A few months might have made but little difference, but each succeeding year of war has brought indelible changes. Gone forever, I fear, are the evenings when after dinner at the Cuckoo, we would stand on the balcony and watch the gradual fairy-like illumination of the panorama that stretched out before us. The little restaurant has closed its doors, but the vision from the terrace is perhaps more majestic, for as the last golden rays of twilight disappear, a deep purple vapour rising from the unknown, rolls forward and mysteriously envelops the _Ville Lumiere_ in its sumptuous protecting folds. Alone, overhead the star lamp of a scout plane is the only visible light. The old Moulin de la Galette has cast aside its city airs and taken on a most rural aspect, while the _maquis_, or jungle on whose site a whole new white stone quarter had been projected, is now but a mass of half finished, abandoned foundations, wherein the children of the entire neighbourhood gather to play at the only game which now has a vogue, i.e., "War." _La petite guerre_ they call it. We came upon them quite by accident one afternoon, and discovered two hostile bands occupying first line trenches. Of course, as no one wished to be the Boche, it looked for a time as though the campaign would have to be deferred, but so violent was the love of fray that it was soon decided that the _opposite_ side in both cases would be considered Hun, and thus the difficulty was solved. It goes without saying that the school which is first dismissed occupies the better positions. The others must rely upon their strength and valour to win out. The first attack was with hand grenades in the form of pebbles. Patrols advanced into No Man's Land, crawling and crouching until with a yell the belligerents met. Prisoners were taken on both sides. "What forces have we in front of us?" demanded an important looking twelve year old General of an enemy soldier who was brought before him. Dead silence ensued. "If he refuses to answer, turn him upside down until he does." The order was executed. From the opposite trench came shrieks of "Boche! Boche!--it's only the Boche who maltreat prisoners." The aforementioned who was rapidly developing cerebral congestion, made sign that he would speak. "Turn him right side up!" The young executioner obeyed, but still held a firm grip on the unfortunate lad's collar. "Now, then, how many of you are there in your trenches?" "Enough to make jelly out of your men if there are many like you!" shrieked the captive, struggling to escape. "Take him behind the lines, don't be rough with him. Respect is due all prisoners," ordered the General, whose eye had caught a glimpse of his army being menaced by the blond headed enemy. "Look out, boys! Down with your heads! They're sending over some 'coal scuttles.' Dig in I say and keep a sharp look out! What's the matter back there?" "It's little Michaud. He's wounded!"