THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



509 



science, that they may look out for them- 

 selves later on, as most of them are 

 orphans. An American fund in Paris 

 hopes to send a Christmas present this 

 year to every one of these 2,000 homeless 

 children. I asked them to sing- and 50 

 sad-eyed little ones stood up and piped, 

 "Aux morts pour la Patrie." I could not 

 keep back the tears. 



I talked with a young woman who was 

 very ill and learned she had been at work 

 in a munition factory in another part of 

 France. I have seen as many as 6,000 

 women in one of these vast arsenals, and 

 frail girls carrying weights which only 

 strong men should lift. Yet I glory with 

 them in their sacrifice. The women of 

 France have shozvn us the way. Un- 

 trained women who have never before 

 rolled a bandage face unflinchingly the 

 most grewsome wounds in their hospital 

 service ; to release men for the trenches 

 they perform the most menial tasks, such 

 as removing town garbage. Service and 

 Unity. This is the keynote of France. 



SCENES IN A CELLAR DURING A 

 BOMBARDMENT 



We left the children playing in the 

 great open square of the barracks and 

 motored back to town. Our automobile 

 was driven by a soldier-chauffeur. I had 

 just remarked that this was the most 

 perfect weather I had known in France 

 when the tocsin shrilled its warning. The 

 soldier stopped the car, jumped off and 

 helped us out and we all bolted for the 

 nearest house with the big Lorraine cross. 

 An old man opened the door and many 

 other people rushed in with us. We had 

 barely reached the cellar steps when the 

 first crash came. 



I have never heard anything as omi- 

 nous as the sound of those Titanic shells, 

 each crushing out homes and human 

 beings. There were 27 of us in the cellar, 

 our aged host and the soldier the only 

 men. One little boy held a dog in his 

 arms and a girl of ten grasped a cage 

 with a pet canary. 



We sat on boxes. There was a light, 

 and over in one corner I saw a keg and 

 a sack, evidently containing water and 

 food ; and a pickax. How, I wondered, 

 could w T e dig our way out with that one 



pickax, should the house be struck ! 

 There was an agonized expression on the 

 faces of some of the women whose chil- 

 dren were not with them. Madame Mir- 

 man tried to lighten the strain by telling 

 how her baby girl had wakened, as they 

 carried her down to the cellar the night of 

 the last bombardment, looked about and 

 said, sleepily, "Encore ! The bad Boche !" 



By my wrist watch the shells fell every 

 seven minutes. The bombardment lasted 

 three-quarters of an hour, and we re- 

 mained in the cellar for some time after 

 the last crash, which sounded much 

 nearer than the others. We wanted to be 

 sure the -French guns had temporarily 

 silenced the foe. In the post-office, later, 

 I had a near view of a shell of the 380 — 

 a mammoth affair ; a little larger, but not 

 as pointed nor as graceful in outline as 

 the French 370 on exhibition beside it. 



When we reached the street, boys were 

 already flying kites, hoping to rival the 

 planes overhead. Lorrainese children 

 have become accustomed to bombard- 

 ments. Once 90 shells came in one day. 

 And, too, there are sometimes shells 

 dropped by the wicked Taubes, which 

 dodge like hawks among the aircraft of 

 the tri-color. 



THE E VERY-DAY STORY IN BLEEDING 

 LORRAINE 



We visited the hospital. Few of the 

 injured had survived. In one bed lay a 

 woman, whose moans were heartrending. 



"It isn't her physical suffering alone,'' 

 the Sister of Mercy told us ; "it is her 

 mental torture. She saw her four chil- 

 dren die in the flames." 



By the next bed knelt a man in trench- 

 stained uniform, crepe on his sleeve. His 

 face was buried in the waxen hand of a 

 little golden-haired girl. "He is just back 

 on leave," they told us, "and she will not 

 live the day out." All the others of his 

 family had been killed outright. This is 

 the every-day story in bleeding Lorraine. 



It was a brave dinner at the Mirmans. 

 The Colonel of Lorraine was there : on 

 his breast the Military Cross, the Cross 

 of the Legion of Honor, and the "Croix 

 de Guerre," with five palms, which must 

 be about the record in "citations." 



"However on earth did he win them 



