Let me note a few words of personal experience: It was a gray cold day in early November. The little ferry-boat which runs between St. Malo and Dinard tossed heavily in the yellow-green waves rolling in from the channel. The decks were awash with spume and water, the sharp north wind whistled around our ears. I huddled down in the corner behind the pilothouse. Nothing but necessity would have driven me forth on such a day, but when one hears of 130 wounded arriving the day before in a remote convent hospital, one puts personal comfort aside and goes forth. The wind was piercing and brutal, even my fur coat was a poor protection against this bitter assailant from the north. Miserable and shivering I crouched behind the weak shelter, sincerely wishing I had never come. Suddenly a cheerful voice wished me "Bon Jour." A Zouave, baggy trousers, fez, clear bronze complexion, aquiline features, flashing eye, stood before me. "Madame will permit that I seat myself on her bench?" he said. "But certainly," I replied, looking with interest at this injured youth from afar. "Whence came you, mon petit?" ("my little one") I said, "you do not look any too strong to stand this winter gale." "Quite true, Madame," he replied, "but we Zouaves are accustomed to the cold and storm." "But surely you came from a warm country, mon soldat? The Zouaves are from Africa are they not?" "True, I am from Tunis," he replied. "On such a day you must long for your country?" I asked. "Helas, oui. The orange trees are forever in bloom there, the heliotrope and hibiscus blossom all winter. The rose-scent hangs heavy on the air, there in my home! Even now I think of the deep blue sky, the long dusty road leading out into the desert; again I see the palms, the cacti; that is, if I close my eyes. Sometimes when it is dark and cold, and one is sad in the trenches, I cannot help wondering if ever again I shall sit beneath the awnings of the Cafe de France, or shall see the dusky women, in linen, walking to the fountain, or shall smell the dry heavy dust, or shall sit tranquilly in the blazing sun of 'La Tunisie.' Ah, oui, Madame, all that is many miles away from this cold, gray land of yours. "But at the front that was another story. See, I have been wounded twice, and am here convalescing. All I dream of is to go back to the trenches. Ours is at Neuport. Only 1 metre (13 feet) separates us from the 'boches.' they call to us often from their side (they speak good French, too) ordering us to surrender for they are bound to win, and we are only losing time. We answer, too. We give them something to think about." "But what were you before the war, soldier?" I asked. "An antiquaire, Madame. I sold Persian carpets, brass lamps, leather goods to the tourists who came to my beautiful Tunisie." "What will you do afterwards, my soldier?"