A tired man who has a brief furlough from active service is lucky
if he can spend it among the big trees and beside a flowing stream.
The trees are ministers of peace. The stream is full of courage
and adventure as it rushes toward the big sea.

We are coming back to camp from the morning's fishing, with a
brace of good salmon in the canoe.

"Tell me, Iside," I ask of the wiry little bowman, the best hunter
and fisher on the river, "why is it that you are not at the war?"

"But, M'sieu', I am too old. A father of family--almost a
grandfather--the war is not for men of that age. Besides, it does
not concern us here in Quebec."

"Why not? It concerns the whole world. Who told you that it does
not concern you?"

"The priest at our village of _Sacre Coeur,_ M'sieu'. He says
that it is only right and needful for a good Christian to fight
in defense of his home and his church. Let those Germans attack us
here, _chez nous_, and you shall see how the men of _Sacre
Coeur_ will stand up and fight."

It was an amazing revelation of a state of mind, absolutely simple,
perfectly sincere, and strictly imprisoned by the limitations of
its only recognized teacher.

"But suppose, Iside, that England and France should be beaten down