cting the army, he revealed another,
and surprising side to his nature. From being cold and aloof, he showed
a human sympathy for his men, down to the last private. It was as though
the man who had held himself aloof from intimates wanted to take the
whole French army into his heart. And the men responded with an
affection and a confidence which were later to produce the fine results
of leadership in the War. He was no longer "Joffre the Silent," but
"Papa Joffre."

Says one writer: "Joffre is the soldier of democracy. That is why he
sets America aflame with enthusiasm, as he did France. His thickset
frame, firmly knit and vigorous, his clear eyes, which observe you from
beneath bushy eyebrows, his firm and kindly mouth, his bristling
mustache, the simplicity of his manners, his clean-cut, reserved
language,--all that goes to show that there is nothing in him of bluster
and affectation. He is truly 'Papa Joffre,' the father and even the
grandfather of the _poilus_. It is the _poilu_ himself beneath the white
_panache_ of this unique Marshal of France."

When in 1914 the Germans struck, they anticipated an easy march upon
Paris--such as that of forty odd years before. But this time a different
Joffre stood in their path. In place of the young lieutenant not yet out
of his 'teens, they found a grizzled veteran who matched them with
methods as thorough-going as their own, but who preferred to control his
men by love rather than fear.

"Your French soldiers are brave," said one German officer contemptuously,
"but as for discipline--bah! Our legions will brush you aside."

"Our men may not have the machine-like discipline that you affect," was
the French officer's reply. "But we replace it with something far
better--a love of country that will cause us to sacrifice the last drop
of blood."

"But your great Generals--where are they?" asked the other.

"They will make themselves felt in due time. At their head stands one
who is yet to fight his first great battle--yet I advise you not to
arouse him!"

The world knows the rest of the story of that mighty invasion--how the
black, invading line curved onward and inward until it threw its shadow
upon Paris. Then when the final blow was about to be struck--the
coup-de-grace as the Germans firmly believed--up from the South came the
army of Joffre. It had retreated and retreated, until the moment for its
counter-blow.

Now with the precision of a sledge-hamm