Much love to you always.
Your niece,
Esther.
XV
FROM MARJORIE
Sunday.
Dearest Family:—
Here I go again in one of these cahier affairs. It seems to be the best and only way to write you. I am this minute out at Saint-Germain—an hour outside of Paris. It is the place where Ibby Coolidge nurses. Her hospital is closed down now, so she is in at the “Invalides” for a few months. Although she lives in Paris, I don’t see much of her, for she works from eight to eight, and is too tired to dine out after that. Rootie has been out here for ten days resting. The air is wonderful—so different from Paris, although so near. It has been getting warmer, and to-day we are sitting out under the trees writing. I can hardly believe it. If spring has only come, it will make so much difference. I have been working fairly hard these last two weeks, for Agathe, the maid, has been off on a vacation, and I have had to open the four vestiaires in the mornings—open the shutters, dust a little, arrange the chairs and such, build the fires in the offices, and generally start things. This, combined with doing Rootie’s work,—at least certain parts that could not be allowed to wait,—has made life fairly complicated. Mrs. Shurtleff is letting me have my Monday off this week, so I have two whole glorious days out here with Rootie. We do nothing but sleep, eat, and walk. We have sticks, and so feel very safe, and wander far into the woods. The youngest class is being trained out here,—at least, part of it,—and they come home from their lessons every night at about half-past six,—about five hundred of them, in every sort and description of uniform, all out of step, four abreast, except when they want to run ahead and speak to a friend a few rows in front; all singing “poilu” songs like regular soldiers. They are such a bright-faced crew, we love to go out to the terrace and watch them march to the center court, and there line up, be counted more or less—and mostly less—correctly, and then be dismissed. It makes you laugh to watch their antics as they march along. They all smile and salute us now, because we have been there so often. They are not fresh,—just amusing,—but it also makes me a little sad to think what they are training for—what is ahead of them. To think that these bright-faced boys will, in all probability, turn into some of the sad-faced, mutilated men that we see in the hospitals and on the streets. Although it sometimes disgusts you to have a réformé talk about getting so much for his arm, or lack of arm, or leg or eye, or so much more for a ball in his neck,—still I can hardly blame them. They have served their country when their country called them. They have given their health, and perhaps their happiness, to the country. Why shouldn’t they be paid for it, and paid well?
Rootie in Park at Saint-Germain
