are little girls, it is
because it is the little girls who are the most noticeable. And who
cares about little boys anyway? Yet boys communicate too, and in their
broad white collars and with their knots of white ribbon they may also
be seen, although less frankly delighted; indeed, often a little
self-conscious and ashamed. But the little girls, who know instinctively
that women are the backbone of the Roman Catholic Church, they are
natural and full of happy pride; they carry it off with style.

In the spring of 1915 it was my fortune not only to know personally a
bouquet of these eager little French pietists, but to be present as one
of the congregation at the great event--their _premiere communion_. It
was not in Paris, nor in a town at all, but far away in the country, in
a village where the guns of Verdun could be heard in the lulls of the
service. There were six little girls in all, and I saw them pass into
the safe keeping of their new mother, the Church of Rome, and in visible
token receive from the officiating hands a pictorial certificate so
chromatically violent that it could not but satisfy any childish eyes
and, under such conditions of emotional excitement, must ever remain as
a symbol of their consecration. I heard, too, the cure's address to
these lambs, in which he briefly outlined the life and character of
Christ and of certain of the disciples, coming to each with much the
same tender precision and ecstasy as a fastidious and enthusiastic
collector to the choicest porcelain.

But what chiefly interested me was the form of the vow which the good
cure--one of the best of men, who, in September 1914, saw his church
reduced to ruins and most of his parish destroyed by fire by the
invading Huns, and never budged from his post--had himself recently
drawn up for such occasions. What the usual form of such documents is I
cannot say, but in view of the serious plight of France and the
renaissance of patriotic fervour in the brave and unconquerable French
nation, the cure had infused into this one an element of public duty
hitherto omitted.

At the end of the "jolie ceremonie," as in conversation he called it,
and as it truly was, I asked him for a copy of this admirable catechism,
and here are a few of its questions and answers.

The title is "A Promise to be a good Christian and a good Citizen of
France":

_Q. What is the road to Heaven?_

_A. That which my mother, the Holy Roman Church, shows me. If