne" have arrived. They came via Switzerland to Lyons, and from there have been distributed through the country and seashore places. Nineteen came to Dinard, very severely injured—blind, many one-legged, and some badly disfigured, but so rejoiced, poor chaps, to find themselves once more in France. Some have been in Germany since September. They say they were kindly treated in the hospitals, but had precious little to eat. Their looks show it, being quite emaciated. Being also accustomed to little food, their capacity for digesting has also decreased—much to their regret; but, no doubt, that misfortune will correct itself now they are back in the "land of plenty." It appears that when the train drew up in the Lyons Gare, they saw hundreds of enthusiastic compatriots cheering and waving flags and handkerchiefs, flowers everywhere, and heard the "Clarions de France," some broke down and cried like children. They had borne the privations and sufferings consequent to imprisonment for ten long months, but when they heard those sweet, clear notes, and saw the "tricolor" once more (Ils Avaient le Coeur Gros) they just gave way; that is, the weaker ones did. At the mother-house of the Little Sisters of the Poor, at St. Bern, one hundred and twenty-five are installed in that quiet convent, in the midst of the rich fields, and the green and peaceful woods of Brittany, with those good little sisters to wait upon them and nurse them; with fine milk, butter and eggs, chickens and fresh vegetables to eat, they will soon recover and they can hardly express their feelings, poor fellows, but just sit smiling and cheery in the sun. Mere boys, many of them—thin-cheeked, fresh-colored, bright-eyed, but crippled for life. Older men, fathers of families, bronzed and calm, thankful to be in France, with the thought of soon returning to their wives and children. May they there regain their health and strength. To these brave ones, we all, Americans and French alike, owe an immense debt of gratitude, for, but for them and their like, we would be facing now a very different outlook.