546 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



A TOUCH OE SENTIMENT AMONG SOLDIERS 



A red-haired, peppery - looking little 

 man is horribly embarrassed because in 

 putting his leaf into his note-book some- 

 thing has fallen out. It is, he tells me, 

 the last thing his wife gave him — a thing 

 which had been a pink rose, a paper one, 

 if you please. She had made it herself 

 and thrown it into the train window when 

 he waved goodby, more than two and a 

 half years ago. 



Somehow this little touch of sentiment 

 seems to have drawn us all closer, and 

 we resume our tour the better for our 

 short mental visit home. The "Infant" 

 seems pretty silent until he spies a stand 

 where weak lemonade, warm beer, and 

 small cakes are to be bought. He returns 

 with hands full of the latter, and when I 

 reprimand him, because he knows we are 

 all to have refreshments later, he tells 

 me that never could he wait that long. 



So we eat the hard ginger cookies as 

 we watch some small boys sailing tiny 

 boats in a fountain. The "Infant" tells 

 me, in a burst of confidence, that he's 

 got a boat "just like that" at home. His 

 mother is saving it, though he doesn't 

 know why. 



We stroll along leisurely, to stop a mo- 

 ment before a huge likeness of Louis in 

 marble, disguised as a Roman emperor. 

 The "Infant," playing with the naked toes, 

 begins : "This little pig went to market, 

 this little pig stayed at home." As I give 

 his arm a little squeeze I ask him if he 

 ever gets homesick. He admits it freely. 

 And when I want to know if he has ever 

 cried, I see him hesitate for just a second ; 

 then he bursts out in a very fury of rage : 

 "Yes, I cried when a guy killed the Fritzie 

 who was my meat." 



A BATTLE ROYAL OVER THE MENU 



After a hasty look at some of the things 

 which the guide-book says one must see, 

 thirty-two pretty tired young men sink 

 into chairs under red and white striped 

 umbrellas in front of a charming little 

 restaurant. Two remained outside, so I 

 send a runner to find out if they are 

 neither hungry nor thirsty. He returns 

 at once with the two ; also with an ex- 

 planation, interlarded with many swear 

 words, that "of course, they are both; 



but they thought you were going in to 

 see some blankety blank art." 



Now comes a battle royal. It is indeed 

 difficult to discover how many want ham, 

 how many beef, and how many veal sand- 

 wiches. I know that no one wants cheese. 

 Cheese is a horror second only to "posie," 

 which is marmalade, and "Charlie Chap- 

 lin wedding cake," which is hardtack. 



I ask one boy what he will have, and 

 he answers unsmilingly, "Hot waffles ;" 

 a second says his will be "Strawberry 

 shortcake," and a third wants "A barrel 

 of beer and a quince." When the thing- 

 seems to be growing hopeless I tell every 

 fellow who wants ham to raise his hand. 

 One boy raises both, and when I demand 

 why, he tells me, "Because I want two." 



Next we take up the question of the 

 drinks and by and by we get that settled. 

 The little white plates, the pearl-handled 

 knives, and the dainty, clean napkins are 

 so enjoyed. Some one remarks that the 

 latter would make good souvenirs. Of 

 course, he's a "Canuck." He'll tell you 

 himself that "the English fight for honor, 

 the French for glory, and the Canadians 

 for souvenirs." He goes farther and 

 swears that the general understanding on 

 the field is that when a Fritzie is found 

 lying on his tummy it's a sign that he's 

 been "picked," so no use bothering with 

 him. 



Some one is heard to say: "Voolyvoo, 

 shoot the salt, cherry," and some one else 

 remarks that he "likes the sample." I 

 don't believe many things can disappear 

 with greater rapidity than a thinly cut, 

 delicious sandwich in the hands of a 

 hungry soldier. Before the last bit is 

 eaten the order for a second round has 

 been given. The waiter's mad attempt 

 to get the order right makes a New 

 Zealander remark that "this will be in the 

 communique tomorrow." Another, apro- 

 pos of nothing, says that Paris is the only 

 part of France worth fighting for, and 

 that if it were left to him, he'd give the 

 dern country to the Boches and apologize 

 for the looks of it. 



SENDING SOUVENIRS HOME 



A dozen others take advantage of the 

 wait to ask me if I could possibly send 

 their books of post-cards home. I assure 



