"They think they've got us," he explained, "but just you wait and see! I know a shop on the Avenue de Clichy where you can get rotten eggs for nothing! They don't know what's coming to them--they don't!" Thus for these little folks the very state of their existence is the war. They do not talk about it because they are living it. Even those who are so fortunate as to recall the happy times when there was no conflict, scarcely assume a superiority over their comrades who cannot remember that far distant epoch. "My papa'll be home next week on furlough if there isn't an attack," or "Gee, how we laughed down cellar the night of the bombardment," are common phrases, just as the words, "guns, shells, aeroplanes and gas," form the very elements of their education. The better informed instruct the others, and it is no uncommon occurrence to see a group of five or six little fellows hanging around a doorway, listening to a gratuitous lecture on the 75, given by an elder. "That's not true," cuts in one. "It's not that at all, the _correcteur_ and the _debouchoir_ are not the same thing. Not by a long sight! I ought to know, hadn't I, my father's chief gunner in his battery." "Ah, go on! Didn't Mr. Dumont who used to teach the third grade, draw it all out for us on the blackboard the last time he was home on leave? What do you take us for? Why he's even got the _Croix de Guerre_ and the 'Bananna.'" [1] Nor is the _communique_ ignored by these budding heroes. On the contrary, it is read and commented upon with fervour. In a little side street leading to the Seine, I encountered a ten year old lad, dashing forward, brandishing the evening paper in his hand. "Come on, kids, it's time for the _communique_," he called to a couple of smaller boys who were playing on the opposite curb. The children addressed (one may have been five, the other seven, or thereabouts) immediately abandoned their marbles, and hastened to join their companion, who breathlessly unfolded the sheet. "Artillery combats in Flanders----" he commenced. The little fellows opened their big candid eyes, their faces were drawn and grave, in an intense effort of attention. Their mouths gaped unconsciously. One felt their desire to understand, to grasp things that were completely out of reach. "During the night a spirited attack with hand grenades in the region of the Four de Paris," continued the reader. "We progressed slightly to the East of Mort Homme, and took an element of trenches. We captured two machine guns, and made several prisoners." "My papa's in Alsace," piped one listener. "And mine's in the Somme." "That's all right," inferred the elder. "Isn't mine at Verdun?" and then proudly, "And machine gunner at that!" Then folding his paper and preparing to move on: "The news is good--we should worry."