war. I have come here to see where the sixth is buried--the sixth--my
last son."

Moved by the tragic grandeur of the sight, the gendarmes rendered her
military honors and presented arms. The mother rose and uttered the
words her dead and her heart inspired:

"Even so, Vive la France!"

All of them, mothers of noble birth and of peasant stock, rich and
poor, wives, sisters, and fiancées are the first to exhort their sons,
husbands and brothers to fight to the end. All have the same words of
sacrifice and abnegation on their lips. All of them find words which
best fortify, exalt and console their men.

Read this letter I picked up on the field of battle, a letter written
by a humble peasant woman whose heart, after centuries of noble and
wise discipline, was in the right place:

MY DEAR BOY:

We got your letter, which gave us great pleasure. We waited
anxiously for it. You wrote it two days ago. Since that time
things have changed. Did you get my letter? I hope so. I
must reassure you about your father the very first thing. He
was away only three days, time enough to guide a detachment
to Bourges. So there is only one vacant place at the
fireside, but how big that one is.

My dear boy, you speak to me of sacrifice; yes, it is one.