_Orphelinats, P----_, May, 1916.
We went on a long ride over the hills to visit the little Belgian
orphans and see how they were being cared for on French soil. As there
was no military motor available, and as, for the one and only time
in my war travels, I was unarmed with papers to get me across the
frontier, we decided to go the eighty miles in an ambulance, where I
could hide in the back as we whizzed past the familiar sentries. Mlle.
M----, in her well-worn khaki suit with the Red Cross badge, sat in
front with the chauffeur. Within the ambulance, on the hard wooden
bench, was I with that wonderful hero of Ypres, the Abbé of St. Pierre.
What a face of strength and poise and thoughtfulness he had! To the
people of that country he was a saint, specially protected by heaven.
He seemed to have led a charmed life. He was the last to leave the
battered ruins of the once beautiful Ypres. They say he saved even
the cats before he would depart, and still the longing to return to
his beloved town came over him so strongly that at times his friends
had great difficulty in restraining him. He loved every stone and he
godfathered every poor child of the village. Shells have burst all
around him, killing those at his side, but, by some wonder of fate,
have left him untouched. His smile was a delight, his conversation a
charm.
Along the white, dusty road we flew, for we had many miles to cover
and several stops to make. Every one is familiar with the beautiful
rolling country of this part of France, the cultivated fields, the neat
little villages, the white ribbon of road between the well-ordered
rows of trees. I could not resist waving a triumphant salute at the
astonished sentries when they realized they had let pass an ambulance
with a civilian in it, and a woman at that! But the clouds of dust hid
us from view before they could do anything about it. We passed through
B----, a lovely little town way up on a hilltop, from which we could
look down over the distant valley in whose heart the hostile lines of
trenchmen fought for supremacy. We stopped here to leave a message with
an officer and learned that nearly every one in the town was ill with a
touch of asphyxiating gas. It seemed that the fumes had penetrated this
far during the night, but were not strong enough to awaken people. So
they had inhaled unconsciously. Every one sleeps with a gas mask at the
head of his bed in these parts.
We coasted down the long hill on the other side of the town, glorying
in the beauty of the extended view before us. How could there be
anything but happiness in the world that brilliant morning! The Abbé
and I talked of many things and he told me how he and the Countess
planned and worked to get enough money and clothing for the hundreds of
orphans in their care. If only some of the discarded but still useful
warm clothing of my little friends in America could be sent! And think
of the untold joy some of their superfluous toys would give!
Our first stop was to see the boys, and certainly for me it was a
unique experience. The Abbé announced that a great treat was in store
for us, as we were to lunch with the priests of W----, who ran the
_orphelinat_. He told me to be sure to ask Father ----, the jolly,
fat, old fellow, to sing and recite for us. He said it would please
him enormously and would give us untold amusement, and he was right.
We entered the courtyard of an old stone house, and after shaking
off several layers of the white dust, went in to the bounteous feast
prepared in our honour. The welcome was simple and cordial. We washed
our hands in an old tin basin and used the coarsest towel I have ever
seen. I am sure it will never wear out. Then we sat down to enough
food for twenty instead of six, and how they did enjoy it! I don't
wonder Father ---- was almost as broad as he was long, if he enjoyed
every meal as much as he did this one. He ordered up _the_ wine from
the cellar, the last precious bottle he had carried away from Ypres,
and then, after much persuasion, he rose at his end of the table and
in a dear, gentle, cracked old voice, mouthing his words so that his
apparently one remaining front tooth was much in evidence, he sang the
favourite songs of his youth. I am sure they were funny because he
laughed at them so heartily himself.
Luncheon over, we walked to the boys' dormitories. How they did love
the jolly old priest, and how glad they were to see the Abbé! From all
corners of the courtyard they dropped their play or their fight, as
the case was, and came running with all the joy of a pack of little
tail-wiggling fox terriers, to throw themselves upon the two men. Where
he carried it, I do not know, but the Abbé produced cake after cake of
chocolate and every boy had a bite.
The boys are taught all the simple studies and always to sing. The
Belgian peasant children really sing beautifully. Even the little tots
can take parts. We went up through the dormitories. There were closely
filled rows of cots graduated in size, and over the foot of each one
the sisters in charge had neatly laid out the boy's _other_ suit,
for to-morrow would be Sunday and they would all be dressed up. The
lavatories consisted of wooden benches, again graduated in height,
with tin basins and towels on them, about one to every three boys. It
made me shiver to think how cold that place must be during the long
damp winter, but then the peasant is used to such hardships. Finally
we came to the schoolroom, where the older boys were already hard at
work, learning in both Flemish and French. And of all the cute sights
I ever saw, here happened the very cutest. The tiny tots, three and
four years old, had finished their lunch and their playtime, and must
have their noon-day nap. Were they put to bed like ordinary babies? Oh,
no. They tumbled into the schoolroom, their big eyes staring out of
their chubby, round, little faces, full of wonder as to who the strange
lady was. Somewhat abashed and very quietly they slid along their baby
bench, snuggling up to each other as close as they could. Then at a
word from the teacher all the little right arms went up on the long
bench table in front of them, the perfectly round little heads flopped
over into the crook of the row of little elbows, three blinks and all
the little eyelids closed, and like peas in a pod they were asleep. How
I wished for a moving picture of that scene!