es--yet the custom itself has remained strong as a tradition.
Absinthes, bitters and their like have not only been abolished, but
replaced--and by what? Mineral waters, fruit syrups and tea!

The waiters have been metamorphosed into herbalists. Besides, what am
I saying, there are really no more waiters, save perhaps a few decrepit
specimens whom flatfoot has relegated beyond the name, their waddling
so strangely resembles that of ducks. All the others are serving--at
the front.

From my seat I could see two ferocious looking, medal bespangled
warriors ordering, the one a linden flower and verbena, the other
camomile with mint leaf. And along with the cups, saucers and
tea-pots, the waiter brought a miniature caraffe, which in times gone
by contained the brandy that always accompanied an order of coffee. At
present its contents was extract of orange flower!

There may be certain smart youth who brag about having obtained kirsch
for their _tilleul_, or rum in their tea, but such myths are scarcely
credited.

Naturally there is the grumbling element who claim that absinthe never
hurt any one, and cite as example the painter Harpignies, who lived to
be almost a hundred, having absorbed on the average of two a day until
the very last.

But all have become so accustomed to making sacrifices that even this
one is passed off with a smile. What can one more or less mean now?
Besides, the women gave up pastry, didn't they?

One joked the first time one ordered an infusion or a lemon vichy, one
was even a bit disgusted at the taste. And then one got used to it,
the same as one is ready to become accustomed to anything; to trotting
about the darkened streets, to going to bed early, to getting along
without sugar, and even to being bombed.

There is a drawing by Forain which instantly obtained celebrity, and
which represents two French soldiers talking together in the trenches.

"If only they're able to stick it out!"

"Who?"

"The civilians!"

And now at the end of four long years it may be truly said of the
civilian that he has "seen it through." Not so gloriously, perhaps,
but surely quite as magnificently as his brothers at the front.

In a country like France, where all men must join the army, the
left-behind is not an indifferent being; he is a father, a brother, a
son, or a friend; he is that feverish creature who impatiently waits
the coming of the postman, who lives in a perpetual state of agony,
tr