the cut of those wings en haut. They seemed to bend back at the tips,
unlike a Blériot, with its straight spread of canvas.

"Sapristi! une Taube! ... Attention, mon vieux!" In some side streets of
Paris a hard thing hit the earth and opened it with a crash. A woman
crossing the road with a little girl--she had just slipped out of her
courtyard to buy some milk--felt the ground rise up and hit her in the
face. It was very curious. Such a thing had never happened to her
before. "Suzette?" She moaned and cried, "Suzette?" But Suzette did
not answer. The child was lying sideways, with her face against the
kerbstone. Her white frock was crimsoning with a deep and spreading
stain. Something had happened to one of her legs. It was broken and
crumpled up, like a bird's claw.

"Suzette! Ma petite! O, mon Dieu!" A policeman was bending over
little Suzette. Then he stood straight and raised a clenched fist to the
sky. "Sale Boche! ... Assassin! ... Sale cochon!" People came
running up the street and out of the courtyards. An ambulance glided
swiftly through the crowd. A little girl whose name was Suzette was
picked up from the edge of the kerbstone out of a pool of blood. Her
face lay sideways on the policeman's shoulder, as white as a
sculptured angel on a tombstone. It seemed that she would never
walk again, this little Suzette, whose footsteps had gone dancing
through the streets of Paris. It was always like that when a Taube
came. That bird of death chose women and children as its prey, and
Paris cursed the cowards who made war on their innocents.

But Paris was not afraid. The women did not stay indoors because
between one street and another they might be struck out of life,
without a second's warning. They glanced up to the sky and smiled