All the way down, Company B had been finding the old things instead of the new,—­or, to their way of thinking, the new things instead of the old.  The thatched roofs they had so counted upon seeing were few and far between.  But American binders, of well-known makes, stood where the fields were beginning to ripen,—­and they were being oiled and put in order, not by “peasants,” but by wise-looking old farmers who seemed to know their business.  Pear trees, trained like vines against the wall, did not astonish them half so much as the sight of the familiar cottonwood, growing everywhere.  Claude thought he had never before realized how beautiful this tree could be.  In verdant little valleys, along the clear rivers, the cottonwoods waved and rustled; and on the little islands, of which there were so many in these rivers, they stood in pointed masses, seemed to grip deep into the soil and to rest easy, as if they had been there for ever and would be there for ever more.  At home, all about Frankfort, the farmers were cutting down their cottonwoods because they were “common,” planting maples and ash trees to struggle along in their stead.  Never mind; the cottonwoods were good enough for France, and they were good enough for him!  He felt they were a real bond between him and this people.

When B Company had first got their orders to go into a training camp in north central France, all the men were disappointed.  Troops much rawer than they were being rushed to the front, so why fool around any longer?  But now they were reconciled to the delay.  There seemed to be a good deal of France that wasn’t the war, and they wouldn’t mind travelling about a little in a country like this.  Was the harvest always a month later than at home, as it seemed to be this year?  Why did the farmers have rows of trees growing along the edges of every field—­didn’t they take the strength out of the soil?  What did the farmers mean by raising patches of mustard right along beside other crops?  Didn’t they know that mustard got into wheat fields and strangled the grain?

The second night the boys were to spend in Rouen, and they would have the following day to look about.  Everybody knew what had happened at Rouen—­if any one didn’t, his neighbours were only too eager to inform him!  It had happened in the market-place, and the market-place was what they were going to find.

Tomorrow, when it came, proved to be black and cold, a day of pouring rain.  As they filed through the narrow, crowded streets, that harsh Norman city presented no very cheering aspect.  They were glad, at last, to find the waterside, to go out on the bridge and breathe the air in the great open space over the river, away from the clatter of cart-wheels and the hard voices and crafty faces of these townspeople, who seemed rough and unfriendly.  From the bridge they looked up at the white chalk hills, the tops a blur of intense green under the low, lead-coloured sky.  They watched the fleets of broad, deep-set