Mademoiselle, that is where the church was--it was a pretty
church. And there was the _mairie_. Only"--with a shrug of good humored
despair--"now I have no more tobacco. These _messieurs_"--indicating the
soldier and the Germans who were smiling good naturedly--"are kind
enough to share theirs with me, but they are not very rich themselves,
you see," at which they all laughed at their common plight. Here at last
was something that we could offer. I usually kept cigarettes with me for
such emergencies. And now I produced two boxes of them and several
packages of American matches.

"Mademoiselle, I accept them with my profound thanks," said the old
_gallant_ with a bow, removing his cap.

At length we had to leave. A prisoner stepped forward to crank my car,
and all of them, the dauntless Frenchman in the center, lined up and
gave us the military salute. Before reentering the woods I looked back
and saw the blue-coated figure offering a light to the green coat. From
cigarette tip to cigarette tip the fraternal spark was being
transmitted: the spark that crosses borders and nationalities, that
glows in the darkness, and puts mankind at peace. And so we left them
all--smoking; smoking out there in the ruins, smoking and dreaming of
home. Of home and love unattainable beyond the Rhine; of home and love
buried forever in the wreckage of war and of time.

* * * * *

This week Mademoiselle Froissart and I spent forty-eight hours in Paris,
during which time we purchased one thousand toys for our Christmas
party. Such a time as I had coralling a taxi to carry our large crate
of playthings to the station. Paris was gay and crowded, making up for
its four years of gravity, and the conscienceless taxi drivers were
having pretty much their own way, refusing all that were going in a
direction that did not suit their convenience, and extorting enormous
_pour boire_. I stood on the edge of the mad stream of vehicles that
pressed by on the boulevard, and watched for an empty taxi. One came,
the old reprobate who drove it casting his practiced eye about for a
likely looking customer. He deigned to notice me, recognizing me for an
American, and well knowing our national childish impatience, and its
lucrative consequences. He drove up to the curb.

"Where to?" he asked defiantly, blinking his bleary eyes, his red
alcoholic face set in insolent lines.

"_La Gare du Nord._"

He reflected an instant. "Bon