of violet ink on one cheek,
I found little Jules Gauthier carefully copying something in a note
book.

"What are you doing there, Jules?"

"Writing in my book, Madame."

"What are you writing?"

"About the war, everything I can remember."

At that particular moment he was inscribing an anecdote which he had
just heard some one telling in his mother's drawing room.

"The President of the Republic once asked General de Castelnau, 'Well,
General, what shall you do after the war is over?'

"'Weep for my sons, Mr. President.'"

"But, Jules, why do you write such things?" I queried.

"Because it's splendid, and I put down everything I know or hear that's
beautiful or splendid."

And true enough, pele mele with portraits he had cut out and pasted,
plans for aeroplanes that he had drawn, were copies of extraordinary
citations for bravery, memorable dates and descriptions of battles.

In the Summer of 1915, my friend Jeanne took her small baby and her
daughter Annette, aged five, to their little country home on the
seashore in Brittany. The father, over military age, remained in town
to look after some patriotic work.

Help was hard to get, and Jeanne not over strong was torn between
household duties and her infant son, so that Annette, clad in a bathing
suit and sweater, spent most of her time on the beach in company with
other small people of her own years.

Astonished at seeing the little one so much alone, certain kind-hearted
mothers invited her to partake of their bread, chocolate and other
dainties provided for the gouter of their own offspring, and as the
child gladly and continually accepted, her apparent abandon became a
subject of conversation, and they decided to question Annette.

"Where is your mother, dear?"

"She's home, very ill."

"Oh, really. I'm so sorry, what's the trouble--nothing serious, I
hope?"

"I think it must be--you see she has had her three brothers killed and
now grandpa has enlisted."

"Dear me, how terrible! And your papa?"

"Oh, he's in town working for the government. One of his brothers was
killed and the other is blind. Poor old grandma died of the shock."

Moved by the lamentable plight of so young a mother, the good ladies
sought to penetrate her seclusion, offer their condolences, and help
lift the cloud of gloom.

Imagine then their surprise at being received by my smiling,
blond-haired friend, who failed to comprehend their mournful but
astonished lo