harvest, he is doing his work to that end.

If he is a civilian he may--as he does--say things about his
Government, which, after all, is very like other popular
governments. (A lifetime spent in watching how the cat jumps
does not make lion-tamers.) But there is very little human
rubbish knocking about France to hinder work or darken
counsel. Above all, there is a thing called the Honour of
Civilization, to which France is attached. The meanest man
feels that he, in his place, is permitted to help uphold it,
and, I think, bears himself, therefore, with new dignity.

A CONTRAST IN TYPES

This is written in a garden of smooth turf, under a copper
beech, beside a glassy mill-stream, where soldiers of Alpine
regiments are writing letters home, while the guns shout up
and down the narrow valleys.

A great wolf-hound, who considers himself in charge of the
old-fashioned farmhouse, cannot understand why his master,
aged six, should be sitting on the knees of the Marechal des
Logis, the iron man who drives the big car.

"But you _are_ French, little one?" says the giant, with a
yearning arm round the child.

"Yes," very slowly mouthing the French words; "I--can't
--speak--French--but--I--am--French."