It depends on his own genius what he makes of them.
Verdun fades behind us, and we are on our way to the Marne.

In the strange isolation of the car, passing so quickly, as the short winter twilight comes on, through country one has never seen before and will perhaps never see again, the war becomes a living pageant on the background of the dark.

Then, with the lights of Chateau-Thierry, thought jumps in a moment from the oldest army in the war to the youngest.

This old town, these dim banks of the Marne, have a long history.

But in the history of last year, and the closing scenes of the Great War, they belong specially to America.