Here again is a lad, a young soldier of the last class of 1916 sent to the front. He is almost a child, but he has the patience and courage of a man. A terrible wound in the spine, cutting it open to the marrow, did not cause him to despair. To his weeping parents he said: "Don't weep, dearest mother, I shall recover, I shall get well, I shall go home with you, to be your little boy again," and in panting voice he went on to praise the skill of the doctors, the tenderness of the infirmière, saying, "Yes, she hurts me terribly at times, so I must cry out, but she is so good, so kind, I forgive her when the dressing is over." Further on, a man with a shattered shoulder suffers atrociously, but tells me with a cheerful grin that he is glad to have seen it, to have found himself surrounded by Germans with raised arms shouting "Kamerad!" One of the lady visitors offering to be his amanuensis (as he cannot write), he accepted with joy, and then, blushing, said: "But you see, Madame, it is a bit difficult, I am accustomed to calling my wife by a pet name; if I began my letter otherwise she would not believe it was from me." "Yes, and how do you wish it to begin?" asked the lady. "Well, Madame, I always called her 'my little Rat'." "All right, here goes for 'my little Rat'." One more instance: A pale, emaciated man of middle age, with both hands amputated, suffering a martyrdom without a murmur, without a reference to what happened to him on the battlefield, accepts with gentle politeness the cakes and chocolates offered to him. Seeing a large letter on his bed, I asked if he had news from home. "No, madame, it is from the government announcing that I am decorated with the Médaillé Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Please read it to me." "N———, cannon-servant, was admirable for devotion and sang froid; when a shell wrecked his cannon and killed all his companions, severely wounded himself in both hands, he remained at his post alone, notwithstanding his atrocious pain, to guard the remains of his companions and his cannon." To people upheld by such ideals, inspired with such patriotism, to whom France means all that is sacred and beautiful, "defeat cannot come." Until the detested enemy has been thrown across the Rhine, no suggestion of peace would be welcome; they will even call on the dead to defend their beloved land, as witnessed in the following story, vouched for by General Zurlinden, from whom I have also obtained some of the above facts: