vin patois, which is
far beyond my linguistic capacity. Not that Captain Leclerc is a rustic;
on the contrary, he is a man of culture and the author of several books,
chiefly on and about Anjou, one of which has illustrations from his own
hand; but it has amused him in this poem to employ his native dialect,
while, since he, like so many French authors, is fighting, the soldierly
part of it is authentic.

It was a poor devil of a Poilu--it begins--and he went to the war,
automatically enough, knowing without any words about it that the soil
which he cultivated must also be defended. That was his duty. After
suffering the usual ills of the campaign, suddenly a 210 burst near him,
and he never rallied. He just had time to give a few messages to the
corporal before he died. "You must tell my wife," he said, "but do it
gradually; say, I'm ill first. Give what money I have here to my pals,"
and so forth. Then, after repeating his testament, he passed quietly
away.

On reaching the gate of Heaven the Poilu finds St. Peter beating the
mats. "Wipe your shoes," St. Peter says, "and take the right-hand
corridor. The Judgment Hall is at the end." All trembling, the poor
fellow passes along the corridor, at the end of which an angel in white
takes down particulars as to his name, his class, and so forth, and
tells him that he is expected. Entering the Judgment Hall, the Poilu is
bewildered by its austerity and splendour. The Good God is at the head,
between Jesus Christ and the Blessed Virgin. All the saints are there,
and the Poilu notices particularly the military ones--St. George, St.
Hubert, St. Michael, St. Leonard, St. Marcel, St. Charlemagne, St.
Martin, St. Sulpice, St. Barbe, St. Maurice, and St. Jeanne d'Arc.
Seeing all these famous soldiers, he exclaims, "It's a Conseil de
Guerre! Perhaps I can slip away." But escape is impossible, and at this
moment the Good God tells him to begin his history.

"What did you do before the war?" He asks. The Poilu replies that he
was a farmer in a very small way; he worked on the land, and he had some
stock--two oxen, a horse, a cow, a wife, some fowls, "and, saving your
presence, a pig." "Ah!" exclaims St. Anthony, "a pig! That reminds me!
Pigs! Sois beni, mon frere." But the Good God frowns, and St. Anthony
makes himself very small.

And then, the Poilu continues, he became a soldier, which leads to the
awkward question, had he always behaved himself as such? Alas! it
appears that