I have seen them down on the beach raking up the heavy piles of sea-weed, pitching it on the high carts and hauling it back to their farms, sometimes miles away, as fertilizer for the soil.
Strong, broad women these, woolen skirts tucked up high above their thick ankles, muslin coiffes flapping in the stinging wind blowing in from the channel, broad faces and muscular arms, red from exertion; very often even, the Grandma tosses a load of sea-weed on her pitchfork to the granddaughter, standing high upon the soggy mass in the two-wheeled cart. I have seen them working at the cider mill in the farmyard; ploughing the fields for the winter wheat; driving carts piled with farm products to the markets. A woman and a tiny donkey being about the only means of transport left now, since the horses and men have gone to the war.
The old men and women, who might confidently look forward to a comfortable seat by the open hearth, are out in the fields in all weathers, forgotten, the rheumatic joints, the bronchitis and the colds; the wind is piercing, rain falls almost every day in Brittany, but warm garments, and boots lined with straw keep out the cold, and the cattle must be herded; someone must cut and trim the hedges and trees; collect the apples and cabbages; potatoes and turnips must be dug Many are the little gifts of knitted socks and jerseys, of passemontagnes (hoods) sent to the "Poilu" at the front, for these women are never idle. In the long, dark evenings by the open fire, with only its light and a candle to brighten the dark interior, knitting needles glisten and click, and thoughts roam afar to the trenches, where, behind the barbed-wire and fortifications, "the man" is watching each day.
Railroad canteens are another war work for the soldiers going to, and coming back from the front. Here they can get a warm drink and food—tea, coffee, milk, cocoa, good bread and meat, etc.—served by the ladies of the French Red Cross, who also climb into the trains, passing from carriage to carriage, shaking their little tin boxes for sous or francs; the stations have, as well, a Red Cross dressing station, where wounds are washed and rebandaged, a bed for a weary body, and a quiet hour are provided free of all charge. They are constantly used, I can tell you.
In thousands of hospitals all over France, the Red Cross nurses are working with unexampled devotion. No task is too menial for them, no work too repulsive; their only thought is to relieve the suffering of the poor creatures brought to them. The men repay them well by quick obedience, and openly-expressed gratitude. It is a touching sight to go down a hospital ward lined with beds, and see these chaps follow gratefully with boyish eyes, the little white-robed figure, which represents so much to them of well-being and gentle care. If one stops to inquire about their health, always a cheery answer, "Ca va bien aujour d'hui, Madame (It goes well today, Madame);" no matter how much they suffer, or what acute agony they may be undergoing, they will not admit it.
I know one boy of nineteen, a volunteer, twice wounded, who was told by the doctor, while dressing his wound for the first time after his third operation, "Scream, my boy, scream, if it does you good, it will help."
"No, doctor," he replied, "I prefer to whistle." So while the doctor opened the wound and cleaned the bone, he whistled "Nous les aurons" (We'll get 'em)—the latest song from the trenches.
