It is ten o'clock of a summer morning. Two French children have come to
the trench to pick flowers. The little girl of seven is gentle and
soft-hearted; her older brother is a man of nearly ten years, and feels
his patriotism and his responsibilities_.

_Angélique_. (_The little French girl_.) Here's where they grow,
Jean-B'tiste.

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_The little French boy_.) I know. They bloom bigger
blooms in the American ditch.

_Angélique_. (_Climbs into the ditch and picks flowers busily_.) Why do
people call it the 'Merican ditch, Jean-B'tiste? What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Ripples laughter_.) One's little sister doesn't know
much! Never mind. One is so young--three years younger than I am. I'm
ten, you know.

_Angélique. Tiens_, Jean-B'tiste. Not ten till next month.

Jean-Baptiste. Oh, but--but--next month!

_Angélique_. What's 'Merican?

_Jean-Baptiste_. Droll _p'tite_. Why, everybody in all France knows that
name. Of American.

_Angélique_. (_Unashamed_.) Do they? What is it?

_Jean-Baptiste_. It's the people that live in the so large country