312 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



THE TOMB OE NAPOLEON 



No soldier on leave from the trenches ever visits Paris without at some time visiting- this 

 matchless monument, reared by the French in memory of the foremost captain in the history 

 of military science. 



sides, one of these days we're all going 

 home," I say desperately. 



"Maybe so," he sighs. "But somehow, 

 after more than three years, we sort of 

 stop counting on it. You see I sailed 

 from Sydney on what should have been 

 my wedding day. I'd been engaged a 

 long, long time, but wouldn't marry, for 

 I'd bought a bit of land and wanted to 

 be out of debt first. For exactly a year 

 I lived alone in a hut. I was my own 

 cook, and I tell you frankly I was low 

 and dirty ; but each month I knew I was 

 getting a little closer to the end, because 

 each month I was able to buy another 

 cow or two. And there wasn't ahappier 

 cuss in the land. 



"never EEar Eor me: god heeping me, 

 i'ee carry on" 



"Then — well, the war came. So I leased 

 the place to a dirty slacker, and the next 

 week the government gave him a contract 

 for his whole output of milk and he's 

 getting rich. As for me, all I ever asked 

 of life was peace and quiet. Would you 

 like to know how I've spent most of my 



leave in Paris? On a bench in a park 

 watching the kiddies at play. If I could 

 just wake up in my room, with the com- 

 fortable old furniture and with all my 

 things in a drawer! 



"If anything at all were to be gained 

 by my being killed, don't you think I'd 

 submit to it gladly ? But what's the good 

 of it? All my old friends are gone, and 

 new ones come and are mowed down, and 

 the war goes on, and each day some big 

 brain evolves a cleverer and more ghastly 

 way to do the slaughtering" — 



"The little Padre is singing again," I 

 softly venture. "Listen: 



" 'When I get home at eventide, 

 God will remember and provide.' " 



My poor tired fighter gulps a little over 

 the last mouthful, rises, and, looking 

 down at me from his great height, says 

 very simply, "Never fear for me, madam ; 

 God helping me, I'll carry on." 



And as I remove the last of the dishes 

 and the half-faded flowers; as I scrape 

 up the crumbs and fold the cloth, I keep 

 thinking, "That's right. God helping us, 

 we'll all carry on." 



