The truth is that the Belgians in Crashie Howe are enjoying a _succes
fou_. There is the enterprising Marie, who thinks nothing of going off
on her own, on the strength of an English vocabulary only a fortnight
old, overwhelming the stationmaster and boarding an ambulance train
full of wounded Belgians at the local station to ask for news of her
brothers. (We were all delighted when an adventurous letter
miraculously arrived from the Pas de Calais on Saturday and reported
that both brothers were well and unwounded.) There is Victor, who,
although only thirteen, is already a _pupille d'armee_ and has a
uniform quite as good as any fighting man. I can tell you he has put
our Boy Scouts in the shade. But Victor is afraid the war will be over
before he is old enough to get at it.
Then, again, there is the small Juliette, who is dark, with a
comfortable little face constructed almost entirely of dimples, and,
at the age of eight, has been discovered knitting stockings at a
prodigious pace while she looked the other way. I am afraid Juliette
is being held up as an example to other children of the neighbourhood,
but I think her great popularity may well survive even that. And there
is Louis, who is a marvel at making bird-cages, and Rosalie, whose
pride is in the shine of her pots and pans. They are all doing well.
Rosalie, it is true, has had a fearful bout of toothache, so bad that
she had to retire to bed for a day. When Dr. Anderson, whose French is
very good, had successfully diagnosed the trouble and told her that
the only cure was to have the tooth out, she plaintively replied that
she had thought of that herself, but, alas, it was impossible, for "it
was too firmly implanted." For my part I sympathised with Rosalie--I
have often felt like that.
The grandmother rather likes to sit apart, beaming, far from the
general throng, and it was for that reason that I selected her at the
very outset to practise on in private. I tried her more than once in
my sadly broken French; I even went further and tried her in
rapidly-improvised Flemish. Whenever I felt I was at my best I used to
go and have a turn at her, and, although she smiled at me like
anything and was awfully pleased, I never elicited the slightest
response. Now I know that she is almost stone deaf and hasn't heard a
word I have said. As I came sadly away after this discovery there
occurred to my mind the story of him who undertook to train a savage
in the arts of civilization, only to learn, after some years of
disappointing, unrequited toil, that his victim was not only a savage
but also a lunatic. I don't mean that to be disrespectful to
_Grandmere_--it is only a parallel instance of good work thrown away.
We are learning a good deal that is new about the art of knitting. One
thing is that the Flemish knitter cannot get on at all comfortably
unless the needles are long enough to tuck under her arms. I may
safely say that I never dreamt of that. At first they fumbled about
unhappily with our miserable little needles, but the ship's
carpenter--who makes the bird-cages--has found quite an ingenious way
out. He has mounted all the needles at the end of a sort of stilt or
leg of cane (like a bayonet), and since this innovation they are
working at a speed which, even in these days of universal knitting,
would be pretty hard to beat.
The children are really getting on famously at school. A very touching
little romance was enacted there one day. Eugene and Pierre, belonging
to different families, arrived in our midst on different days and did
not chance to meet each other at first. At school they happened to be
put, away from their compatriots, in the same room. Eugene is eight
and Pierre seven. It was, you may well guess, pretty lonely work for a
small Belgian in a roomful of Scotch boys, but both bore up bravely.
The subject, as I understand, was simple addition (which knows no
frontiers and looks the same in any language), and there is no
whispering or secret conversation in our school, I can tell you. There
they sat side by side for two hours, each contemplating the other as
an alien, each smothering pent-up feelings of home-sickness. And then
suddenly, at a single Flemish word from the schoolmaster, the moment
of revelation came; it dawned on both of them at once that they were
not alone, and, rising to their feet, they embraced with tears of
joy.
"Broeder!" cried Eugene.
"Broeder!" echoed Pierre.
That was nearly a week ago. By now Pierre is beginning to treat Eugene
in a slightly off-hand manner. He has hardly time for him. He has so
many Scotch friends.
* * * * *
"During the night a terrific gale raged in Manchester and
surrounding districts, hail and sleet being accompanied by a
torrential rainfall varied by Pendleton, Eccles, Seedley and
other lightning."--_People_.
"Eccles lightning is the best."--(_Advt._).
* * * * *