The Washington herald., 1916-06-26

high degree may be seen hurrying from
wounded man to wounded man. and when
night falls she slips like pale ghost
back to her solitary cellar. IT have lost
two sons in this war, and with them
goes my happiness" she says, yet life
still offers work for me to do. II I can
restore the sons Of other mothers back
to health then all my sorrow shall not
have been In vain"
Her three sons typify the spirit of
which France is made. One OF them. a
young lieutenant. soldier without fear,
brave even to death" fell, mortally
wounded. at the head Of his little COM
pany when leading q ma magnihcent charge.
No help could be brought him. and he
fingered for thirty hours in great agony.
Yet he died with a smile on his lips and
murmuring prayer for france.
I shall never forget my FIRST sight OF
the battlefield of the Marne. covered with
the graves of soldiers and dotted with
sad little crosses. One grave alone held
the bodies of sixty Frenchmen There
was something strangely pathetic about
that mound, with the battered helmets
at either end of It.
The kindly peasants still are strewins
these last resting places with flowers.
Not long ago. near a little place called
| Meaux. on the edge Of the historic bat
tlefeld. I met village girl whose arms
were filled with wild flowers It was a
glorious evening, and scents and sounds
of summer filled the air A nightingale
was singing her heart out in a neigh
boring wood. The girl walked slowly
among the graves that line the roadside
In zigzaE fashion. for the soldiers were
buried just where they fell. She seemed
to look for something. saw her bending
now this way. now that. and sometimes
she stumbled as she walked, for the lit
tie mounds ran in all directions and the
light was fading.
At last she stopped and picked up
something. 1t was a soldiers helmet
She drew a handkerchief from her
pocket, very carefully polished the
metal and brushed It thorouehly
Then she laid the helmet back upon
the grave. The long. thick grass was
starred with wood anemones, with
! briar violets and with ceIandine. The
nightingale was still sobbins her
heart out in notes OF liquid beauty.
And the little French girl lifted the
helmet again. covered her race with
II. and sobbed out all her sorrow to
the nightingale and the flowers. "Tf
only I could be sure that this is hisr'
was what she was crying
1t was later in the evening that she
told her story. "Regardez bien, inside
the helmet is the letter J." she said
The young man to whom was af-
fianced bore the name OF Jacques He
fought in this same regiment When
, the Germans advanced on Meaux, my
mother fed with me to Paris l bade
farewell to my brave Jacques with a
great sadness and told him I would
soon return. May lie bon DIeu watch
over you.!" I said.
But jacques was killed. Ne lies
that is all we know. So many brave
time to mark his grave. Put Rave
helmets until I have found one with
knows? 1t gives me consolation to
mother goes to bed slip out and
Then l polish 1t and brush II, and It
Jacques were near me. I feel that he
talk softly. hoping he can hear"
The more I see OF France. the more
feel that 1t has been rightly named
the Land OF Miracles. Not Glone in
Paris. but in all the rural villages,
there is true serenity of soul. Gone
are the idle legends which painted
her as something light and essentially
frivolous. Vanished are the critics
WHO condemned her in the long ago
as weak, incapable of virile effort. and
degenerate. Endurance, sangfroid and
tenacity-these are combined with a