CHILDREN OF FRANCE.

Taranaki Daily News, 23 October 1915, Page 12 (Supplement)

CHILDREN OF FRANCE.

WHAT WAR MEANS TO THEM. Mr. r/hilip Gibbs, in the Daily Chrow icle, writes:~ What do they vhink about the -war, those little ones of France whose father* have been away for half a year to .fight the Germans? , I often used to wonder what the child a point of view might be about this grisly business even as far back as the first days of August, when the war began, and all the young fathers of France were called to the colors. 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 of 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 Jie kissed hia children, and that he squeezed them so close and hard when lie said "Adieu, raes petits!" that he hurt them in his hug. And what was the matter with maman that she could go all white like a pierVot with flour on his face when she said good-bye to this soldier father and then came back into the room again liko a drunken woman, so that Bhe' walked unsteadily, and then wept with littlo cries of pain, such as "0 la guerre, la guerre!"

BECAUSE OP "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 the 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 glosaily 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, deuxbattel" It that in war people wero 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 i» a hard frost of wintev. 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 hear under the table, andsdid all kinds of droll tricks when he came. H would be a pity not to see him again. But he was not the only uncle to be killed. It seemed that the Hermans had also killed Uncle Pierre and Uncle Louis, bo that it would make quite a difference to the Christmas presents. Then one day came the news cf thoir father's death, in a cry from the mother at the breakfast tabic Now they understand the mesinins of war, these children of France. Thousands, and even hundred* of thousands, 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 Armentiere?. Bethune and Arras. Solasons and' Reims, and score* of towns, and hundreds of villages, along a line of five hundred miles in France. THE REAL MEANING OF WAR.

For all the children of France there ii one object-lesson of war's me*nio« which has sun 1 .; inlo their hearts. It is 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 line men who have left a foot or an arm behind, "la-bas," as that mysterious place is called where men kill each other ' have seen children watching (hose men with grave, thoughtful eyes, but because children hide their thoughts 1 never hoped to know what ideas were working in those little hi'»d«. 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 e'evtn speaks fur all the children of France, though she writes only for i'erseif. She is a little "tr.cotc;i-e,'' one of those innumerable knitting girls who spend their evenings after school hours in making caps and vests anil socKs for the soldiers at the front, and seeing her so busy the question was asked: "Wnut will you girls do with your needles when the war is finished?" '

This, translated info English, h the answer she wrote:What shall we do with om knitting needles when the war is finished? Well" the only thing we can do, it seems to me, is to go on knitting fur the little ones who have been loft 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 youf A little bit of wool, a little, bit of our time. But think of what you have given! You have given us your fath;r, who, after your mother, was dearest to von in the world, because it was to defend all of us that he pave his life." The child will go away warmly clothed, and when he gets to school ho will find other children who, not having lost their fathers, wili be able to go with their mother to buy the'r clothes in big shops—fine clothes' of 'gay colore, with striped collars and. culTa. ' Hut he, the orphan boy, won't envy them; he will be all the more proud of his black jersey, given in memory of his father. It is almost' as though his father had sent it himself, his "father, th» hero, whom all the world adrofc-M. *•