me tell you, the
reviews take a lot of furbishing and make a lot of dust. That's all
they really amount to.'

"When they sing, it's eternally 'The Mountaineers' who, as you know,
are always 'there,' 'Sous les Ponts de Paris,' 'Madelon' and other
sentimental compositions, and if by accident, in your desire to please,
you were prone to compare them to the heroes of Homer, it's more than
likely your pains would be rewarded by the first missile on which they
could lay their hands and launch in your direction. They will not
tolerate mockery.

"No"--he went on, filling his pipe, and enunciating between each puff.
"No, they are neither supermen nor heroes; no more than they are
drunkards or foul mouthed blackguards. No, they are better than all
that--they are men, real men, who do everything they do well; be it
repairing a watch, cabinet-making, adding up long columns of figures or
peeling potatoes, mounting guard, or going over the top! They do the
big things as though they were small, the small things as though they
were big!

"Two days ago the captain sent for two men who had been on patrol duty
together. He had but one decoration to bestow and both chaps were in
hot discussion as to who should _not_ be cited for bravery.

"'Now, boys, enough of this,' said the captain. 'Who was leading, and
who first cut the German barbed wire?'

"'Dubois.'

"'Well then, Dubois, what's all this nonsense? The cross is yours.'

"'No, sir, if you please, that would be idiotic! I'm a foundling,
haven't any family. What's a war cross more or less to me? Now Paul
here keeps a cafe; just think of the pleasure it will give his
clientele to see him come back decorated.'

"The captain who knows his men, understood Dubois' sincerity, and so
Paul got the medal.

"I believe it was Peguy who said that 'Joan of Arc' has the same
superiority over other saints, as the man who does his military service
has over those who are exempt.' But it's only the soldiers who really
understand that, and when they say _On les aura_, it means something
more from their lips, than when uttered by a lady over her tea-cups, or
a reporter in his newspaper."

During this involuntary monologue we had strolled along the road which
Nourrigat had originally indicated as the direction of our friend
Pistre. Presently he led us into the church, a humble little village
sanctuary. A shell had carried away half the apse, and sadly damaged
the altar. The belf