Y COLUMN.

White Ribbon, Volume 24, Issue 283, 18 January 1919, Page 12

Y COLUMN.

WHEN A MAN’S IN PRANCE.

(M. Madel nc Soutl ard.)

•‘What’s the use of trying to keep up a Young People’s Branca? Ihe boy s .ire all in the army, three of the best girls are leaving to teach. 1 hate to have the thing drag along and die on oui hands. Let’s disband. ’ It was an officers’ meeting, and the President, Cl tire Burney, was speaking. “1 hate to,” said N.tn reluctantly. “We’ve nad such good times, and it's meant so much to me. But it may be Claire is r*ght. It doesn’t seem so necessary in a bone-dry State.”

“No,” said vivacious Nell. “I loved it when we had to light, and everything was exciting. But now everybody knows that prohibition is best. It’s r.o fun to work for a thing after it’s become popular.”

“But there’s the nation to be made dry, and the whole world. I think there is a great deal to do yet,” came from timid Anne.

“Oh, we can still sign petitions and give some money. But our own young folk aren’t in danger any longer. And with all the war work to be done now, I don’t think we are justified in taking time for anything not absolutely necessary.” There was finality in Claire’s tone. Mrs Robbins, whom the TroyBranch called god-mother, had been listening with a sinking heart. Now she interpose !: “Speaking of war work, girls, 1 was going to ask you to-day >f we couldn’t get the addresses of past and present Y.P.B. boys, and write to them.” “I don’t think so, Mrs Robbins,” came promptly from Claire. “The boys must be bored by so many women and girls fussing over them. Everybody they see wants to write to them, or f»ed them, or hold their hands adoringly. I think it’s rather silly.”

This was so like Claire, whose commonsense nevei gave her sentimental heart a chance to express itself, that Mrs Robbins dropped hei eyes to hide their twinkle.

“Nobody will ever accuse you of being silly, Claire, at anv rate.” Then a vibrant tone came into the godmother’s voice. “That ; s just it. my dears. Marty women and girls are being foolish. and unconsciously

tempting our boys. Some, of course, do it deliberately. It seems to me the good women and girls owe it to these men to steady them with little glimpses of hone, reminders of how much they mean to their friends. We are not to forget that they are paying a rather big price to save us from what women in Europe are suffering. We might give a little effort, and a f°\v postage stamps as a thank-offer-ing.”

“Oh, 1 don’t mind the woik.” The quick tears sprang to Claire s eyes, and she could say no more. “But, Mrs Robbins, some of our younger girls are rather foolish, too. I don’t know that it would be wise.” Nan taught it. the lvgh school, and knew some things. “I’ll tell you,” exclaimed Nell. “We’ll have a censor like they do in France —make it a military procedure, and the girls won’t mind. And Mrs Robbins will put her seal on each letter that is passed. Some of th*> most d.ingerous girls in town are writing freely to the boys. 1 don’t believe we ought to turn it all over to them. Our girls will do the right thing after Mrs Robbins talks with them.”

So it was settled, and so it was carred out, with an addition. Anne came to the rn-xt meeting with a quantity of kodak pictures. Others got out their old films, and she made many prints th.it were enclostd loose in the letters.

Captain Clinton Ramsay was back from a stiff time in the front lines. His left arm was perfectly comfortable in a sling, his healthy young flesh had almost forgotten that a bullet had but recently ploughed through it, his virlc young spirit was clamouring to be beak sharing the danger with his men.

It was a welcome break in the monotony of convalescence when an invitation was received to spend a social evening in a chateau east of town. When the hour came, Clinton, with several other officers, was ushered into stately rooms, and met the gracious hospitality of a French home. There was a certain sparkle about everything, from the cut glass and the liquors served in it. to the eyes of the women and their animated conversation. The effect was exhilarating, and Clinton had an undefined feeling that everything he bad known before had been dull and sluggish compared

with this. lie thanked his lutk\ stars that French had been easy toi him, and that he had given especial attention to pronounc iation.

But if the language gave the young captain no other embarrassment, some other things did. He felt perfectly helpless when he was furnished with a beautiful glass of beautiful wine, and the beautiful girl beside him explained how the hostess had offered this rare vintage when she learned that among her guests was one wounded in defence of their beautiful France. Then, in a moment, one of the A inert aft men was expressing their gratitude to th‘’se fair ladies, and glasses were lifted at bis call. Clinton hesitated until the others began to look toward him, then the horror of seeming discourteous overcame him, and he drank with the re>t.

“1 was afraid you were going to do queer things there for a minute last night,” said another officer next morning. “Jennings would never have forgiven you if you had refused to drink to his toast.”

“But Pershing - 1 thought—” “Oh, there’s rather a high-class minority that think Pershing’s a bit of a crank on this. Of course, it wouldn’t do to let the men get in the habit of drinking. But our officers are college trained men of self-control. And we have several things to do for America while we are here, besides whip the Hun. W’e must make the better classes understand that we are not a country of boors, that wc are lit to meet socially. And you can’t go in genteel society in Europe and not drink their dedicate wines. Ji just an incident, n< thing to get excited about in the big game we are in.”

Clinton found he was not particu larlv excited about it, any mop- than over many other innovations that cut squarely across his farmer thought ard habit of life. He tclci himself he had enough to do to adapt himself to the emergencies of an o beer’s 1 if *» without debating small distinctions in conduct that had once* seemed important.

I'his attitude made it easy for him to (ontinue, with rapidly growing intimacy, his acqu i nt inre with an attractive young wr m in lie had met at the chateau. Then the day came that he was to m ike hi< final call before going back to the front, and be was thinking with anticipation and apore-

hension of what the evening might hold.

“Look what a burden 1 took on myself for >our sake,” railed a comrade as he came from the post office. It would take something of stronger texture than day-dreams are made of to hold an American’s interest in the face of letters from the homeland, and with an exclamation of pleasure, Clinton reached far the white pile tossed to him. As he read, the “blue Alsation mountains” faded, and again he was tramping his familiar middleState plains, the fragrance of tasselling corn in his nostrils, the breath of a welcome summer shower in his face. And it had blown away the last shred of his newly acquired philosophy long before the last letter was finish'd, the last kod.ik print lovingV scrutinised. That evening a stern-lipped young man was admitted to the cosy sittingroom, a man who had the grace to be ashamed when he saw the light flash into the girl’s face as hr entered. “Mother Robbins,” he w'rote a few hours later, “it would have been easier to lead my men into an open rain of German shells than face this g'-ntle Felice and own to her that l was false to ‘.he friendliness she had given a wounded man. Oh, they are so pitiful, th*se French girls, so vital, so human, and their God-intended lovers are sleeping the long sleep. We Americans come to them as fair gods, deliverers from some misty, faroff land. They know we are lonely, they break their social conventions for us. Do you think a white God can ever forgive us, then, when we trifle with their hands, their lips, their hearts? I’ve turned th* mirror to th«* wall. I can’t look rmself in the face since 1 saw toe hurt expression in her eyes. Will vou pray for her, godmother, and will you write to her. Of course, no word about this; just thank her far being kind to on* of vour boys; let her know some wav that I honour her. You will know what to sav.

“What a blessing a mother-oenfes-sor is. I remember hearing poor Fred Jenkins sr.v, just after a moral funk, ‘No matter what a cheap skate a fellow’s been, if he honestly wants to try again he can count on Mrs Robbins.’ Wei] I’ve been the cheap all right, played the flirt —might a<; well put it straight—and broken mv pledge. 1 wouldn’t have done other if it hadn’t been for that, but ' wine wont to mv head, blurred the

fine sense of honour \ou taught to us boys. “Will you please send me some Y.P.B. and White Cross pledges for the other fellows? You saved my soul putting those in. The familiar bits of pasteboard brought back the look on my mothers face when 1 signed—do you suppose my mother in heaven knows I’ve failed? But a* I love her memory 1 shall not f.iil again.” To Claire Burney, Clinton wrote: “Look here, Claire, if you disband th" Y.P.8., I’ll take a furlough long enough to come home and settle with you. That brother Jim of mine is getting old enough to join ; he must have what I had. W hen a man’s in France he can see what his kid tra ning meant. You say the youngsters are safe now, as though they would always stay in a bone-dry State! I rell you they need every bit of the old teaching as long as there is a drop of stuff serv°d anywhere on the globe. I’m grateful for the socks, and especially the surgical dressings you girls make —it’s fine work. But I’d rather go cold and lie with wounds unbound than have you fail these high school youngsters. Of what use is it that we boys fight this horrible war for liberty unless you girls fight just as hard to keep the people with brains clear enough to see liberty aright when they have it. Tt’s all one battle, Claire, nine in France, and yours in the dear home town that sends her sons to the ends of the earth. Some day, please God, 1 shall fight side by side with you, if you will let me, dear. But now, though our trenches are a long way apart, it’s the same battle-line, and v.e will both ‘see it through.’ ” * * * * “What is the verdict?” asked Mrs Robbins, dropping in at the close of another officers’ meeting ‘Do we stop, or do we gon on ?” '“lf we want any friends when the boys com* home I guess we had better go on,” answered Nell gaily. “Those who never would take any part, and whom we could hardly drag out for a meeting, write as though it would be a national calamity if we stopped.”