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BEHIND M LINES.1

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BEHIND M LINES. 1 HOW THE FRENCH NATION WAITS, WATCHES AND PRAYS. THE SPIRIT OF JOAN OF ARC (By Hubert St. John). I Though one may think, amid the battle's war 'hat peace on earth" had gone for evermore, Behind the lines, in France, they worship still, And pray for peace, when viot'ry comes- -but not until. The feast of Joan of Arc is, in France, an occasion of no ordinary interest, for it is then that the nation is roueed with a deep spirit of religious and patriotic fervour. There are, it is true, other an- niversaries which have the same object in view, but which are more often tainted with the jingo spirit than elevated by one which is truly patriotic. "La fete de Jeanne d'Arc is essentially a day of worship. The maid's statue in the rhurch is beautifully decorated, and many floral tributes are placed at its foot. Shields bearing her arms above f-uch names as Reims, Orleans. Doniremy, l'aris, Vaucouleurs, Rouen, Compiegne, and Poitiers are placed all around the church, and in the centro one will see her snow-white banner with the naille" Tliesus Maria and the Fleurs de Lyg. At an early hour all the seats are occu- pied. and the inhabitants continue to .stream in until little standing room rp- mains. The ceremony has more signi- ficance this year, and in his address the priest, draws a comparison between the two remarkable cri ses in the nation's H<-<tocy. France," lie says, "had -Sunk low, so low that many bad given up all hope for her future, but then the miracle happened—the Regeneration took place. Medium Gone, But Spirit Lingers. I Some of the vast congregation glance at the shields, and many of the names they see around them from their dreams of past glories to the stern realities of the present day. There is a. determined look upon their faces; there is no Joan i Are now, but her spirit, lingers on. Another and more cruel invader has to be driven out. and much sacrifice will he called for. but one does not fear the rc- suit. This fight is not for glory but for liie. There are but few of fighting age in the (-Iiur,li-tlie r comfort lies in hattle, in victory; it-is those who must remain who need the strength to bear the morrow's news, and find it in the re- awakened spirit of Joan. My evening walk took me through many miles of the Pas de Calais, the richest province in France. There was but little pasture land to be seen, and nearly every field showed promise of a rrop that would cheer the heart of any farmer. Old men, women and boys were still at work preparing the land for the supreme effort of thi* fateful year. They do not cease their labours until the sun has gone down, and what a sunset we had that. night, I The deep crimson ball had cast its fading rays over forty of the richest miles in France, and look- ing at that panoramic view from the hill top it. was hard indeed to realise what was going on just a few miles in the other direction. The Toll of Battle. I to The oft-repeated phrase, One would hardly think there was a war on was creeping into my mind when, in the dis- tance I could see the long procession < f motor-ambulances returning at their habitual elow pace, from the front. There were thirty-eight in all. and each with its burden of braves who had "done their bit" for the present, and were now on their way to hospital and England, where they would remain until once again fit to take their place in Mud- lark Alley." Some, perhaps would never return for. willing as the spirit might be, it is not easy to fight with only one arm or one leg. Such is the fortune of war. Searching the eky for a lingering ray of sunlight, and finding instead the new moon. I remembered the English half- crown give me in my change the previous day. There is a reason in everything after all. Piit in spite of the quiet scenes behind the lines the people of France realise what the war means to them. The young la'dy next door who used to sit at her piano all day long does not touch it now. ''Why;" I ask her. "Because mv father, who is a captain, might be killed at any moment, and my uncle who had gained the Legion of Honour was killed soon after. I cannot count my cousins who are fighting, there are so many." Yes. it is like this: in almost every French home. so they must realise that I ,the war goes on. Does Britain Realise? I Are we in Britain fully alive to its daflgers, its possibilities and its purpose? It is difficult indeed to answer this quee- j tion by a single word, and those who are ftuik to do so must remember that, we British do not always sliow wh-cit is in our minds, and pay but little heed to the mere approach of danger. It is not until it is actually upon us that wo leave our game of bowls to deal with the fnetny. But what might serve in the days of sails and wooden hulls will r.ot do in days of steam and steel. It is only necessary for v.s to know of the danger, and all shoulders will be put to the. wheel. As the war drags on. more and more British homes witl. be hound by tie.q of life and blood to the sacred cause which the Empire has undertaken, and a, time will come when the nation will, of its own accord, leave the bowling green and concentrate all its efforts upon the one and only thing that matters. But let us not judge our people by the French, for the temperament is totally different. The little (ii;Aghter of my host is even now looking for snails in the garden, but .1 have no wish to participate in their coming meal-I dine alone. I cannot understand them nor < an they under- stand why my spirits are not clothed in :repe because of the Lusitania murder. As they cannot see my mind.they judge by. my face—and judge wrongly. Let us. then. instead of trying to explain what we do not understand, endeavour to edu- cate the public mind to the actual state of affairs, and when John Hull knows ex- actly what is wanted of him. he will not' l be slow to leave iiis howl s and tuck up f \is sleeves for more serious business., (Passed by Censor).

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