part in life. A swift laughing tale I hear, of little frocks outgrown
and of sabots worn through, and no place to buy anything, and little
Jean so thin and nervous, "but no wonder, Mademoiselle, for he was born
during the evacuation, and only Cécile to take care of me, and she just
sixteen years old, and I had to be carried in a wheelbarrow." I picture
the flight, the father away at the front, the mother unable to walk, yet
marshalling her little ones, comforting, cajoling, scolding, and feeding
them through it all. The baby finishes with a little contented sigh and
the proud mother exhibits him. "It's a boy, Mademoiselle," as
exuberantly as though it were her first instead of her ninth. "_C'est un
petit garçon de l'Armistice_" with a happy blush.

"Ah, let us hope that he will always be a little child of peace." But in
another moment she is playing with him, chucking him under the chin.
"_Tiens, mon coco! Viens, mon petit soldat_--you must grow up strong and
big, for you are another little soldier for France."

Little Vauchelles, far away in the hills of the fertile Oise, I think of
you. I hope I may again visit you. And I wonder. What ripples from the
seething capitals will stir the placid thoughts of your stouthearted
peasants? And will your broad-browed women wait with age-old resignation
for the next wave of war, or will they catch the echo that is rebounding
through all the valleys of the world and join their voices in the
swelling chord for brotherhood?

In your midst, where the three roads meet, still stands the image of
Christ on the Cross.