Radonvilliers, on which worthy town the sun had not risen for twenty-four hours, was pallid enough. The early gray of dawn was above, the gray cobble stones beneath, before us a granite fountain-watering-trough and the continuous once-white walls of the buildings rising up sheerly on either side of the street. Yet the lay-out of Radonvilliers seemed much less intricate this morning than the darkness of the night before had deluded us into believing. It was hardly more than a cluster of houses along a main street, and one or two dirt roads that led off at right angles from it to lose themselves in the open country.

One of these roads led some two minutes walk from the square, and after passing through the stage of a grass-grown wagon track, dwindled to nothing in the middle of a pasture. In this pasture, as the light of day revealed, our picket line had been placed. On the other side of the village, B and C Batteries were located somewhat similarly and billeted in other quarters of the town.

Good care had to be taken of the horses for we expected a long hike, so that the next two days were consumed in grooming and exercising them and cleaning harness, together with the overhead duties of watering and feeding.

But the spare moments at noon and after recall in the afternoon sufficed for everyone to become as familiar with all the important features of Radonvilliers as if they had been there all their lives. No cafe was left unvisited. The epiceries, whose windows were adorned with shoestrings and post cards galore, found their meagre stock of jam and cheese

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