Our wounded general left to-day. He could not say enough nice things about the hospital. He said he was so glad he had been brought here, not only on his own account, but he was so glad to see how wonderfully his men were taken care of.

The guns have been going incessantly for the past two days, and we hear that the English have taken four trenches. I have also heard that some Canadians have come over lately and our B—— may be only four or five miles from me. I asked the general if it would be possible for me to find out; he said he would inquire and if B—— is anywhere in reach he would get me a pass to go and see him. I feel as if I would start out and walk to try and find him; but alas! one cannot get by the sentries without proper papers.

I hope my fur lined cape has not gone to the bottom. I think I shall still need it in June, for after two wonderful sunshiny days we are again freezing. Sunday and Monday were like days in June and we moved the beds of the patients out in the grass and others were on stretchers. We had the phonograph going, served lemonade, biscuits, sweets and cigarettes. They had a wonderful time and all slept like tops the next night.

I think I shall have to find a new job when the war is over, for I don't think I shall ever do any more nursing.

I am trying to find a lot of straw hats like "cows' breakfasts" and cheap parasols to protect their heads when they are taking sun baths.

The dressings are taken down and one thickness of gauze only left over the wound, and they are left in the sun from twenty minutes to two hours according to what they can stand.

April 11, 1916.

Yesterday we had quite an interesting time with air crafts. The machine came down so close, that we could see the pilot and his assistant who waved to us that they were going to throw something to us. A package landed, almost in the pond. It turned out to be a letter tied up in a handkerchief with some shot as weight. It was from the English boys who were patients here for a while; they told us they would pay us a visit some day. We could see the machine gun in front of the aeroplane quite distinctly. In the afternoon there was another excitement—a German machine chased by several French. It looked from below as if they had got him, but they all disappeared in the clouds and we did not know the result of the fight.

At nine o'clock there was a terrific explosion as if a bomb had dropped just outside the gate. We all rushed out and could hear the aeroplane distinctly, but could not see it; no damage was done near us. We have just heard that the bomb landed just outside the village doing no damage.

Thanks for the toilet articles, they are a wise selection. What we before considered necessities we now know are luxuries.

We have just got off a motor full of convalescents going home on permission. I hope they will get a month, some of them have been in the trenches twenty months.

May 3, 1916.

I got a lot of linen hats and Chinese umbrellas to keep the sun off the patients when they are out of doors.

The two Canadian nurses are a joy to work with, for they have had splendid training and are the kind that will go till they drop.

We have a wounded German prisoner who was brought in three days ago. The poor boy had to lose his right arm, and was at first terrified of every one. He expected to be ill-treated, but now that he sees he gets the same treatment as all the other patients he is happy and contented and very glad to be with us. I thought if I ever saw a German in these regions I would be capable of killing him myself, but one cannot remember their nationality when they are wounded and suffering.



I am sending you a photo of the Queen of the Belgians, who visited us and was very nice; she spoke so highly of the Canadians and of the splendid work they had done.

PARIS, May 24, 1916.

I left Dunkirk Thursday morning in time to escape the bombs, and stopped off at Etaples to look up some of our friends at the Canadian hospital. Dr. MacL—— had left for London but I saw M—— D——, and M—— P——.

Etaples is a real city of hospitals now. I saw the St. John Ambulance and the Canadian unit; they are both most interesting, so well organized.

Captain T—— took me to the station in a motor, for which I was glad, as it is two miles, and the walk over in the sun was as much as I wanted. Arrived at Paris at five the next morning rather weary, had a hot bath, the first in a real tub for eight months, and when I went to bed that night I slept for nearly twenty-four hours.

DIVONNE-LES-BAINS, May 30, 1916.

I did not go to the Grand Hotel for reasons of economy. This is a clean little place and I am quite comfortable but I miss the bathroom and the balcony.

There are no patients at the Ambulance here for the moment. All the fighting is in the north and at Verdun. Poor Verdun—it is terrible there, one hundred days and still no let up—I think there will be no men left in France before long and then the English will have to take their turn. When will it all end? Divonne is as beautiful as ever, and so quiet and peaceful one would not realize that there was a war if it were not for the fathers and sons who will never come back, and the women who are struggling to make both ends meet.

I have had news of several of my old patients who were here. Daillet, who was paralyzed, is at Vichy and can walk two miles with crutches, two others have been killed and many of the others back in the trenches.

I have not been able to sleep, it is so quiet.

MOBILE NO. 1, France, June 20, 1916.

To-day I went over to Poperinghe to look up Margaret H——. She is in charge of the Canadian clearing hospital and is doing a wonderful work. They have been getting all the wounded from this last fight—receive one day, evacuate the next, and the third day clean up and get ready again. It is wonderfully organized; the trains come right up to the hospital and there is a nurse for each car, so the patients are well looked after. Margaret has been mentioned in despatches, I believe. I am so glad, for she certainly deserves it.

June 25, 1916.

I went over for Margaret H—— in the motor. She went with me to the cemetery near the hospital and I put some roses on the grave of one of our St. John boys. I wish his mother could see how well cared for it is. Margaret came back to tea with us.

To-day I have been specializing a man who has developed tetanus. I would almost wish that he would die, for he has no hands, and has a great hole in his chest and back, but strange to say he wants to live, is so patient and so full of courage. When I have cases like this one I am always so grateful to the people who have helped me in my work. If they could see the comforts that can be given by a bottle of cologne or a dozen oranges they would be rewarded.

Our medicine chef was a prisoner in Germany for eleven months. The things that he tells us makes one's blood boil. One cannot imagine human beings as brutal as the Germans are. When they came into the town where he had his hospital, they shot all the wounded that were left and eight of his orderlies who stayed with him. He expected to be shot also, but they needed his services so took him prisoner.

July 16, 1916.

Another rainy day and as cold as the dickens but we are glad to get through the summer without extreme heat or a pest of flies.

My tetanus case is really getting better.

Last week I went to a concert given at R—— for the soldiers who are resting. It was one of the nicest I have ever been at. I did not want to go, for I don't feel like any kind of gaiety, but Mrs. T—— insisted. There were only three ladies present, the rest of the salle was filled with soldiers just from the trenches. The concert was held in a stable.

Some English and Canadian officers, who are on construction work near here, have been coming to see us. One is Major H——, who was on the Courtenay Bay work at St. John.

July 29, 1916.

We are nearly eaten up with the mosquitoes so I have been to Dunkirk to get some mosquito netting.

Mrs. T—— gave a grand concert to the men on the anniversary of the opening of this hospital. Denries, from the Opera Comique in Paris, and Madame Croiza, from the opera in Paris, sang. The Prince of Teck was here and in my ward, he was so nice to the patients. We had French, English and Belgian generals, colonels and officers of various kinds.

NO. 3 CANADIAN CASUALTY STATION, July 31, 1916.

I got twenty-four hours permission and came out here to spend the night with nursing Sister Margaret Hare, hoping to get some news of B——. I have found out where he is and that he has been on rest and went back to the trenches to-day. They are usually on duty eight days and off eight, so Margaret is going to send him word when he next comes off to come here and I will come over and meet him. I do hope we will be able to make connection. It is so hard to be so near and yet not be able to see him. If he is wounded he will have to pass through No. 10 Clearing Station, which is right next to this. I have left my name and address at the office, so if he should be brought in they will telephone to me and I can get over to him in half an hour. The patients here are so well taken care of. They have had a light day. I helped her a little in the dressing room this morning, saw some of the men who had come in last night, saw three operations. There is a very clever English surgeon here and several McGill men. It is a scorching hot day.

My tetanus patient is quite cured, is beginning to walk about.

MOBILE NO. 1, August 14, 1916.

We have had a strenuous and exciting week. It began with a visit from the King of the Belgians, who came to decorate three of my men who had fought in the trenches with conspicuous bravery. He visited all the wards and talked with the soldiers. Like all the royalty I have met so far, he is extraordinarily simple—wore no decorations or distinguishing marks of any kind. We were all presented to him in turn and shook hands with him.



The next day we got twenty gas cases and several badly wounded men—one Canadian from Ontario and two English boys, one was a policeman in London. I asked the Ontario man how he happened to get to our Ambulance, he said, "he'd be blessed if he knew," he was working on the lines which run right up to the trenches when the warning for gas was given. He started to put on his helmet and the next thing he knew he was in a "Red Cross" ambulance on the way to the hospital. He is getting on splendidly but we lost four of the gas cases. It is the worst thing I have seen yet, much worse than the wounded, and the nursing is awfully hard, for they cannot be left a moment until they are out of danger.

August 28, 1916.

I have met our boy B—— at his rest camp not very far from here. It was a joy to find him looking so well, and big and brown.

September 9, 1916.

Rain, continuous rain. The guns have been roaring without any let-up for three days and nights, and our little barracks are nearly shaken to pieces. We have had several warnings of gas attacks, but fortunately nothing has happened. One of the orderlies kept his mask on all night and everyone was surprised that he was alive next morning, they are the most awful smelling things you can imagine.

We have never seen so many aeroplanes as during this past week. This morning we counted eighteen in a row.

Mrs. T—— is going to organize another hospital on the Somme and is going to keep this one as well. She certainly has done a splendid work. We are all hoping that the fighting will be over before Christmas.

October 1, 1916.

The rain has begun, so I suppose we may expect to be under water for the rest of the winter, but things are going well for us, so we must hope on; but O! how dreadful it all is.

A stationary balloon that is not far from here, used as a Belgian observation post, was struck by a bomb from an aeroplane and we saw it fall in flames. The men who were in it jumped out with parachutes and both escaped without injury.

Broterl, the famous French sniper and poet, came the other day to sing for the soldiers. He is wonderful, and sang all sorts of songs that he had composed in the trenches. The men were enchanted, it does such a lot of good, for it makes them forget for a time.

One of our orderlies has just got word that one of his brothers has been killed at the Somme, another is dangerously wounded in the head, and a third has lost his leg—he has six brothers, all at the front.

One of the men in my ward got word of the death of his brother also. He was a stretcher bearer and was helping a German officer who was wounded. As soon as the German got to a place of safety he shot the poor man who had been helping him.

I am nearly frozen to-night and will have to go to bed.

October 9, 1916.

Our Bayard has come through the Courcelette fight safely, where the New Brunswickers did such wonders; but O! at such a terrible cost.

It has been very cold and rainy here. I am afraid the bad weather has set in.

Wish you would send me an aluminum hot water bottle for Christmas, another pair of Indian moccasins, and fill up the corners of the box with malted milk and maple sugar.

I shall never forget the poor little Breton who said when he saw me—as he roused a little when we were taking him from the ambulance, "maintenant je suis sauve" (Now I am saved).

I have just received a cheque from the Rothesay Red Cross. Since I began, my fund has never entirely given out, and I have been able to give such a lot of pleasure and comfort to the men.

If any one wants to know what to send me you might suggest Washington coffee like Lady T—— sent. It was a great success.

I am too cold to write any more, so good-night.

I wish I had some of Maggie's crullers and squash pie, but the French don't know anything about squash pies.

Our poor man with a broken back has been moved to a hospital near his home so his family can see him. We sent him on a mattress, fixed up with pillows and cushions so that he did not suffer at all on the journey.

When I have any one who is so ill as he was I bless the good people at home counting infirmiers and men that work about the hospital—they are soldiers who have been in the trenches for nearly two years, or been disabled through wounds or sickness, or exchanged prisoners from Germany unfit for military service. They call the hospital "le petit Paradis des blesses" and are so glad to be sent here. A man was brought in here the other day who was wounded for the second time, but he did not mind in the least about his wounds, he was so glad to get back. He is delighted because he will not be well enough to leave before Christmas.

We sent to England for some pop-corn, and to-day the men have been like a lot of happy children stringing the corn for the tree. They had never seen it before and were much interested. We made quite a successful popper out of a fly screen and a piece of wire netting.

The other night we were talking over the various experiences we have had since the beginning of the war—the terrible things we have seen—the sad stories we have heard, and the strange but very true friendships we have formed—and we all agree that we could never have carried on our work in such a satisfactory way if it had not been for the gifts which have come from time to time from our home friends. The extra food that we have been able to give to the very sick men has made all the difference in the world to their recovery, and then the warm clothing when they go out, and the bit of money to help them over the hard place. You cannot imagine how much it means to them.

I remember so well one poor little man who had reached the limit of endurance, and when I found the sleepless nights were due to worry and not to pain, the whole pitiful little story came out. His wife was ill, his sister-in-law dead and there were six children to be looked after—the eldest a boy of eleven—and no money. As long as his wife had been able to run the farm they had been able to get along, but she had given out. The French soldier only gets five cents a day, so he had nothing to send them. He cried like a baby when I told him I could help him. We sent off a money order for one hundred francs the next day, and I wish you could have seen the change in that man. That little sum of money put things straight six months ago and now everything is going well. But he will never forget, and both he and his wife have a very warm feeling in their hearts for the good people across the sea who came to their rescue in a time of need. When I begin to talk of my beloved French it is hard to stop.



January 1, 1917.

The men had a wonderful Christmas day. They were like a happy lot of children. We decorated the wards with flags, holly, mistletoe, and paper flowers that the men made, and a tree in each ward. You cannot imagine how pretty they were. Each patient began the day with a sock that was hung to the foot of his bed by the night nurses. In each was an orange, a small bag of sweets, nuts and raisins, a handkerchief, pencil, tooth brush, pocket comb and a small toy that pleased them almost more than anything else, and which they at once passed on to their children. They had a fine dinner—jam, stewed rabbit, peas, plum pudding, fruit, nuts, raisins and sweets. The plum puddings were sent by the sister of one of the nurses.

In the afternoon the trees were lighted and we had the official visit of the medicine chef and all the staff. After the festivities were over we began preparing for the tree for the refugee children. We had thought that we would have enough left over to manage for fifty children, but the list grew to one hundred and twenty-five. The mayor of the village let us have a large room in his house, as the first place we had chosen was too small. We had the tree on Sunday afternoon and three hundred and thirty-one children arrived. Fortunately we had some extra things so there was enough of something to go around. They had a lovely time, each one got a small toy, a biscuit, and most of them a small bag of sweets and an orange. The oranges and sweets gave out, but there was enough biscuits and toys, but there was nothing left.

We are all dead tired, for we worked like nailers for the past two weeks; but it was worth while, for we were able to make a great many people happy, and now we are sending off packages to the trenches—things that came too late for Christmas.



We expect to move this month. It will be an awful business breaking up here, for all the barracks have to be taken to pieces and moved with us. We have begun to take an inventory, and to pack up, but I do not know just where we will move to, the papers are not in order yet. It is hard to believe that another year of war has begun.

THE END