THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



547 



them that I will do so gladly. At which 

 a middle - aged man, who has hardly 

 spoken during the afternoon, wants to 

 know if I ever send parcels for the men. 

 I tell him I do it every day in the week. 

 After a second's hesitation, he says : "But 

 perhaps, lady, you wouldn't care about 

 wrapping up this particular thing." I 

 insist upon knowing what he means. He 

 explains : "I'm a seafarin' man meself , 

 lady. I bin purty near all over this here 

 world. An' ever' place I bin I brought a 

 souvenir from. Yesterday I got a corkin' 

 good one. I visited the big crematory ; 

 I got there jest in time to see a dead one 

 goin' in the heater. It wasn't long afore 

 I saw the thing pulled out. I hops in and 

 grabs a little bone. It was hot. Wouldn't 

 you like to see it?" 



After the second sandwich we have 

 cakes all around — lots of them. Thirty- 

 two fighters can eat quite as many cakes 

 as thirty-two small boys, maybe more. 

 When everybody's "got a light" we begin 

 to feel really acquainted. No one seems 

 in a hurry to move. Everything is so 

 peaceful that I haven't the heart to an- 

 nounce that we're going to miss our train 

 unless we start. 



Anyway, there are other trains and 

 the sunset on the artificial lake is very 

 beautiful. The long expanse of grass, so 

 prettily called the "Green Carpet," is 

 restful to eyes accustomed to shell holes 

 and the devastation of northern France. 

 Unconsciously we become very still. I 

 don't know how long we'd remain here 

 contentedly dreaming were it not for the 

 waiter's very obvious desire to clear the 

 tables. 



So I reluctantly call for the bill, which 

 is immediately taken from me by a big, 

 jolly, monkey boy. He glances at it, falls 

 back in his chair and screams : "Quick, 

 quick, give me my gas mask." He divides 

 the total by fifty-two, for of course the 

 "commanding officer" does not pay. 

 When she attempts to do so, there is a 

 perfect tumult of protestation, and a 

 "Don't insult us like that, please," from 

 all sides. 



THE RETURN TO PARIS 



When the waiter has been made de- 

 liriously happy over the size of his tip, 



we get up lazily and a little sadly. We 

 saunter leisurely for a parting look at 

 Apollo and his car and his big bronze 

 horses. We look for the last time at 

 the row-boats on the lake and at all the 

 dreamy beauty around us, and in the 

 stillness of the summer evening we fol- 

 low the wide path back to the palace, 

 now a marvel of old ivory in the soft 

 light. It is so easy to imagine the vast 

 terrace filled with ladies in wide skirts 

 and gentlemen in white knickers. But 

 we are brought back to stern reality by 

 the whir of an aeroplane over our heads 

 and some one almost moans, "You can't 

 get away from it." 



We again cross the old, cobble-stoned 

 courtyard and come again to the tall 

 bronze gates. The artist remains behind 

 a moment to study their carving. We 

 continue on to the right, and in a few 

 minutes are back in the station. A busy, 

 buzzing little sergeant counts up for me 

 as the men come along. When I am 

 positive that not one has fallen by the 

 wayside, I again buy thirty-two tickets 

 for soldiers and one for the one a nice 

 boy calls "The Queen Bee." Again there 

 is the scramble for seats in the train, and 

 just as the whistle blows, I jump in my- 

 self, assured that no one is left behind. 



BACK TO THE FRONT 



In a short thirty minutes we are back 

 in town, and once more I stand with my 

 afternoon's companions about me. They 

 shake my hand, and each in his particular 

 way tells me that it has been a perfect 

 day. They don't all express it that way, 

 of course. One says, "Top hole;" an- 

 other calls it "Bonza ;" a third, "Sim-play 

 rippin' ;" and a fourth, "Some trip." 

 Here, without the slightest warning, the 

 "Monkey Boy" proposes "three rousing 

 cheers" for a much embarrassed little 

 lady. They are given so lustily that small 

 boys and old ladies and men of all ages 

 hasten towards us to find out what it's 

 all about. 



A first taxi appears. I pack five into 

 it, give the various addresses to the chauf- 

 feur, and to shouts of "See you tomor- 

 row in 'Blighty,' sister," I wave them off. 

 A second car pulls up at the curb and five 

 more leave me, pleasantly tired and seem- 



