comes more calm, more monotonous. Clunet grows restless. The day is long with no act of devotion to perform. So, when he hears that an expedition is to be sent to the Dardanelles, he tells himself: "I will go-I am going!" And he goes.

At the Dardanelles Clunet gives the maximum of his energy and devotion. Epidemics multiply, various and deadly. He fights them all. He cleans up the first-line trenches under fire, burying the dead by night. He defends himself, revolver in hand, against the Turkish patrols during that depressing labor, rescuing both the dead and the living. He succeeds in bringing drinkable water to the camp and in establishing, despite a thousand difficulties, a service for hauling away the dead horses and throwing them into the sea.

One day, all in a second, he is struck down by a frightful pain that twists his limbs and sets his brain on fire-it is the dreaded fever, which the colonials know well and which they call the "dingue." He is at the point of death. But men of that mettle do not die so easily. Clunet recovers and leaves the Dardanelles-the last man to get away. Last in retreat, first in advance-that was his chosen place.

Jean Clunet then passed a month at Paris, chiefly in the Pasteur Institute, where he had formerly worked a great deal and where he now profited from all that science had learned regarding contagious diseases. "I prefer contagious cases," he said, “and I don't know why." We, his friends, knew. It was because those were the cases in which the physician ran the greatest risks in treating them. Clunet waited, impatient for the next task of devotion. It came. A violent epidemic of exanthematic typhus was raging in the Serbian Army at Corfu. Clunet said: "I will go I am going!" And he went.

He was asked first to make a little detour, to go through Saloniki and set up a laboratory there. Clunet sailed on La Provence. The vessel was torpedoed and sinking. The officers, foreseeing the possibility of such a catastrophe, had provided rafts. These were thrown over

board, and Clunet reached one of them by swimming. He was safe, or would have been, but for the one thought that possessed him-to save others. At the risk of capsizing a hundred times he forces the raft to right and left, haphazard, any way to pick up the shipwrecked men in the water. Five, then ten, then fifteen! Those whom he has snatched from disaster cry to him: "Enough! Enough! We are going to sink." But Clunet estimates that he can still save two more lives. He is determined to save them. Those around him mutter, almost threaten. He still wears his uniform with the chevrons of an officer. He orders silence, commands obedience. The men are silent, they obey, and soon two more unfortunates are hauled aboard the raft.

One of them is grievously wounded in the head. Clunet dresses the wound. But the others must be fed. He succeeds in gathering in several loaves of bread tossing about in the waves, and thirty apples. At the end of eighteen hours a ship appears and rescues them, eighteen hours during which Clunet has sustained the flagging courage of his companions, stimulated their energies, extinguished incipient revolts, dissipated ill-humor, all by force of his own indomitable spirit.

Then came Corfu. To typhus was added dysentery, and both diseases were ravaging the Serbian Army. Clunet remained night and day at the bedside of the sufferers. He was himself stricken with dysentery, but did not cease his work. In his observation of the typhus epidemic he noted that the milk-diet treatment was giving only indifferent results. He substituted a raw meat diet, which succeeded better. He did not return to France until the disease had been stamped out.

Mme. Clunet, his admirable wife, was at the station to meet him. She was in black, but not in mourning. Little by little, with all the tact of an infinite tenderness, she told her husband that their only son, a child of 5 years, had died three days before. To all his voluntary sacrifices was added this involuntary sacrifice, the most cruel, the most dreadful of all. Clunet did not bury himself long in his grief. Only in labor to relieve the sufferings of others could he forget his

own. He learned that an epidemic had broken out in Rumania, that the spotted typhus, with which he had already measured his strength, was claiming its victims there. How could he go anywhere else? He said, "I am going." But this time Mme. Clunet replied simply, "I am going, too." And they went.

In a spacious villa near Jassy, which today bears the name of the Greerul Hospital, Dr. and Mme. Clunet established a hospital for contagious diseases. Here they first treated intermittent fever and spotted typhus, and later, when the epidemic grew worse, typhus alone. Jean Clunet was everything in that asylum of pain-architect, carpenter, glazier, water

carrier, food provider, physician. Bending over the dying, burying the dead, removing vermin from the living, he at last contracted the terrible disease. On the thirteenth day he died. He had asked that he might be buried near the hospital which he had founded. He rests there forever. Even in death he desired to remain at the post which he had assigned to himself.

Jean Clunet left behind him an admirable helpmate. I have never seen grief more noble or more worthy. I bow with respect before this woman, whom the hope of approaching motherhood alone attaches to life. She said to me simply, "If only it is a son!"

ing the bombardment that practically finished the destruction of the cathedral. To a curé in Paris he sent these extracts from his diary:

Holy Tuesday, April 3, [1917.1-Intermittent bombardment during the morning; continuous in the afternoon. Between 10 o'clock and midnight a shell wrecks the apse of the Clairmarais Chapel, shatters the statue of the Sacred Heart, crushes the altar, and buries the holy ciborium and ten consecrated wafers beneath a block of stone. The house of the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul and the Orphanage in the Rue de Bétheny are annihilated by ten big shells.

Good Friday, April 6.-Infernal bombardment from 4 o'clock onward: 7,750 shells! Mme. Beaudet, an admirable Christian, sister of M. le Curé of St. Benoit, killed at 8 P. M. in a motor car, with the wife and daughter of the sacristan of St. Remi, the chauffeur, and a soldier. Five persons killed at Ste. Geneviève as they were leaving their cellar.

Holy Saturday, April 7.-At 4 P. M. the great seminary took fire. No water to extinguish the flames. The firemen dare not approach, for the Germans are dropping four shells a minute on the building, keeping it up throughout the evening and night. Two firemen were killed yesterday, Friday, and two others have had their legs broken.

Easter Day, April 8.-The only divine service was a low mass at 8:30. No vespers. This was fortunate, for at the hour when it is customary to chant them a hellish bombardment began. The Cérès suburb is burned down or knocked to pieces right and left over

the length of half a mile. The church of St. André is ruined. the vaults shattered, and the walls knocked in. Our little seminary receives such a number of shells that it is uninhabitable. The church of St. Benoit had its ceiling destroyed, its walls knocked in, and its porch and belfry wrecked.

Monday, April 9.-Violent bombardment. Six killed, seventeen wounded: 10,000 shells! Saturday, April 14.-Violent bombardment from 9 to 11 o'clock all around us. Asphyxiating shells on the Rue du Barbatu and Rue du Cloître, where Mlle. Léparqueur is killed; fifteen persons died from asphyxiation. The lay clerk of St. Remi, together with his wife and daughter, also died, poisoned and asphyxiated.

Tuesday, April 24.-From 9 to 10:15 o'clock systematic bombardment of the cathedral with big calibre shells, many of them 305mm., fired at regular intervals. They were all manifestly aimed at the cathedral. A great number hit it, the rest falling beyond it, short of it, to right of it, and on the ruins of the Archbishop's palace to left of it. The cathedral is " assassinated!" The

apse outside is massacred," three flying

buttresses are broken, numerous pinnacles truncated or knocked down, the open galleries of the apse of the lofty walls are to a large extent thrown down. The walls have received such injuries that their solidity is imperiled. The towers have been seriously damaged. Lastly, the vaults have fallen in in five places, in the south transept, in the chancel-which is in ruins-and before the pulpit. The font is crushed; the high altar, buried beneath the débris of the vault, is no longer visible. Needless to say, the stainedglass windows have lost the few panes which still remained.

HE war, with its upheaval of most of our ideas of the effect of gunfire upon the habits of the nature folk, does not appear to have troubled the migrating resident birds of the western battle zone. Already airmen have encountered vast flocks of migrating waders, ducks, and other birds flying at an immense altitude far above the sound of our massed artillery, and this year great flocks of green plover have settled in the marshes, and appear likely to stay for a while. Until early in March I had seen only two or three green plover at a time during all my two years wandering up and down the battle front. Now they have settled down here in dozens, but, so far, I have not seen any of their absurd attempts at a nest, although they are wheeling, dipping, and fluttering in their dainty love flights over the marshes.

Last year wild ducks nested among the reed beds to our left, and brought off large families of young ones. One family numbered ten when it first came off the nest, and it was most amusing to watch the tiny balls of fluff waddling up and down an almost submerged stump of a tree that had been felled by our gunfire. The mother duck would swim up and down watching them anxiously, making angry dashes every now and then at the coot that was occupied with a family of seven black velvet balls of fluff on the other side of the reeds. The two mothers would meet with a rush; the duck would grip hold of a beakful of feathers, while the coot would fight with beak and claws. fray generally lasted for a few seconds; then the mothers would race back to their broods, each evidently considering that she had triumphed over the other! The scene was repeated at intervals, day after day, but, alas! the two broods grew

The

daily smaller, until each mother had only one nestling left. Probably the rats had killed and eaten the rest.

see

At another time I captured a tiny coot and took it to my dugout. I hoped to tame it, but the wee mite developed most extraordinary climbing powers. It literally raced up the walls of the dugout, hurled itself out of boxes and through the entrance, and tore off, making by instinct in the direction of the river. It was caught and brought back, but nothing would tame its restless spirit, so in the evening I crept down to the river, with the small coot carefully tucked into my pocket. I could nothing of the old bird and her brood. She had apparently left the scene. However, I took the little coot out of my pocket, and allowed him to call. Almost immediately I heard a reply from the reeds on the other side of the river, and the mother coot came swimming toward me. I let the little beggar go, and the last I saw of him was a small black object swimming through the moonlight. He joined his mother, and they both vanished into the shadows of the opposite bank and I saw them no

more.

Our gun positions are favorite nesting places for many birds. Whenever we remain in the same place for a few weeks they take possession of the "structures " we use for masking the guns. Last Autumn a blackbird built her nest in the sandbag parapet, and in spite of the storms and the repeated firing of our gun she hatched out three eggs, and, I believe, reared the young ones successfully. At another position-in an orchard this time-another blackbird made her nest among the sandbags; this time only about four feet to the side of the muzzle of the gun, and stuck tight during the whole time we were strafing the Germans, and successfully

hatched all four of her eggs, a surprising feat when one considers the concussion. Not very far away a pair of blackcaps had built their nest in the gnarled stump of an old apple tree. They were unfortunate, for a well-aimed shell during a German evening strafe demolished the apple tree and the nest. Apparently the blackcaps did not trouble, for they built another nest in the next tree stump and hatched out and brought up their young ones safely.

Ammunition wagons have a great attraction for the birds. A pair of sparrows endeavored to construct a nest in an empty one during a dinner hour, when we were resting, and actually followed us to the next rest, but the move on the next day discouraged them and they left us. During one of our stays in a certain part of the front a pair of wrens succeeded in building a nest, and when we were moved half a mile further on the two birds came with the wagon and Iwould no doubt have hatched out their young ones if the fortunes of war had not prevented it. A hedge sparrow had her home in a ruined wagon, and when I found her nest she was patiently feeding a cuckoo larger than herself. The hedge sparrows and their foster child occupied the wagon for a long time, and I have watched the two patiently feeding the cuckoo while the shells were bursting in all directions. At another time I found the nest of a hedge sparrow in the hub of a broken wheel lying in a position that was continually being shelled by the Germans. Evidently she must have stuck tight, for at the time the nest was discovered it had four young ones in it, and the parent birds were feeding their nestlings with serene indifference to the dropping of shrapnel and bursting of shells.

It is extraordinary how fond the birds are of certain localities, and quite a large number of different varieties will nest together. In one wood, somewhat to the rear of our position, during last Summer, a vast number of pigeons, magpies, rooks, and crows were nesting in the taller trees, while various warblers, tree creepers, and tits built their dwellings in the undergrowth. Yet in the early days of

the war the wood had been heavily shelled, and still bore marks of gunfire in the shape of fallen trees. The conflict had been severe enough to have driven the birds to seek some safer abode, but evidently they had clung to the old place and declined to nest anywhere else. The numbers of pigeons seem to increase at an extraordinary rate. Probably the destruction caused by warfare does not equal that in times of peace, while the quantities of mice and rats afford sufficient food for the kestrels and other birds that might prey upon the young nestlings. Sometimes in the height of the nesting season the noise of the nestlings in the various nests was almost deafening, all clamoring loudly for food the instant they heard the beat of their mother's wings. One would almost imagine that each bird's wing had a different sound, in that respect resembling the tread of the human footsteps.

I have always associated the nightingale with a certain railway cutting in Berkshire, where it is possible to hear them singing all night through, but almost impossible to find their nests, and exceedingly difficult to see the bird itself. Out here, however, the shyness has vanished. I have heard of nests in the frontline trenches; of eggs being hatched during a furious bombardment; while close to our billets six pairs had built in a ruined garden, and we watched their nesting with keen pleasure. A blackcap literally sang us to sleep at nights. It perched in a sapling that screens a gun and sang constantly, its vivid notes punctuated with the boom of distant firing. At another place, a reedy remnant of a ruined moat, ten different kinds of birds were nesting in the weeds and rushes that clothed the bank. Tits, far bluer than any British bird, reed warblers, garden several warblers, blackcaps, greenfinches, and many other warblers.

The martins and swallows are, I think, more numerous than in England, and appear as pleased with the ruins as the sparrows and starlings. I have seen

house martins' nests built under the cornice of the ruins of a highly decorated drawing room, pink Cupids and blue love knots contrasting strangely with the mud