March 26, 1915.
Another beautiful day and the air is soft and balmy as a day in June. The woods and fields are full of spring flowers, there are big soft gray pussies on all the willow trees and the other trees are beginning to show a faint tinge of green. It is certainly a lovely place.
You probably felt much relieved that I was not in Paris at the time of the last air raid when the bombs were dropped. One fell so near the Ambulance at Neuilly that one of the doctors was knocked out of bed by the shock.
I had my paralyzed man out on the balcony to-day, it is the first time in six months that he has been out.
One of the men here, who has lost the use of both hands, told me to-day that he had six brothers in the army; two have been killed, two wounded and two are still at the front. He was a coachman in a private family, has lost a thumb of one hand and on the other has only the thumb and one finger left. Fortunately his employer is a good man and will take care of him; but think of the poor man,—horses are his chief joy, and he will never be able to drive again.
The Hopelessly Paralyzed Man
Who afterwards walked two miles on crutches.
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