The scene today along the line of this hostile invasion was most tragic,
because all the cruelty of war was surrounded by beauty so intense that
the contrast was horrible. The sky was of Summer blue, with sunshine
glittering on the red-tiled roofs of the cottages and on their
whitewashed walls and little windowpanes. All the hedges were clothed
with green and flaked by snow-white thorn blossoms.
In a night, as it seems, all the orchards of France have flowered, and
cherry and apple trees are in full splendor of bloom, fields are
powdered with close-growing daisies, and the shadows of trees are long
across the grass as the sun is setting. But over all this and in the
midst of all this is agony and blood. On the roads are fugitives,
wounded soldiers, dead horses, guns, and transports.
There are fires burning on the hillsides. I saw their flames and their
great, rolling clouds of smoke rise this morning from places where the
day before I had seen French peasants plowing as though no war were
near, and young girls scattering grain over the fields harrowed by their
small brothers, and old women bending to the soil in the small
farmsteads where all their life was centred, until suddenly the
frightful truth touched them and they had to leave their homes.
Sometimes today I wished to God the sun would not shine like this nor
nature mock at me with its thrilling-beauty of life. However, the
British are full of confidence. If they were forced back they are glad
to know that they made the enemy pay heavy prices and that their line is
still unbroken. They are full of faith that against all odds they shall
hold their own in the last battle of all.