f the crowd beat high when a regiment goes by.

Rene is the General. He wears a cocked hat and rides a war-horse. The
hat is made of paper and the horse is a chair. His army consists of a
drummer and four men--of whom one is a girl! "Shoulder arms! Forward,
march!" and the march past begins. Francine and Roger look quite
imposing under arms. True, Jacques does not hold his gun very valiantly.
He is a melancholy lad. But we must not blame him for that; dreamers
can be just as brave as those who never dream at all. His little
brother Etienne, the tiniest mite in the regiment, looks pensive. He is
ambitious; he would like to be a general officer right away, and that
makes him sad.

"Forward! forward!" Rene shouts the order. "We are to fall on the
Chinese, who are in the dining-room." The Chinese are chairs. When you
play at fighting, chairs make first-rate Chinese. They fall--and what
better can the Chinese do? When all the chairs are feet in air, Rene
announces: "Soldiers, now we have beaten the Chinese, we will have our
rations." The idea is well received on all hands. Yes, soldiers
must eat. This time the Commissariat has furnished the best of
victuals--buns, maids of honour, coffee cakes and chocolate cakes,
red-currant syrup. The army falls to with a will. Only Etienne will eat
nothing. He frowns and looks enviously at the sword and cocked hat which
the General has left on a chair. He creeps up, snatches them, and slips
into the next room. There he stands alone before the glass; he puts on
the cocked hat and waves the sword; he is a general, a general
without an army, a general all to himself. He tastes the pleasures of
ambition--pleasures full of vague forecastings and long, long hopes.

DEAD LEAVES

[Illustration: 216]

AUTUMN is here. The wind blowing through the woods whirls about the dead
leaves. The chestnuts are stripped bare already and lift their black
skeleton arms in the air. And now the beeches and hornbeams are shedding
_their_ leaves. The birches and aspens are turned to trees of gold, and
only the great oak keeps his coronal of green.

The morning is fresh; a keen wind is chasing the clouds across a grey
sky and reddening the youngsters' fingers. Pierre, Babet, and Jeannot
are off to collect the dead leaves, the leaves that once, when they were
still alive, were full of dew and songs of birds, and which now strew
the ground in thousands and thousands with their little shrivelled
corpses. Th