from Saint Thiebault so
long. These Americans want to take their places for you to-day. These
Americans in doing these things for you are thinking of their own little
girls and little boys away back across the ocean who are missing their
fathers and big brothers and uncles to-day, just the same as you miss
yours."

There were wet eyes among the women and some of the older men in khaki
closed their eyes and seemed to be transporting themselves thousands of
miles away to other scenes and other faces. But the reverie was only for
a minute.

M. Lecompte began calling the names for the distribution of gifts and
the children of Saint Thiebault began their excited progress toward the
tables. Here Papa Noel delivered the prized packages.

"For Marie Louise Larue," said M. Lecompte, "a hair ribbon of gold and
black with a tortoise bandeau."

"For Gaston Ponsot, a toy cannon that shoots and six German soldiers at
least to shoot."

"For Colette Daville, a warm cape of red cloth with a collar of wool."

"For Alphonse Benois, an aeroplane that flies on a string."

"For Eugenie Fontaine, a doll that speaks."

"For Emilie Moreau, a pair of shoes with real leather soles and tops."

"For Camille Laurent, red mittens of wool and a sheepskin muff."

"For Jean Artois, a warship that moves and flies the American flag."

It continued for more than an hour. The promoters of the celebration
were wise to their work. There was more than one present for each child.
They did not know how many. Time after time, their names were called and
they clattered forward in their wooden shoes for each new surprise.

The presents ran the range of toys, clothing, games, candies and nuts,
but the joy was in sitting there and waiting for one's name to be called
and going forward to partake of that most desirable "more."

Big Moriarity had his hands in the incident that served as a climax to
the distribution. He had whispered something to M. Lecompte and the
result was that one little duffer, who sat all alone on a big chair, and
hugged an enormous rubber boot, waited and waited expectantly to hear
the name "Pierre Lafite" called out.

All the other names had been called once and not his. He waited. All the
names had been called twice and still not his. He waited through the
third and the fourth calling in vain, and his chin was beginning to
tremble suspiciously as the fifth calling proceeded without the sound
of his name.

The piles of packages