At length, the survey of Canizy was completed: its crooked streets traced on a map, its houses numbered, and the pre-war and the post-war status of each of its families noted thereon. But long before these facts had been collected, the articles found to be most necessary had been bought for the homes. It only remained to wait their arrival. Even the number of sheets and blankets in each household was listed, and against them, the number to be given out. The honesty and unselfishness of most of the villagers in setting down their needs, was a constant joy. There was Mme. Regina, for instance, who had five pairs of stout linen sheets and four soldiers’ blankets on two Boche beds. I proposed a new bed for the baby, and covers to go with it. Mme. Regina acquiesced at first, but later drew me aside: “I can get along,” she said, “I know you have not enough to go around,—and when one is so poorly lodged anyway, it does not matter. When I get my baraque, then I will come to you.”

There was good sense in Mme. Regina’s decision. The housing rested not with us, but with the Government, through the mayor of the commune. Long delay ensued in Canizy, when ten families had applied, and only three baraques had been set up. Of these, two were for the domestics of M. Lanne. Mme. Picard and the Mayor himself were among the waiting; nor could one decide which was the more miserably off. Even Mme. Picard’s vegetables were comfortably bedded compared with her children, in her dark and windy barn, and as for M. le Maire, a water-spout built within his hut carried the rain from his bed. But at last one day, loads of baraques began to arrive, and red-fezzed Moroccans, to erect them. There were five shacks in all, and four, it transpired, were for Mme. Picard and M. Thuillard. I could understand that Mme. Picard had need of her two apartments, but the Mayor,—well, he wished to reopen his store. And his wife, all smiles at their prospective installation, offered me myself a guest room so that I could live in my village at last. But this offer was tendered before the distribution of gifts.

It was Dave, or strictly speaking, the Red Cross, which made possible an early allotment of blankets and sheets in Canizy. Though they had been overturned in the mud, even Mme. la Maire did not complain of their condition. “It matters nothing; they can be washed,” she said. On the day we had chosen, word was passed to each family that a distribution would be made at Mme. LefÈvre’s at four that afternoon. There was no need of a garde champÊtre such as they had in Esmery-Hallon to cry the news. The children flew with it; the mothers halted at the corners to talk about it; and at four o’clock, when the jitney drove in with its wonderful cargo, a line like a bread-line had formed in front of the door. Mme. LefÈvre herself came out to help us; the older boys lent a hand, and within five minutes, piles of single blankets and double blankets, and single sheets and double sheets, were ready to be given out. Then a window was opened and the names were called. “Mme. Carlier: 6 blankets; 3 single sheets; 3 double sheets.” “Mme. Lecart: 3 double sheets, 2 blankets.” So ran the list. One after another the mothers stepped forward, received their quota and went away. There were order, good nature, and no unkind comment. Even afterwards, there seemed to be little dissatisfaction. The distribution had been made, as every one knew, on the basis of actual need, and the result was accepted as just. If Mme. LefÈvre had only one blanket, that was because she had plenty of linen sheets, much better than the cotton ones we gave, a woollen blanket, and a warm red eiderdown quilt. Only the mayor’s wife and that very human lady, Mme. Charles Thuillard, of whom I have before spoken, raised protesting voices,—but such was their bent.

Our first distribution having gone so well, and we being still received as friends, we proceeded to the second, which consisted of cast-iron beds and stoves. The single beds we had been fortunate enough to buy ourselves; but the double beds and the stoves came from M. le Sous-PrÉfet and were signed for by the recipients as a part of their indemnitÉ de guerre. Heavy loads these articles made, and Dave and his truck were requisitioned for the day. We first had to secure the double beds, which were stored, together with other civilian supplies, at the Moroccan camp at Nesle. To Nesle, then, we tore, coasting the long hills, and chugging up the inclines as if the Germans themselves were in pursuit. Arrived at the camp, we found that we had not made the proper entry, and must reverse, disentangle ourselves from the railroad embankment, plough through mud to the axles, and back up to the warehouse at the other end of the yard. All this Dave did. Bedsteads, mattresses and bolsters were then piled aboard. Dave and one of my comrades precariously balanced on the front seat, and I high on the load, expecting a landslide every minute, we steamed away for Canizy. A house to house visitation with a truck down its narrow and uneven streets was also an adventure, and we were thankful enough when the day ended with only minor injuries, and every family that needed them supplied with beds. Stoves were simpler, for the reason that they were smaller. Wardrobes, buffets, chairs and tables would have followed, could we have secured them. But these, even when I left, had not yet been crossed off the village lists.

Failing to obtain furniture, we distributed clothing, for by this time the winter was well upon us. Individual families had been taken care of before as the need arose. In order not to pauperize, or hurt the genuine self-respect of the people, I tried a plan known by them as “an arrangement,” whereby I took vegetables, or rags, in exchange. This system of barter was also one of coÖperation with our travelling store, which supplied the wants of families able—and glad—to buy. The coming of the store made a red-letter day, like a market-day, in the village. Even the soldiers gathered around, commenting humorously on the bargains, and urging the ladies to buy. They asked on their own part for mufflers or sabots or cigarettes. Once a small tradesman, transformed by his uniform in appearance but not in nature, wondered audibly how long we thought we could remain in business and lose in each purchase from a third to a half of its value. Our storekeeper laughed. “Toujours, M. Soldat,” she answered, and forthwith beguiled a hesitant grandmother into buying an entire bar of laundry soap at four francs instead of twelve.

But our “arrangements” did not lack humour or interest. There was Mme. Laure, for example, who was purposely absent when we brought the new clothing for her family, and undressed and bathed it and filled the boiler in turn with what we had taken off; and Mme. Gense-Tabary who conspired with her husband to get vegetables in Ham and resell to us at a higher price in payment for her dozens of new garments, and Mme. Payell who, hearing a rumour that We were about to outfit her babies, bought extra buttons to have them ready to sew on. There was also conscientious Mme. Regina, with her box of clean rags all ready for the new suit We gave fifteen-year-old Raymond.

The purpose of the rag industry was twofold: to clear the cluttered interiors, and with the rags themselves to make rag rugs. After Mlle. Suzanne’s washing, the clean pieces went to a class of three young girls, who met once a week, divided the stock, and sewed and braided the strands. To them went also the snippings of the hundreds of garments we cut and let out through the district to be sewed. A pretty picture my girls made of a Tuesday afternoon around the big table in Mme. Noulin’s store; Elmire fair and delicate as a lily, Albertine black-haired and black-eyed, and quick, graceful, thirteen-year-old CÉcile. Fingers and tongues were busy. Mme. Noulin herself bustled in and out, and finally served us with the inevitable coffee. This ceremony concluded the lesson. But the yards of braiding grew week by week,—though not without some small heart-burning and rivalry. “CÉcile,” Elmire complained, “takes all the longer pieces and gives me only the scraps. Perhaps Mademoiselle would speak to her.” But it was the Government which unintentionally interfered most with my rags. I had bespoken the mayor’s hut for our headquarters as soon as he was ready to move out. Only a few feet from the best well, where we planned to install our new pump and our Village chaudiÈre, it was to be a centre of neighbourhood industry. But the mayor still waits on opportunity and the rags still wait in sacks.

As winter advanced, it became obvious, even at mass, that Canizy went cold. The children’s noses and mittenless hands were red. True, there was Mme. Gabrielle, who came in furs and smart black hats; and several other ladies sufficiently warm if rather rusty and old-fashioned. But one noted among the children an absolute lack of the capes which are the characteristic dress of French school children. Throats wrapped in mufflers, hands thrust into pockets or skirts,—this was their method of keeping warm. The older boys especially looked pinched in trousers which had become too short, and tightly buttoned, threadbare coats. One day, when a biting wind and a powdery snow impressed their discomfort upon me, I made a raid on our store-room, with the entire permission of my colleague in charge. Woollen shirts, stockings, caps, overcoats and suits, whatever article of warmth I could find, I gathered up. The roads were too drifted for the truck, or for walking, but I had asked for the horse and wagon. Carlos, our soldier, helped me pack my plunder, and conveyed me on my way. But a difficult way it proved to be, and it was not until nearly twilight that we drew up at Mme. LefÈvre’s door, too late to distribute that night. I left the warm clothing in her care, asking her at the same time to make me a list of those to whom she thought it ought to go, and promising to return the following day. But Mme. LefÈvre’s enthusiasm exceeded her instructions. When I came, she met me with a triumphant smile. “I knew, Mademoiselle, that it would please you were the clothes on the backs of the poor children. VoilÀ, I have given the clothing according to the list.” A cramped and illiterate list it was she handed me, devoid of capitals, but it accounted for every article, even to a boy’s coat given to Lydie Cerf. “Lydie?” I queried mentally, yet not for the world would I have questioned or criticised good Mme. LefÈvre. Lydie herself I did question. “But, yes, Mademoiselle,” she replied, “I am keeping the coat for Papa. He is with the Boches. It will be ready for him when he returns.”

When they return! It was a phrase on every lip. “If the children were here, it would be different.” “No, I do not wish to touch my indemnity. I and my wife, we are saving it for the boys when they come home.” “Mademoiselle, I need another bed.” “But you have two.” “Yes, but there is my mother, who may return any day.” So ran the undercurrent of longing in every family, mutilated as were the apple trees girdled in the orchards, uprooted, like them, and left for dead.

For my next distribution, which was to be a more important one, I went to Mme. Gabrielle. “Madame,” said I, “it is true, is it not, that the parents of most of the children have enough money to buy capes?” “Yes,” she admitted. “But it is not true that they will not do so?” “Yes; there are so many things to buy when one has lost so much. We fear to spend the money.” “Very well. Will you make me out a list for all the world?” The list was made; a list so orderly that it could be used as a shopping guide. Coats for the women and capes for the children were bought, including a coat for Lydie Cerf. They were brought down by our own truck, which had made a special trip to Amiens in the bitterest weather, and deposited with Mme. Gabrielle. “Madame,” I said again as we brought the heaped armfuls in, “will you not make this distribution yourself?” “But it is very difficult,” she remonstrated, “and all the world will say that I am partial.” “I will tell all the world that the distribution is mine,” I urged. “You can see yourself that we are very busy,—and you know the size for each child.” Reluctant though she was, Mme. Gabrielle’s kind heart could not refuse. On a Sunday not long after, a strange yet strangely familiar audience sat in the little church, the women in coats all of one pattern, “but of different colours, the children in smart blue hooded capes. No one looked self-conscious, or thanked us. The distribution, like the snow, had fallen on the just and on the unjust; it was a providence for which one thanked God.