Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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AGNES ANDREWS, ' 20 OR OVER four hundred years in a certain section of Picardy the name of Monduc had been synonymous with strong men and thrifty women. It was, as well, another name for honesty, and loyalty. And, as far back as the people of this region could remember, every member of the Monduc family had been a wonderful shot. For ages, unerringly, first their arrows, then their bullets had reached the bull ' s-eye in every contest held in Picardy. But of late years, the family had gradually died out, until there remained now but one male Monduc of age. Pierre Monduc was an unusually happy Frenchman. Yes, happy even in that eventful spring of 1918. Was not his prosperous little farm far behind the battle-lines, even practically free from Gothas ? Was he not discharged from the army, minus one leg, to be sure, but plus a Medaille Militaire, and a Croix de Guerre with palm ? Was not Zenobie, his wife, amiable and kind ; not like that vixen, Mme. Dirong, across the road? Were not Angele-Marie, his sixteen-year- old daughter, and Jacques his ten-year-old son in the best of health ? And finally Avas not the Generale American paying preposterous, unheard of prices for sup- plies ? Why should he not be happy ? To be sure, one small cloud obscured the horizon of his happiness. Jacques his only son, last of the honest Monducs, was not as truthful as he should be, and was too easily swayed by considerations of material things. Still, Pierre com- fortably reflected, he would grow out of that, he was still young. So thinking, he strolled along, until his reverie was interrupted by the voice of his son. Mon pere, mon papa! les Boches are coming! Mme. Dirong said so ! Just over the hills ! ' ' and he stood panting in the hot May sunshine, pointing his finger in the direction from which the invaders were supposed to come. Pierre was silent a moment listening, but could hear nothing more ominous than the familiar faint roar of far-away guns. Then, for he had been a soldier, and had heard more than one fantastic rumor, he shrugged his shoulders. ' ' Eh bien ! if they come, they come. But a big man like you should fight against them. Go get the guns, and let us go to our lesson, he remarked ironically. The boy, flushing a bit under his father ' s irony, ran to the house for the guns. Meanwhile Pierre limped across the field of grain, into the green meadow, the site of their gunning exhibitions, and daily lessons. Suddenly he halted, and

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But some there are of many a hue, With many a stitch set wrong, And many a row to be sadly ripped Ere the whole is fair and strong. There are long plain spaces without a break, That in youth are hard to bear ; And many a weary tear is dropped. As we fashion the heel with care. But the happiest, saddest time is that Which we court, and yet would shun. When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread And says our work is done. The children come to say good-night With tears in their bright blue eyes. While in grandma ' s lap, with a broken thread. The finished stocking lies. fl-njoice. O RUTH L. MILLER, ' 19 NLY A flower in the deep, dark woods. Half hidden by last year ' s leaves, A bit of freshness and beauty divine, A breath of fragrance among the trees. Dear litle flower with a heart so pure, Beautiful emblem of love ! Tell me the secret God gave you to know, Did you fall from heaven above? How many hearts have you cheered and made glad? How many souls have you healed? Seems to me you ' ve a mission to fill, In your God-given beauty revealed.

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turned in the direction of the thick hedge. Again he heard a low involuntary groan. Quickly investigating, he found lying there a white faced young officer, his blue coat covered with blood, striving with all his might to hide the only too evident pain of his wound. Seeing the sturdy peasant, the soldier confident of aid, spoke in low broken sentences.- Ah, mon ami — for the love of the good God — have pity — on one wounded, upon whose shoulders much of importance rests. Diable — Hide me, the damned Boche is after me — Marbleu, this wound- Some place to hide and — water, water, s ' il vous plait he ended in a sort of gasp. Pierre ' s peasant mind, never quick to grasp a situation, at last formulated an answer, but before he could speak, he was interrupted by the patter of feet, and Jacques was crying Voila! They were hidden — but he perceived for the first time the wounded man. Qui-est-il ? He is a soldier of France, wounded. Help me to carry him to the barn. So the two, one a cripple, and the other but a mere child, sweating and pant- ing under the officer ' s weight, staggered to the cool, dim barn. There, pillowed in the soft hay, they gave the man water and looked dubiously at his wound. Finally Pierre said, ' ' I have a daughter. She knows a little about nursing. She can keep a secret. Jacques, call your sister. In a little while, Angele-Marie ' s deft fingers had dressed the gaping wound in his shoulder and she retired to the house, under pledge of eternal secrecy. Then, to the quiet man, and the wide-eyed boy, the stranger explained. I am Henri Laton, aide-de-camp of General X. The Boche advanced, and tve were cut off from supplies. Then the Boche retreated. We found some plans of his and added them to some very valuable maps of our own. Then the Boche ad anced again. Not finding his plans where he left them, he grew angry. So we were ' ' strafed. ' ' Mon Dieu, but we were ' ' strafed. So M. le Generale sends a man back to headquarters with those important plans of ours, and of M. le Kaiser. The Boche sees the man. The Boche wounds the man and then pursues him. The man is lost, and takes refuge in a convenient hedge. Helas, I am the man, ' ' and he sank back into the hay. You are pursued? asked Pierre anxiously. ' ' Qui, in a matter of fact tone. Then the barn is not safe for you. It is too open. You must be hid. Ehbien. Is there a loft? ' ' Certainement. ' ' And in a moment, the warrior, supported by the ex-warrior, and the warrior- to-be, was led into the airy loft, and covered with hay. It was, of course, ar- ranged to give him air, but it was also a perfect device for concealment. Au revoir, mon vieux ami, said Pierre. Au revoir, answered a stifled voice from beneath its blanket of hay.