The French woman carries through life the tradition of the veil.  She is christened, and over her baby face there lies a white veil.  She is confirmed, and a veil drapes her childish head.  She is married, and a trailing lace veil half conceals her happy smiles.  She mourns, and a heavy veil of black crape covers her from head to foot.

We of the Canadians learned to know the wonderful emotion of the French.  As we marched along the streets we would see a Frenchwoman approaching us.  She recognized the strange uniform of an Ally and her eyes would sparkle, and perchance she’d greet us with a fluttering handkerchief.  The shadow of a smile would cross her face; she was glad to see us; she wanted to welcome us.  And then she would remember, remember that she had lost her man—­her husband, her son, her sweetheart.  He had been just as we, strong and virile.  He had gone forth to a victory that now he was never to see on earth.  His had been the supreme sacrifice.  She would pass us, and the tears would come to her eyes, and we’d salute those tears—­for France.

[Illustration:  Over the top]

And the men, what of them?  There are no men.  You will see old men, shaken and weak; possibly they have experienced the German as he was in 1870, and they know.  You will see boys, eager strong boys, who impatiently await the call to arms.  You will see young men who now look old.  You will see them blind, and led about by a younger brother or sister.  You will see the permanently crippled and those that wait for death, a slow and lingering death from the Hun’s poisonous gases.

[Illustration:  With the best of luck]

It is no uncommon sight to see the peasantry of France and Belgium, the old and young women, the children and the very old men, working in their fields and on their tiny farms, less than a mile from the trenches.  It is their home.  It is France or it is Belgium, and love of country and that which is theirs is stronger than fear of death.  Some one of them may be blown to pieces as he works; it makes no difference.  They do not leave as long as it is possible to remain, or as long as the Allied armies will permit them to stay.

Their houses may be leveled, they may only find shelter in a half ruined cellar.  Often they may go hungry, but always there is a grim determination to stick to their own, to till the ground which has kept them, which has kept their parents and great-grandparents, and which they mean shall keep their children when victory, which they know is inevitable, is complete.

They have a wonderful faith.

The casualties of the French army have never been made public.  We do not know them.  It may be that they will never be told to a curious world.  France may have had her body crushed almost beyond endurance, but the unspeakable Hun—­the barbarian, the crusher of hope and love and ideals—­has not even made a dent on the wonderful spirit of France.