" The souls of those who left their bodies on these
battlefields march on, bearing torches that have lit the courage of the
world, with a light that can never fail. But the poor trees, so dear to
France, giving life as a mother gives milk to her child!--they died to
serve no end save cruelty.
The sight of them made me furious, and I glared like a basilisk at any
German prisoners we saw working along the good, newly made white road.
On their green trousers were large letters, "P. G." for "Prisonnier de
Guerre"; and I snapped out as we passed a group, "It needs only an I
between the P and the G to make it _perfect!_"
One man must have heard, and understood English, for he glanced up with
a start. I was sorry then, for it was like hitting a fallen enemy. As he
had what would have seemed a good face if he'd been British or French,
perhaps he was one of those who wrote home that the killing of trees in
France "will be a shame to Germany till the end of time."
Only a few days ago Brian learned by heart a poem I read aloud, a poem
called "Les Arbres Coupes," by Edmond Rostand. Teaching Brian, I found I
had learned it myself.
Chacun de nos soldats eut son cri de souffrance
Devant ces arbres morts qui jonchaient les terrains:
"Les pechers!" criaient ceux de l'Ile-de-France;
"Et les mirabelliers!" crierent les Lorrains.
Soldats bleus demeures paysans sous vos casques,
Quels poings noueux et noirs vers le nord vous tendiez!
"Les cerisiers!" criaient avec fureur les Basques;
Et ceux du Rousillon criaient: "Les amandiers!"
Devant les arbres morts de l'Aisne ou de la Somme,
Chacun se retrouva Breton ou Limousin.
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