Shields High School - Patriot Yearbook (Seymour, IN)

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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.

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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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As soon as they had left the barn, Pierre turned to his son. Not a word of this It is a secret for France, comprends-tu ? ' ' ' ' Oui. Je suis un Monduc. ' ' The shooting lesson that day was not a great success. Jacques was excited, and Pierre was worried. To get the message to headquarters safely and soon, was obviously his duty. But how was he to do it ? That evening he discussed the matter with Henri, over a supper prepared by Angele-Marie. For, though Zenobie was a worthy madame, her tongue was loose at both ends, and she knew not the meaning of the secret. But when the subject was mentioned, Henri protested in horror. ' ' Mais non ! I have a verbal message which I must keep secret he declared. And no amount of persuasion could move him in his determination. So for a day, life, on the surface at least, went on as usual in the little stone cottage. Morning of the second day came, and Pierre, after carrying breakfast to the ofReer, who was gradually growing stronger, set out with his rifle for the field, where he and Jacques were to practice again. A long time he waited in the sunny meadow. The shadows shortened as the morning slowly passed, and he still patiently waited. At last weary of inaction, he turned and stalked, as quickly as his lame leg would let him, back to the small group of buildings. Zenobie and Angele-Marie were absent that day, and perhaps Jacques was fixing himself a lunch. He was greedy enough to do so, reflected his father with a sigh. Just then he mounted the slight knoll at the side of the barn. For a moment he stood stock-still, in amazement. Then horror-stricken, he started to advance, but thinking better of it, retreated behind a scrubby little tree, from which he could see and hear without being seen- For there, in front of the barn, was his son, his Jacques, the last Monduc, talking to, or arguing with, a group of men on horseback, whom he recognized only too readily as Prussian Lancers. But I tell you, I repeat, there is no man here cried the boy, almost in desperation, I am alone. No. Where is he? AchmeinGott! I know he is here. Tell us now, vite, threatened one in badly pronounced French. No, monsieur, there is no one here reiterated the white faced boy. One of the men angrily raised his whip. The boy, in mortal terror, shrank against the side of the barn. Inside the barn, a pale soldier listened to the colloquy which would give him life or death. On the hillside a man proud in the pride of race, listened to the proof that his son was indeed a Monduc. Suddenly the man who had raised his whip dropped it, reached into his pocket, and dangled a gold watch before Jacques ' eyes. Another man, taking his cue from the first, removed a heavy signet ring from his finger, and almost dropped it into the boy ' s hand.