were mounted. The cannoneers could not ride the carriages but were obliged to walk, for we had a long hike ahead in the next week and must save the horses. Dismounted men trudged along, the old haversacks we came across with slung over their shoulders; but none were weary or complaining. Nothing but the most cheerful spirit existed.

It was beautiful country through which we passed that cheery spring afternoon. Broad, rolling, green fields stretched away on either side. Here and there in little hollows, cosy, white villages snuggled tightly among clusters of trees, each group of red tiled roofs towered over by a single church spire looking as picturesque as it was beautiful. Tall poplar trees lined the roads over which the long warlike column, with its khaki uniforms, camouflaged wagons, and brown horses, passed—a strange contrast, indeed, to the peaceful and homelike scenes around it.

Bunches of mistletoe hung from the limbs of the apple trees in the orchards; there were not woods like our own but with each tree seemingly planted individually, the whole forming long rows. Every­ thing was obviously a part of an old country where civilization had ruled for centuries.

Still early in the afternoon we turned off the Grand Chemin to the right and shortly struck a group of a dozen or so buildings, stone buildings of course, for there are none but stone buildings in France. These houses formed the town of La Chaise.

A turn to the left at the corners around which the town was built brought us to a field, just beyond the last house of the village. The horses were

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