ud, a poem
called "Les Arbres Coupes," by Edmond Rostand. Teaching Brian, I found I
had learned it myself.

Chacun de nos soldats eut son cri de souffrance
Devant ces arbres morts qui jonchaient les terrains:
"Les pechers!" criaient ceux de l'Ile-de-France;
"Et les mirabelliers!" crierent les Lorrains.

Soldats bleus demeures paysans sous vos casques,
Quels poings noueux et noirs vers le nord vous tendiez!
"Les cerisiers!" criaient avec fureur les Basques;
Et ceux du Rousillon criaient: "Les amandiers!"

Devant les arbres morts de l'Aisne ou de la Somme,
Chacun se retrouva Breton ou Limousin.
"Les pommiers!" criaient ceux du pays de la pomme;
"Les vignes!" criaient ceux du pays raisin.

Ainsi vous disiez tous le climat dont vous etes,
Devant ces arbres morts que vous consideriez,
--Et moi, voyant tomber tant de jeunes poetes,
Helas, combien de fois j'ai crie: "Les lauriers!"

I love it. Yet I don't quite agree with the beautiful turning at the
end, because the laurels of the soldier-poets aren't really dead, nor
can they ever die. Even some of the trees which the Boches meant to kill
would not be conquered by Germans or death. Many of them, cut almost
level with the ground, continued to live, spouting leaves close to
earth as a fountain spouts water when its jet has been turned low. All
the victims that could be saved have been saved by the French,
carefully, scientifically bandaged like wounded soldiers: and the
Becketts talked eagerly of giving money--much money--to American
societies that, with the British, are aiding France to make her fair
land bloom again. Mother Beckett became quite inventive and excited,
planning to start "instruction farms," with a fund in honour of Jim.
Seeds and slips and tools and teachers should all be imported from
California. Oh, it would be wonderful! And how thankful she and Father
were that they had Brian and Molly to help make the plan come true! I
shouldn't have liked to catch Julian O'Farrell's eye just then.

All the way was haunted by the tragedy of trees, not only the tragedy of
orchards, and of the roadside giants that once had shaded the straight
avenues, but the martyrdom of trees in the great dark forests--oaks and
elms and beeches. At first glance these woods, France's shield against
her enemies--rose still and beautiful, like mystic abodes of peace,
against the pale horizon. But a searching gaze showed