old chiefs who are now the only persons on earth speaking the ancient Huron language. When they die it's gone forever eh, Telesphore?" Shoulders nodded. "Well, they were there. And the agent of the tribe was there. And me. Me. In these clothes, only more of them. I went to the head chief's house beforehand and he gave me the costume. And pretty proud of it I was, you bet," said Bob, breaking into American. "Well, they had a sort of address. It's in the trunk I'll show it to you. It was pretty fine, done on birch-bark, embroidered with beavers in the corners and sewed all around"-Bob gesticulated vaguely "with moose-hair dyed nice colors. They presented that to me, and it says that I'm a chief of the Huron tribe, so you look out for me, Dooley, and don't try any tricks, or I'll scalp you good and plenty. And then the Lorette band played 'La Huronne,' and the air of that, I'd like you to know, is a veritable Huron war-song which came with the tribe to Quebec two hundred years ago, and nobody knows how much older than that it is. And then there were other 'doings' and the upshot of it is that I was taken into the tribe. And so you see how it is that Telesphore and I have a weakness for each other that has stood a test or two, and is going to stand the test of time, we think.” Bob had gotten up and was standing before me, and the Indian at that sprang from his chair and placed himself, straight, lithe, beautiful in line, with a manner of antique dignity at Bob's side, and slipped an arm around Bob's body. They stood so, close, the American, type of the latest, greatest nation rushing on with ever huger strides to splendid maturity; the Huron, type of a race bygone, almost extinct, holding with ever feebler grasp to the fading signs of longpast glory. Bob put his big arm suddenly about the magnificent shoulders and smiled down as Bob Morgan knows how to smile, and patted the blue-green coat. "Blood brothers," said Bob. HORN AND VIOLIN By Richard Burton IN the autumn, in the weather Golden, bronzed and rich with sighs, Then, O Love, 'twas like the sounding Veiled yet vibrant, far resounding But with May the magic changes, Like a violin it ranges All the soul's insistent needs; All the hopes and pent desires, All the daring and the doubt: Like to strong, plucked strings, the fires Of our spirits rushing out. In the autumn, love seemed sober; Dear, 'tis now a passioned thing; As the horn is for October, But the violin for spring! G AA America's most glori- EORGES PA- pital at Neuilly, VIS, of Bois Colombes, one of the many suburbs of Paris, was just twenty-three at the beginning of the Great War; his regiment was one of the first to answer the call and was placed in the first line of trenches. He fought bravely through the terrible battles of the Marne and Champagne. During all those days of horror his ever predominant thought was the fear of permanent injury to his hands or arms; rather death a thousand times than to lose all that life held most dear to him, the continuance of his art. He came through his baptism of fire at those early battles unscathed, but was terribly injured at Verdun, where a piece of a shell from one of the famous "77" German guns shattered his hip-bone and made of this once happy "Poilu" a hopeless cripple. He was fortunate enough to have been brought to the American Ambulance Hos APRÈS! This hospital, originally built for a school, was, at the outbreak of the war, taken by American residents of Paris and converted into one of the most completely equipped military hospitals in France. All the modern contrivances and appliances known to present-day science are there to help mend the shattered bones and heal the terrible wounds. The fame of this ambulance hospital is wide-spread, and many of the poor soldiers, wounded on the battle-field, pray to be sent to "l'Américaine," as they call it. It was there, while convalescing, that the sketches on this and the following pages were made by Georges Pavis. They depict, in a humorous vein, scenes that transpire daily at the "Ambulance." |