On we march, through many quaint little old-world villages, every one of which is filled with troops, up hill and down dale, through woods, golden and brown, tramping steadily onward, a long green-brown column a thousand strong. Cussing the new drafts who fall out, cussing the old boots that are worn out, cussing the war in general, and our packs in detail, but none the less content. For who can resist the call of the column, the thought of the glorious rest when the march is done, and the knowledge that whatever we may be in years to come, just now we are IT!
THE NATIVES
“Bonn joor, Madame!”
“Bonjour, M’sieu!”
“Avvy voo pang, Madame?”
“Braëd? But yes, M’sieu. How much you want? Two? Seize sous, M’sieu.”
“How much does the woman say, Buster?”
“Sixteen sous, cuckoo!”
“Well, here’s five francs.”
“Ah, but, M’sieu! Me no monnaie! No chanch! Attendez, je vous donnerai du papier.”