Behind us, on the front of the hill, is a hedge, and beyond the hedge--just a foot or so back of it, in fact--is a deep trench, plainly dug out by hand, and so lately done that the cut clods are still moist and fresh-looking.

At the first instant of looking it seems to us that this intrenchment is full of dead men; but when we look closer we see that what we take for corpses are the scattered garments and equipments of French infantrymen--long blue coats; peaked, red-topped caps; spare shirts; rifled knapsacks; water- bottles; broken guns; side arms; bayonet belts and blanket rolls.

There are perhaps twenty guns in sight.

Each one has been rendered useless by being struck against the earth with sufficient force to snap the stock at the grip.
Almost at my feet is a knapsack, ripped open and revealing a card of small china buttons, a new red handkerchief, a gray-striped flannel shirt, a pencil and a sheaf of writing paper.

Rummaging in the main compartment I find, folded at the back, a book recording the name and record of military service of one Gaston Michel Miseroux, whose home is at Amiens, and who is--or was--a private in the Tenth Battalion of the -- -- Regiment of Chasseurs a Pied.