stant and then fell back. The
standard bearer having received one juicy missile full in the face,
dropped his emblem and stared wild-eyed about him. From the head and
hair of the enemy General, whose cardboard helmet had been crushed to a
pulp, streamed a disgusting reddish mess. The other unfortunate
wounded were weeping.

"_En avant a la bayonette_! _Vive la France_! We've got them, they're
ours," shrieked the delighted commander, who owed his rank to the fact
that his parents kept a fruit stand.

It was victory for certain, and a proudly won triumph. The melee was
hot and ferocious, many a patch or darn being put in store for certain
patient, all-enduring mothers.

The dressing station was full to overflowing. Here the feminine
element reigned supreme, their heads eclipsed beneath a stolen dish
cloth, a borrowed towel, or a grimy handkerchief. And here too, little
Michaud, his pate enveloped in so many yards of bandage that he seemed
to be all turban, sat on an impromptu cot, smiling benignly while
devouring a three sou apple tart, due to the generosity of the Ladies'
Red Cross Emergency Committee, which had taken up a collection in order
to alleviate the sufferings of their dear hero.

To be perfectly frank, almost all the supply of dressings had been
employed on Michaud's person at the very outbreak of hostilities, so,
therefore, when the stock ran short and more were needed, they were
merely unrolled from about his head.

Leaving him to his fate, we advanced a bit in order to communicate with
one of the glorious vanquished.

"They think they've got us," he explained, "but just you wait and see!
I know a shop on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get rotten eggs for
nothing! They don't know what's coming to them--they don't!"

Thus for these little folks the very state of their existence is the
war. They do not talk about it because they are living it. Even those
who are so fortunate as to recall the happy times when there was no
conflict, scarcely assume a superiority over their comrades who cannot
remember that far distant epoch.

"My papa'll be home next week on furlough if there isn't an attack," or
"Gee, how we laughed down cellar the night of the bombardment," are
common phrases, just as the words, "guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas,"
form the very elements of their education. The better informed
instruct the others, and it is no uncommon occurrence to see a group of
five or six little fe