“You have suffered, my children.  There has been a mighty mowing and a winter of death, and our mother the earth has lain barren.  But today stand up, O children, and listen and feel.  We are united in these ruins by more than sorrow.  What are these pulsations that beat this day upon our soul?”

The words flowed on following the ancient grooves of sermons, but the loving voice thrilled us.  It floated through the dim atmosphere into our consciousness, holding us as in a dream, dovelike and soothing.

My eyes trailed to the delicate bride kneeling beside a great cracked column, and I thought of the tiny blossom again by the road, and of those stretches without the town, no longer gray, but brushed with new color.  I saw the daisies and the grasses waving out on No Man’s Land:  like heralding banners of the triumph march they waved, leading out of sight beyond the horizon.  And as the priest talked, my heart throbbed its own silent canticle: 

“Joy in the new dawned day, and in peace-awakened fields.  Hope of the flower that blooms again.  Faith in the unfolding of petals, gently, forever, and in season.”

“Soyez loue, Seigneur!” the voice deepened and concluded.

Decisively, now, burst forth the reedlike chords of music.  A wave of movement throughout the crowd.  And the bowed form trembled a moment within its sheathing veil, against the cold stone pillar.

LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND

Shall I tell you about the old woman and her statue of Sainte Claire?  She was a true native of Picardy, and if I could give you her dialect, this story would be more amusing.  We came upon her in the course of our visits, living in her clean little house that had been well mended.  She was delighted to have someone to talk to.

“Come in, my good girl,” she patronized the queenly and aristocratic Madame de Vigny.  “Come in, everybody,” and we all went in.

“Sit down, my dear,” again to Madame de Vigny.  “Those barbarians didn’t leave me many chairs, but here is one, and this box will do for these young ladies.”  She herself remained standing, a stout old body in spite of her eighty years.  Her blue eyes were clear and twinkled with fun, and she had a mischievous way of smiling out of the corner of her mouth, displaying two teeth.  She loved her joke, this shrewd old lady.

“Dites, Madame,” she said, “is it true that you give away flannel petticoats and stockings?”

“Yes, Madame, when one has need of them.”

“Is it possible?  And for nothing?  Ah, that is good, that is generous.  Tonight I shall tell Sainte Claire about you.  Would you like to see my ’tiote[1] Sainte Claire?” We followed her back through a little yard and down into a cellar.  “You see, Mesdames, when the villains bombarded Noyon, I stayed right here.  I wasn’t going to leave my home for those people.  One night the convent opposite was struck, and the next morning in the street I found my Sainte Claire.  She wasn’t harmed at all, lying on her back in the mud.  ‘Now God will protect me,’ I said, and I picked her up in my arms and carried her into my house.  And Sainte Claire said to me, ‘Place me down in the cave, and you will be safe.’  So I brought her down.”