Part 15 (2/2)

”Because it's splendid, and I put down everything I know or hear that's beautiful or splendid.”

And true enough, pele mele with portraits he had cut out and pasted, plans for aeroplanes that he had drawn, were copies of extraordinary citations for bravery, memorable dates and descriptions of battles.

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne took her small baby and her daughter Annette, aged five, to their little country home on the seash.o.r.e in Brittany. The father, over military age, remained in town to look after some patriotic work.

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over strong was torn between household duties and her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bathing suit and sweater, spent most of her time on the beach in company with other small people of her own years.

Astonished at seeing the little one so much alone, certain kind-hearted mothers invited her to partake of their bread, chocolate and other dainties provided for the gouter of their own offspring, and as the child gladly and continually accepted, her apparent abandon became a subject of conversation, and they decided to question Annette.

”Where is your mother, dear?”

”She's home, very ill.”

”Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the trouble--nothing serious, I hope?”

”I think it must be--you see she has had her three brothers killed and now grandpa has enlisted.”

”Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?”

”Oh, he's in town working for the government. One of his brothers was killed and the other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the shock.”

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young a mother, the good ladies sought to penetrate her seclusion, offer their condolences, and help lift the cloud of gloom.

Imagine then their surprise at being received by my smiling, blond-haired friend, who failed to comprehend their mournful but astonished looks.

At length Annette's story was brought to light, and Jeanne could but thank them for their trouble, at the same time explaining that neither she nor her husband had ever had brothers, and that their parents had been dead these many years.

”You naughty, wicked girl!” scolded Jeanne, as her tearful progeny was led forward. ”You wicked, wicked girl--what made you tell such lies?”

The culprit twisted her hands; her whole body fairly convulsed with restrained sobs.

”Answer me at once! Do you hear me?”

Annette hesitated, and then throwing herself in her mother's arms, blurted out, ”Oh, mamma, I just couldn't help it! All the others were so proud of their _poilus_, and I haven't any one at the front; not even a G.o.d-son!”

It seems highly probable that children who have received such an education will ultimately form a special generation. Poor little things who never knew what ”play” meant, at a time when life should have been all suns.h.i.+ne and smiles; tender, sensitive creatures brought up in an atmosphere of privation and tears.

Those who were between ten and fifteen years of age at the outbreak of the war have had a particularly hard time.

In the smaller trades and industries, as well as on the farms, with a father or an elder brother absent, these youngsters have been obliged to leave school or college, and hasten to the counter or the plough.

And not only have they been called upon to furnish the helping hand, but in times of moral stress they have often had to give proof of a mature judgment, a courage, a will power, and a forebearance far beyond their years.

After a ten months' absence, when I opened up my Parisian home, I found it necessary to change or replace certain electric lighting arrangements. As usual I called up the Maison Bincteux.

”_Bien, Madame_, I shall send some one to look after it.”

<script>