Two days later, with his aged grandparents, he had been driven to the town square, and there a soldier had shot his grandfather because the old man had rebuked him for dragging the boy’s grandmother roughly about. She had shrieked and fallen, to be trampled in the crush, for when they picked her up she was very white, and had never opened her eyes again. When all the women and children were herded together like cows, and driven along a road, with a big German soldier pointing his gun at them, Jean had suddenly run away, as fast as he could, and he had run and run with his eyes shut, for he was afraid of the bullets that came whistling on all sides of him.
Finally he had fallen from exhaustion, and then he had crawled into the dark cellar of a shelled house. Here he had remained for a long time, going out at night to a battlefield near and taking what food he could find from the knapsacks of the dead soldiers. At last he could find no more food, and then he had wandered on, walking wearily along for miles and miles, until he had become part of those fleeing throngs of refugees that blocked the roads for many long miles, sleeping on the roadside at night. Sometimes he would have a little bread, or a piece of cheese given to him, and then for days he went hungry. Finally he reached a town, where a lady with a red cross on her white cap had cared for him in a hospital. But the Germans shelled the hospital, and they said the lady was killed, and then— Well, he had gone on again, walking at night, alone, from place to place, when no one could see him, while hiding in the woods by day.
On learning that he was not far from the French army, he had struggled on until he was within a short distance of their lines, where he hid in a forest. When a dark still night came, he stealthily crept into No Man’s Land, and, on his hands and knees, worked his way from hole to hole, quickly wiggling into one if he heard the slightest sound, until he reached the French sentry, who pointed his gun at him and told him to halt.
He was so frightened when he saw that gun aimed at him that he burst into tears, but a moment later attempted to sing “La Marseillaise,” so as to let the soldier know that he was not a German. The soldier took him behind the front, where a regiment of artillery not only fed and cared for him, but adopted him as their “kid mascot,” as Philip interpreted it, when it was learned that his father, who was fighting in the Belgian army, had been captured and carried a prisoner to Germany. When the regiment had left for service at the front he was delivered into the hands of Father Belloy, a French priest, who finally gave him to a kind lady, who had brought him, with a number of other children, to America. As the little lad finished his story, he turned to rush from the stage, and then, as if inspired by a sudden thought, he threw up his one hand and lustily cried, “Vive la Belgique!”
A second more and the audience, caught by the contagion of this cry, and the appeal to their sympathies by the Belgian’s story, broke into enthusiastic clapping and cheering, mingled with loud hurrahs for Belgium. It was at this point that a guest from the Sunset Hill House jumped to his feet, and proposed that a silver collection be taken up, to be divided between the American-British soldier, the little Sons of Liberty, and the ladies of the Tea-House, who had so kindly given it for the entertainment of the guests.
This suggestion was heartily seconded, and while Van and the gentleman were passing the hat, into which flowed a goodly collection of silver coins, the little Sons of Liberty appeared, and, as a finish to the entertainment, gave them a sing-song. The old, sweet songs, the songs that lie very near to the heart of every Anglo-Saxon, were sung by these clear childish voices, Danny either singing or whistling, while Tony accompanied them on his violin, with Janet, Nathalie, and Nita,—even the audience at times,—proving good seconds in this musical song-feast. “Annie Laurie,” “The Blue Bells of Scotland,” “Wearing of the Green,” “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean,” “Mother Machree,” “Dixie,” were given, followed by the new war-songs, as, “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” “Pack up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” “There’s a Long, Long Trail,” “Over There,” and, as a grand finale, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” when the audience rose and joined in with patriotic fervor.
And then Miss Mona, Janet, Nathalie, Nita, the two soldiers, and even the little “Sons of Liberty” were all busy serving tea, out on the veranda, to the many guests, who all declared that they had not only enjoyed Philip’s and Jean’s stories, but the children’s singing.
Two days later, Nathalie was darning her boys’ socks on the veranda, when Nita drove up in her car. She was so excited that she began to shout that she had good news to tell, as soon as she caught sight of Nathalie’s brown head.
“Oh, Nathalie,” she continued, all out of breath, as her friend hurried to meet her, “what do you think? The manager up at the Sunset Hill House,—you know he is a dear—has asked Mr. de Brie and the whole crowd who took part at the Liberty Tea, to come to the hotel next Saturday night and repeat the performance. And he says there will be another silver collection. And, oh, isn’t it just the dandiest thing that lots of the girls want to join the French class!” And then the young lady, in the exuberance of her joy, fell upon the neck of her friend and began to kiss her with hearty unction.