I went through one of these bakeries, almost as large as an automobile factory, fragrant with the aroma of two hundred thousand loaves of bread.  This bakery alone sends every day to the trenches two hundred thousand loaves made from the wheat of western Canada!  Of all sights to be seen in this place, however, the reclamation “plant” is the most wonderful.  It covers acres.  Everything which is broken in war, from a pair of officer’s field-glasses to a nine-inch howitzer carriage is mended here —­if it can be mended.  Here, when a battle-field is cleared, every article that can possibly be used again is brought; and the manager pointed with pride to the furnaces in his power-house, which formerly burned coal and now are fed with refuse—­broken wheels of gun-carriages, sawdust, and even old shoes.  Hundreds of French girls and even German prisoners are resoling and patching shoes with the aid of American machinery, and even the uppers of such as are otherwise hopeless are cut in spirals into laces.  Tunics, breeches, and overcoats are mended by tailors; rusty camp cookers are retinned, and in the foundries the precious scraps of cast iron are melted into braziers to keep Tommy in the trenches warm.  In the machine-shops the injured guns and cannon are repaired.  German prisoners are working there, too.  At a distance, in their homely grey tunics, with their bullet-shaped heads close-cropped and the hairs standing out like the needles of a cylinder of a music-box, they had the appearance of hard citizens who had become rather sullen convicts.  Some wore spectacles.  A closer view revealed that most of them were contented, and some actually cheerful.  None, indeed, seemed more cheerful than a recently captured group I saw later, who were actually building the barbed-wire fence that was to confine them.

My last visit in this town was to the tiny but on a “corner lot,” in which the Duchess of Sutherland has lived now for some years.  As we had tea she told me she was going on a fortnight’s leave to England; and no Tommy in the trenches could have been more excited over the prospect.  Her own hospital, which occupies the rest of the lot, is one of those marvels which individual initiative and a strong social sense such as hers has produced in this war.  Special enterprise was required to save such desperate cases as are made a specialty of here, and all that medical and surgical science can do has been concentrated, with extraordinary success, on the shattered men who are brought to her wards.  That most of the horrible fractures I saw are healed, and healed quickly —­thanks largely to the drainage system of our own Doctor Carrel—­is not the least of the wonders of the remarkable times in which we live.

The next day, Sunday, I left for Paris, bidding farewell regretfully to the last of my British-officer hosts.  He seemed like an old, old friend —­though I had known him but a few days.  I can see him now as he waved me a good-bye from the platform in his Glengarry cap and short tunic and plaid trousers.  He is the owner of a castle and some seventy square miles of land in Scotland alone.  For the comfort of his nation’s guests, he toils like a hired courier.