goes to press, there is little doubt but that the class of 1920 shall
have been called to the colours. All these lads are the little fellows
we used to know in short trousers; the rascals who not so many summers
since climbed to the house-tops, swung from trees, fell into the river,
dropped torpedoes to frighten the horses or who when punished and
locked in their rooms, would jump out the window and escape.

Then, there were those others, "the good boys," whose collars and socks
were always immaculate, romantic little natures that would kiss your
hand with so much ceremony and politeness, blushing if one addressed
them affectionately, spending whole days at a time lost in fantastic
reveries.

To us they hardly seem men. And yet they are already soldiers,
prepared to make the supreme sacrifice, well knowing from father,
brothers or friends who have gone before, all the grandeur and
abnegation through which their souls must pass to attain but an
uncertain end.

Any number of what we would call mere children have been so imbued with
the spirit of sacrifice, that they have joined the army long before
their Class was called. Madame de Martel's grandson, the sons of
Monsieur Barthou, Louis Morin, Pierre Mille, to mention but a few in
thousands, all fell on the Field of Honour before attaining their
eighteenth year.

And each family will tell you the same pathetic tale:

"We tried to interest him in his work--we provided all kinds of
amusements; did everything to keep him here; all to no avail. There
was just one thought uppermost in his mind--Enlist--Serve. He was all
we had!"

Little Jacques Krauss promised his mother he would not go until he had
won his baccalaureate, and my friend lived in the hope that all would
be over by the time the "baby" had succeeded. But, lo! the baby,
unknown to his parents, worked nights, skipped a year, passed his
examination, and left for the front, aged seventeen years and three
months! He had kept his word. What could they do?

In another household--my friends the G's., where two elder sons have
already been killed, there remained as sole heir, a pale, lanky youth
of sixteen.

With the news of his brothers' death the flame of vengeance kindled,
and then began a regime of overfeeding, physical exercises, and medical
supervision, that would have made many a stouter heart quail.

Every week the family is present when the chest measure is taken.

"Just one more centimetre,