s at 8 P. M. An old white-haired
postman pastes it upon the bulletin board outside the post office.
Long before the hour one can hear steps echoing on the pavement, as
men, women and children, old people on crutches, cripples leaning on
their nurses' arms, hasten in the same direction, moved by the same
anxious curiosity. When the weather is inclement one turns up his
trousers, or removes her best skirt. It is no uncommon sight to see
women in woollen petticoats with a handkerchief knotted about their
heads standing there umbrella in hand, patiently awaiting the news.

A line forms and each one passes in front of the little square piece of
paper, whose portent may be so exhilarating or tragic. Then some one
clears his throat, and to save time reads the bulletin for the benefit
of the assembled group.

Here again the strategists are in evidence.

Monsieur Paquet, the jeweller, having served his three years some three
decades ago at Rheims, has a wonderfully lucid way of explaining all
the operations that may be made in that region, while Monsieur Morin,
the grocer, whose wife comes from Amiens, yields the palm to no one
when that sector is mentioned.

Each one of these gentlemen has a special view on the subject, each
favours a special mode of combat, and each, of course, has his
following among the townspeople. But the masses give them little heed.

Monsieur Paquet's persistent optimism or Monsieur Morin's equally
systematic pessimism do not touch them in the least. The French soul
has long since known how to resist emotions. Sinister rumours shake it
no more than do insane hopes and desires.

"All we know is that there's a war," exclaimed a sturdy housewife
summing up her impressions, "and we've got to have victory so it will
stop!"

"Amen," laughs an impudent street gamin.

Slowly the crowd disperses, and presently when the gathering is
considerably diminished a group steps forward, presses around the
bulletin board and comments on the _communique_ in an incomprehensible
tongue.

By their round, open faces, their blond hair and that unspeakable air
of honesty and calm resolution, one instantly recognises the Belgians.
Yes, the Belgians, come here in 1914, the Belgians who have taken up
their abode, working anywhere and everywhere, with an incomparable
good-will and energy. But they have never taken root, patiently
waiting for the day when once again they may pull out their heavy drays
that brought