During the First World War there was ghastly devastation of French forests, first by the Germans, not only in obtaining necessary supplies for the military purposes but also in deliberate destruction. For instance, at Pont-a-Mousson, near Nancy, I have seen the very soil mined to a depth of six feet. In addition, in their own need of supply, tribute had to be imposed on the forests by the French, English and Americans in Great Britain, France, Belgium and Italy. An American saw the possibility of aiding in this work by contributing large quantities of American tree seeds for planting on the devastated areas. He was Mr. Charles Lathrop Pack of Lake wood, New Jersey, President of the American Tree Association and Chairman of the Board of Directors of the American Nature Association.
He donated hundreds of millions of seeds, chiefly of Douglas Fir, to these countries on cessation of the war and it was my pleasure recently to view some of the results of these donations to France in the form of more than half a million Douglas Fir trees growing on devastated areas in the battle regions. At Versailles there are now about four thousand of our Douglas firs and at Rambouillet some three thousand Lawson Cypress and two thousand Pinus radiata. Of the two places Rambouillet is the more impressive; it is more "the real thing." Its nursery is in the very heart of the forest.
At Rambouillet I happened to arrive at the Inspector's lodge, by the lake, just when a hunting party emerged from the wood, some twenty men in brilliant scarlet coats and black velvet caps with long visors. There were half as many women, also in red coats but with three-cornered velvet caps. They were shortly joined by that indefatigable huntswoman, the Duchesse d'Uses, eighty-odd years old. She no longer risks riding to hounds but follows all possible hunts in her carriage. In, do I say? She herself drove as she sat up on the coachman's box with him. The horses acted as if they liked it. Meanwhile the stag had plunged into the lake and was swimming across. All looked as if they wanted to give the animal a good chance. Seemingly with the spring of a girl, the Duchess got down from the box and walked about in her high-top boots and hunting hat, and with a chirpy word for everyone.
The pack of, say, forty dogs, was yelping, impatient to be off, when there came the tooting signal and away went the hunters and dogs-a gay sight, all for the life of one poor panting deer. The Inspector and I then drove a mile in another direction to his nursery of infant trees. As we were inspecting the neat rows of American seedlings, he held up his hand at a certain faint, far-off sound and said: "Il est mort, Monsieur." He did not need to say who "Il" was-the poor stag.
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