Every Saturday a certain number—20 to 25—come to our home, "Val Fleuri," and we give them American pumpkin-pie, cornbread, potato-chips, cakes, chocolate, etc. Pretty girls dance with them, we sing war songs, and old-fashioned ones, too, and although each Saturday brings a new set, my husband and I are glad to be able to offer to these "boys from God's country" an afternoon in our American home. October, 1918. [Illustration] VICTORIOUS BELLS OF FRANCE It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time. We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with longing for Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so impossible. All the morning the town was alive with rumors—a word, a suggestion, a guess, all light as a zephir, but gaining stability as they spread—until people crowding in the streets with radiant faces and happy eyes, became aware of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced: "Is it true the boches are beaten?" "Have we the victory?" "Foch has signed today." "The Kaiser has fled." "The Crown Prince is killed." A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing definite but a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. I met the mayor at 11 o'clock. "Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? (There is Victory?)" "But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official." "But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?" "Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but—" with a twinkling eye, "you can have your flags ready." All along the streets are little groups of people chattering excitedly, joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant newsmongers, each with his own special brand of rumor. At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has gathered, waiting for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in a new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of importance in our little town, is gesticulating and laughing with the commandant de place. Peasants, shopkeepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and Belgian wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowding, jostling, each with perfect good humor. Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines of bunting stretch across from window to window, flowers appear in buttonholes, out of church-tower windows lean the bell ringers; a little French flag has been hoisted high on the tower, the first in four years. "Will the great news never come?"