CHILDREN OF FRANCE

Evening Post, Volume LXXXIX, Issue 106, 6 May 1915, Page 2

CHILDREN OF FRANCE

WHAT WAR MEANS TO THEM Mr. Philip Gibbs, in the Daily Chronicle, writes :—: — What do they think about the war, those little ones of France whose fathers have been away for half a year to fight the Germans ? I often used to wonder what the child's point of view might be about this grisly business even as far back as the first clays of August, when the war began, and all the young fathers of France were called to the colours. It made a, difference to the children even then. They were conscious, even the smallest of them, that Something had happened- — a ! queer mysterious Something, called "la guerre," which made a sudden change in the familiar aspects of their lives, just as in a dream the most peculiar things happen, transforming their little bedroom, perhaps, into a great forest where some ugly monster roams, hidden behind the trees, but known to be there, ready to make a pounce upon any small boy with a big fear in his heart. Because "la guerre" had come, on that second day of August, the children playing in the Tuileries gardens and under the russet trees ot the Champs Elysees lost one of their very best friends. It was old Punch, the chief actor of the Petit Guignol, who gave a last wild squeak of terror and then fled, with Dog Toby, the Policeman, Old Man ' Death (they have other names in French), and the whole company of the children's drama. It was because of the war, also, that strange things were happening at home, so that small boys and girls stared with big eyes to see their father come home from his office one day, not in his ordinary clothes, but with a blue coat and red trousers, just like one of the "piouspious " who used to stroll about the gardens of the Luxembourg making funny eyes at the " bonnes " in their white caps. It seemed very amusing and very glorious of Monsieur Papa to dress himself up as a soldier — because of "la guerre " — but it was stranger that his face was all wet when he kissed his children, and that he squeezed them so close and hard when he said " Adieu, nies petits !" that he hurt them in his hug. And what was the matter with maraan that she could go all white like a pierrot with flour on his face when she said good-bye to this soldier father and then come back into the room again like a drunken woman, so that she walked unsteadily, and then wept, with little cries of pain, such as "O la guerre, la guerre !" BECAUSE OF "LA GUERRE." So they knew quite soon, these little ones of France, that war had happened to them. At first it was rather exciting and jolly, in spite of the way in which their father and mother had behaved. There were regiments passing in. tile streets, with flowers twined about their rifles, and with great bouquets in the hands of officers, who kissed their petals and smiled up to women in the windows. Gun carriages went by with a fine rattle of wheels over cobble-stones. Cavalry rode by on horses whose flanks gleamed very glossily in the August sun. There was a thrill in the air, a quicker movement in the life of the world. The children beat upon their drums and marched like the soldiers — " un, .deux, un, deux — batte!" - ' It seemed that in war people were really killed, not like children, who sham dead and .then get up again, but like dead birds, who lie so very still under the trees in the Tuileries when there is a 'hard frosts of' winter. Thousands of people were being killed. Hundreds of thousands. Did the children understand that? Not much at first. • It was only when maman put on ugly black clothes one day and said, ".Your Uncle Victor is dead, my poor little ones. He was killed by the Germans." It was only then that they began to understand the meaning of death. For Uncle Victor had been a' bustling young man, who always pulled Suzanne's pigtails, and growled like a bear under the table, and did all kinds of droll tricks when he came. It would be a pity not to see him again. But he was not the only uncle to bo killed. It seemed that tho Germans had also killed Uncle Pierre and Uncle Louis, so that it would make quite a difference to the Christmas presents. Then one day came the news of their father's death, in a cry from the mother at the breakfast table. . ■ . Now they understand the meaning of war, these children of France. Thousands, and even hundreds of thousands, I of them, at least, know that there is not much fun in it. There has not been much fun for the children of Lille and Armentieres, Bethiine and Arras, Soissons and Reims, and scores of towns, and hundreds of villages, along a line of five hundred miles in France. THE REAL MEANING t ,OF WAR. For all the children of France there is one object-lesson of war's meaning which has sunk into their hearts. It ie the sight of the wounded who have come back — all these officers and men who limp along the roads of France, leaning heavily on crutches and sticks, all these fine men who have left a foot or an aim behind, " la-bas," as that mysterious place is called •where men kill each other. I have seen children watching these men with grave, thoughtful eyes, but because children hide their thoughts I never hoped to know what ideas were working in those little heads. Yet now I know what one little girl thinks, for she has written it all down for me and others who would like to read it. I believe this child of eleven speaks for all tfie children of France, though she writes only for hereelf. She is a little " tricoteuse," one of those innumerable knitting girls who spend their evenings after school hours in making caps and vests and socks for the soldiers at the front, and seeing her so busy the question was asked : "What will you girls do with your needles when the war is finished?" This, translated into English, is tho answer she wrote: — What shall we do with our knitting needles when the war is finished? Well, the only thing we can do, it seems to me, is to go on knitting for the little ones who have been left without their fathers, and for a long, long time there will be knitting in France. When we take our work to a poor family, if one of the, children thanks us we shall say: "Little ones, you needn't thank us ; it isn't worth the trouble. What have we given you? A» little bit of wool, a little bit of our time. But think of what you have given! You have given us your father, who, after your mother, was dearest to you in the world, because it was to defend all of us that he gave nis life." . . . The child, will go away warmly clothed, and when he gets to school he will find other children who, not having lost their fathers, will be able to go with their mother to ibuy their clothes in big shops — fine clothes of gay colorirs, with striped collars and cuffs. But he, the orphan boy, won't envy them ; he will be all the more proud of hie black jersey-— not very well made, perhaps, because he will think that this jersey, given in memory of his father, is almost as though his father had sent it himself, his father, the hero, whom all the world admires. And that is why, with so many orphans of the war, no French. girl'-jvill put^away, her^ knitting needles.^