out and at the newspaper itself.

But Fouillade has lost interest in what they say. He has bent his long
Don Quixote carcase down in the shadow, and outstretched the lean neck
that looks as if it were braided with violin strings. There is
something on the ground that attracts him.

It is Labri, the other squad's dog, an uncertain sort of mongrel
sheep-dog, with a lopped tail, curled up on a tiny litter of
straw-dust. Fouillade looks at Labri, and Labri at him. Becuwe comes up
and says, with the intonation of the Lille district, "He won't eat his
food; the dog isn't well. Hey, Labri, what's the matter with you?
There's your bread and meat; eat it up; it's good when it's in your
bucket. He's poorly. One of these mornings we shall find him dead."

Labri is not happy. The soldier to whom he is entrusted is hard on him,
and usually ill-treats him--when he takes any notice of him at all. The
animal is tied up all day. He is cold and ill and left to himself. He
only exists. From time to time, when there is movement going on around
him, he has hopes of going out, rises and stretches himself, and
bestirs his tail to incipient demonstration. But he is disillusioned,
and lies down again, gazing past his nearly full mess-tin.

He is weary, and disgusted with life. Even if he has escaped the bullet
or bomb to which he is as much exposed as we, he will end by dying
here. Fouillade puts his thin hand on the dog's head, and it gazes at
him again. Their two glances are alike--the only difference is that one
comes from above and the other from below.

Fouillade sits down also--the worse for him!--in a corner, his hands
covered by the folds of his greatcoat, his long legs doubled up like a
folding bed. He is dreaming, his eyes closed under their bluish lids;
there is something that he sees again. It is one of those moments when
the country from which he is divided assumes in the distance the charms
of reality--the perfumes and colors of l'Herault, the streets of Cette.
He sees so plainly and so near that he hears the noise of the shallops
in the Canal du Midi, and the unloading at the docks; and their call to
him is distinctly clear.

Above the road where the scent of thyme and immortelles is so strong
that it is almost a taste in the mouth, in the heart of the sunshine
whose winging shafts stir the air into a warmed and scented breeze, on
Mont St. Clair, blossoms and flourishes the home of his folks. Up
there, one can see with the