Morning journal and courier., 1886-03-20

l sions. He turns his back to you, and pre- l tends to have great difficulty in getting his money out of his recalcitrant purse. Perhaps | he hopes you will get tired of waiting and say to him: ''Never mind Jacques, you can pay me another day.'' When at last he has the money in his hand, he turns towards you holds it out, draws it back, but eventu- ally makes up his mind to the loss of this little portion of his patrimony. Then he be- gins to wonder whether you have not taken him in; but as it is too late to draw back, he resolves that he will be match for you next time.
 Jacques Bonhomme's wife is the fortune of France. Hard working, thrifty, sober, you will always see her busy, either working in the field, selling her wares in the market place of the nearest town, or engaged about her little household. She is the personifca- tion of industry. And when the winter of life comes on, you will find her by the chim- ney corner in the winter outside, the cottage door in the summer, keeping watch over the little ones, while she knits or spins; it is with her needles or her distaff in her hand that she peacefully passes away from earth. Not an hour in the life of the good Jacque- line has been spent in indolence. It is she who hides the five franc pieces in the corner of her linen cupboard, only to be taken out when there is anf opportunity of rounding off the little family domain. Shares bonds, l and all such lottery tickets, she leaves for the small bourgeois of the town, who love to wait their turn at the door of the Recette partlculiere, on the day of national loan. No papers for her; what she likes is field or COW; she will have nothing else, all the rest is beyond her understanding. It is on market day that you should see her. She makes light of ten or twelve mile walk to the chief town of her district, carrying basket laden with fruit or vegetables, on each arm. In the evening you may meet her, with baskets empty but pockets full, trudg
 hco1T 4 1a,,, oafT7 of all her affections. Her daughter wears neither founces on her skirt nor feathers on her hat; but though she is dressed in plain coarse serge gown and a simple snowy cap, her round rosy cheeks tell you that she is healthy, and pair of eyes that stare at you like two field daisies tell you that she is pure. And the patriotism of her! An! let me here pay my humble tribute of admira- tion and gratitude that she has so great a claim to! Who among us French has not kept engraven on his memory the souvenir of the devoted peasant women of Normandy, Picardy, of Alsace and Lorraine, and all they did for us in that terrible year that would have seen the death of France, if France could die? Who among us has not admired and blessed them! With sad smile on her face, how kindly the poor Jacqueline vel comed the weary soldier, worn out with fatigue and hunger! And while the rich bourgeois too often received us with frown as he muttered ''More so1diers!" he greet ing was always kindly. tEntrez, mes pauvres enfants," she would cry, "you are tired and hungry. We have not much to offer here, but you shall have bed tonight, if it is but bed of straw, a good soup and a rasher of bacon or whatever there is in the cupboard. That will do you good. My own poor lad is fighting somewhere, it is many weeks ago now that I have heard from him, but hope some kind soul is doing for him tonight what am doing for you" And the good creature would prepare her vegetables, put the soup on the fire, make up beds for us around the hearth, and give us old soft shoes for our poor bIistered feet. And when, in the morning, we left her hospitable roof, we would say; "Allons, maman, adieu ct mercil God bless you for all you have done for us." And, we went our way, she, standing on the threshold of her door, would wave her handkerchief and watch the regiment out of sight. Then she would turn away, and the evening found her ready to do the same to the next weary band of men that halted at her door.
 MAX O'RELL.