specially safe, reserved for the children." Children are one of the most
valuable assets of France, and a good old Territorial _Pè-père_ (Daddy),
as they are nicknamed, told me that it was his special but difficult
duty to muster the children directly a Taube was signalled, and chase
them down into the cellar. Mopping his brow, he assured me that it was
not easy to catch the little beggars, who hid in the ruins, behind the
army wagons, anywhere to escape the "parental" eye. It is needless to
add they consider it a grave infringement of their personal liberty and
think that they should be allowed to remain in the open and see all that
goes on, just as the little Londoners beg and coax to be allowed to stay
up "to see the Zepps."

Passing the railway-station, we stopped to make some inquiries, and
promptly ascertained all we wished to know from the chef de gare.

In the days of peace there is in France no one more officious than the
station-master of a small but prosperous village. Now he is the meekest
of men. Braided cap in hand, he goes along the train from carriage door
to carriage door, humbly requesting newspapers for the wounded in the
local hospitals. "Nous avons 125 blessés ici, cela les fait tant de
plaisir d'avoir des nouvelles" ("We have 125 wounded here, and oh! how
they love to have the latest news").

In addition to levying a toll on printed matter, he casts a covetous and
meaning glance on any fruit or chocolate that may be visible. Before the
train is out of the station, you can see the once-busy and in his own
opinion all-important railway official vanishing down the road to carry
his spoils to his suffering comrades. Railway travelling is indeed
expensive in France. No matter what time of day or night, wet or fine,
the trains are met at each station by devoted women who extract