I might take up that end of the job. _But anyway, Im glad I went
to the war."_
So we say good-by--_"bonne chance!"_
Since that day the good physician who guided me through the hospital
has borne without a murmur the greatest of all sacrifices--the loss
of his only son, a brave and lovely boy, killed in action against
the thievish, brutal German hordes.
III
SAINTE MARGUERITE August, 1917
The wild little river _Sainte Marguerite_ runs joyously among
the mountains and the green woods, back of the Saguenay, singing
the same old song of liberty and obedience to law, as if the world
had never been vexed and tortured by the madness of war-lords.
A tired man who has a brief furlough from active service is lucky
if he can spend it among the big trees and beside a flowing stream.
The trees are ministers of peace. The stream is full of courage
and adventure as it rushes toward the big sea.
We are coming back to camp from the morning's fishing, with a
brace of good salmon in the canoe.
"Tell me, Iside," I ask of the wiry little bowman, the best hunter
and fisher on the river, "why is it that you are not at the war?"
"But, M'sieu', I am too old.
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