I could not remember to have seen any young men, and
everywhere women were working in the field, and in one place a woman
was yoked up with an ox, ploughing, while a young girl drove the odd
pair.
"And if that isn't enough, wait until we come to the next cathedral and
I'll show you what corresponds to our 'Honor Rolls' in the churches
back home. Then you'll know whether war has touched Brittany or not."
We entered with reverent hearts the next ancient cathedral of Brittany,
in a little town with a population of only about two thousand, we were
told, and yet out of this town close to five hundred boys had been
killed in the Great War. Their names were posted, written with many a
flourish by some village penman. In the list I saw the names of four
brothers who had been killed, and their father. The entire family had
been wiped out, all but the women.
So I was mistaken. As quiet and peaceful as Brittany was during May
and June, as beautiful with broom and poppies as were its fields, it
had not gone untouched by the cruel hand of war. It, too, had
suffered, as has every hamlet, village, and corner of fair France;
suffered grievously.
Thus I was not surprised to hear that this beautiful young woman was
wearing black because her husband had been killed, and that the little
girl behind her in the doorway had no longer any hope that her soldier
daddy would some day come home and romp with her as of old.
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