Ever see those red poppies that grow by the roadside in France? They always make me think of Angele. They are so graceful and vivid and gay. It almost seems as though they enjoyed watching the soldiers march past, they spring up so close to the road. All the war that has swept through the land has failed to kill the crop. You will find innumerable scarlet patches of them nodding their brave little heads to the boys as they tramp by—cheering them on—for all the world like France's daughters—bless them!

I was one of the first Americans to go across after our declaration of war on Germany. Those were the days when the German propagandists in this country knew more about the movements of our fleet than we did ourselves.

They called upon us formally a way off the French coast, with two torpedoes. But they were bad shots, so their visiting cards never arrived and we continued our course without any further opportunity of making their acquaintance.

As we neared the coast the water became clotted up with wreckage—boxes and barrels and floating planks—yes—and bodies, too. I've never seen a sight to equal it and I have crossed eight times all told. But in the beginning of the war Fritz was pretty active. Never a day passed that we received less than seven or eight S.O.S. calls. Oh, Fritz was having it all his own way then. We've changed all that—rather!

I'll never forget the little French port where we dropped anchor. Nothing I can ever see in the years to come—with the exception of the Allied flags floating over the Kaiser's palace in Berlin—will equal the thrill I got from watching the first khaki-clad Yankees marching up that narrow street to the tune of Yankee Doodle!

I kept wondering who the dickens I was, to be privileged to witness such a history-making sight!

The townsfolk mobbed us. They cheered us and hugged us and called down blessings on our heads. Someone took pity on us and showed us the way to an inn—a rambling white shallet with a big American flag hung from its windows. At the gate, the innkeeper and his plump little wife were awaiting us with open arms. They asked us if we would consent to eat "poullet." Consent! We would have devoured birch bark with a relish had it been cooked the way Madame Mousequet could cook!

I have never tasted such chicken or such potatoes. And while we ate and drank the little lady fluttered about us, hoping, in voluble French, that everything suited "the dear officers from the United States."

They would not take a cent of pay for the feast. It was, they assured us, "une grande honneur." Over and over they insisted that we must not think of spoiling their pleasure by having money pass between us. What can you do with people like that?

That night we went to a little cinema theater. When the lights were turned up and the audience caught sight of us, they rose in a body and cheered us. In one of the boxes were a group of French officers and their wives. One of the officers hurried around to where we were sitting.

"You must place yourself where all the people may see you," he insisted. There was no refusing him. He was like a child, bubbling over with joy at having us there.

"Come," he pleaded, "let me seat you so that all may see."

We followed meekly. The ladies in the box were awaiting us eagerly. They welcomed us with outstretched hands. And as I looked at those people who had been through two grilling years of war, I thanked God I came from a country that had taken up arms against a beast who was trying to crush the red poppies beneath his heel.

It was hard to get leave to go up to Paris. Sailings were uncertain and special permission had to be obtained, but I made up my mind I'd go. General Pershing was to be there for the Fourth of July celebration at the tomb of Lafayette. I knew that would be a never-to-be-forgotten sight.

I was right. It was a glorious morning and the thrill of the day was in the air—crowds everywhere—sky blue and navy blue uniforms rubbing shoulders with the khaki of our own boys. Women, many of them in black, hurrying—hurrying toward the spot where the great Commander-in-Chief of the American Expeditionary Forces could be seen.

"Pershing!" Everywhere you heard his name and an under-current of eager whispers as to whether there would be a chance to see him or not.

The Fourth of July! Paris! And our General, the idol of the hour! I tell you it thrilled me clear down to my heels!

We navy men were let through the crowd and we were able to view the ceremony at close range. I have never heard such cheering in my life! It was Paris' first opportunity to hear our General speak, and he spoke so simply—so quietly—in the face of that great ovation that there was not one among us who could doubt his ability to lead our men as they had never before been led.

There were to be fireworks that night in honor of our presence—concerts and speeches and dancing. Oh, France was showing us that she was glad we had come, but how glad we were to be there she can never guess!

I drifted idly with the crowd. I wandered down to the big station—the Gare de Lyons. What took me there I scarcely know. Fate, I suppose, because there were a thousand and one places I might have gone instead.

The station was full of a bustling mob—uniforms—uniforms everywhere. A train load of soldiers had just arrived on leave from the Front. That was a sight for you, as their eager eyes lighted on some loved one's face! I tell you, it kept your heart jumping in your throat to see them. Some of them were so white and worn and haggard. Most of them bronzed and wiry, a bit grimy from the long train trip, with uniforms faded and sometimes torn. But weariness and dirt and tears could not hide the spirit that shone in their eyes as they clasped their wife and little ones to them.

A young artillery officer came toward me. He was a handsome man with a bit of a swagger in spite of his limp. I saw his eyes roving the crowd restlessly in search of someone. Suddenly he caught sight of me.

"Ah! An American! What joy! Vive L'Amerique!" he shouted.

I thanked him. I told him my name and he told me his. It was Louis du Frere, and he lived at Faubourg St. Germain. He was just back from the trenches on a precious leave of seven days. Wounded? He shrugged. But, yes, fifteen times so far, and what of that?

I stared at him. Wounded fifteen times and yet eager to go back! Spirit of France, you are indomitable!

He excused himself as he scanned the crowd. His sister was to meet him. She was there somewhere. She never failed him. Ah, yes! He had found her....

I turned to see a little black-clad figure rush into his arms and cling to him as though she could never let him go. He spoke to her gently.

"Angele," he said, "this gentleman is a great officer of the American navy. Tell him how glad you are to welcome him to France."

At that she whirled and since then I have never been able to see a red poppy without thinking of her. I don't remember what I said in my very limited French, but her brother broke in to explain that she had lost her young husband at the battle of the Marne and he ended up by announcing to her that I was going to spend the rest of my liberty as their guest.

I tried to protest, to insist that I had no intention of thrusting my presence upon them for eleven days. But he took my refusal with the air of a hurt child and when Angele joined her pleas with his, I succumbed. I let du Frere hail a cab and we all piled in. I gathered up my few possessions at the hotel and climbed aboard again, and we rumbled through the streets of Paris toward St. Germain, Angele clinging to her brother's arm and listening with a wrapt look on her face to his gay comments on trench life.

I thought I must be dreaming it all. It was so like the scene of a play—Paris slipping away from us, as we rattled across a long bridge, the open country becoming greener and leafier every instant—the gay voice of the young officer, the eager questions of our little old driver, and the poppy-like girl, with lips parted, drinking in breathlessly every word her brother uttered.

We stopped before a tiny house, shaded by tall trees. I saw, gathered before it, a little knot of people, shading their eyes for a glimpse of the returning hero.

They pounced upon him, men, women, and children—all his neighbors, who had awaited his home coming for heaven only knows how many hours. They shouted their welcome to him, each of them clasping him for a minute and claiming his full attention.

Angele stood looking on, the tears rolling down her cheeks, even while her lips smiled.

"They love him so," she said softly, as though to explain it, "he is so brave!"

I think he was, to face that mob.

They followed him in. The table was spread with every sort of delicacy. Each one of them had contributed something choice—some dish of which he was especially fond. He exclaimed over it all rapturously. He left nothing to be desired in his eager enthusiasm.

They gave him no time to rest. They poured a torrent of questions upon him. Questions about their own brothers and husbands and lovers—questions concerning warfare—trench life—battles in which he had fought. And he told them all he knew until at length Angele scolded them tenderly and bore him off. Then it was that they turned upon me as the second best object of interest.

Never in a lifetime could I answer all that they asked of me. What did our country hope to do? How many men could she send across at once? How long did she think the war would last?

I tell you I was glad to see Angele and Louis reappear and to follow them to the feast. I was placed at Angele's right hand—the guest of honor—I sat down with a sigh of relief as I saw the tempting spread. Sat down! We were never down more than an instant before someone would leap up and propose a standing toast to Pershing and to Joffre, to President Wilson and to President PoincairÉ, to myself, to my navy, to my country!

And the Marseillaise! How they did sing that! three and four times, shouting the chorus until the rafters shook!

Then Louis pounded on the table for order.

"The American officer will now sing his National Anthem," he announced.

There was instant silence, then encouraging applause, then silence.

"But yes, you will sing it," urged Angele, seeing my panic.

Now, in the first place, I cannot carry a tune and in the second place I knew just one verse of the "Star Spangled Banner"—and I was not over sure of that one!

I have never felt a shame equal to mine as I struggled desperately through the first verse of my country's song! They applauded madly. I might have been Caruso to judge from the racket they made.

But Louis was not satisfied.

"Permit me also to sing it for you," he said, and sing it he did—all three verses of it,—with a ring to his voice that thrilled me and held me spellbound. I asked him where he had learned it. It seems, he modestly explained, an American ambulance driver had employed his time in the trenches teaching it to him.

After supper we danced to the music of a string band. But Louis sat in a corner, surrounded by a group of older men and I could see they were in earnest, thrashing out the latest developments at the Front. That gave me a chance with Angele—or rather—half a chance, because her every thought was with her brother.

"He is all the world to me," she said.

She watched over him in spite of himself and when she concluded he must be tired, she whispered it to his friends and they began, one by one, to leave, in spite of his protests. He went with them to the door, shouting, waving, kissing his hand. When he came back to us he did look a bit done up.

"Ah, Angele, it is good to be at home," he said, and then, as though fearing that might seem a confession of weakness, he hastened to add, "for a little time!"

We spent six wonderfully lazy days in the heart of summer. It was there that I came to know the poppies which were so like Angele, so radiant, so graceful—so lovely. I told her once that she put me in mind of them.

"I am glad," she replied, "because I, too, love them."

My leave was not up for eleven days all told, and Louis had persuaded me to stay on at the little cottage after his return to duty. I did not need much persuading. It seemed as though I could never tear myself away from that tiny house shaded by tall trees.

The night before he left I don't think any of us slept a wink. The neighbors arrived, laden with all sorts of dainties—cakes and bread they had made for him to take back. They brought packages for their own boys, too, that he cheerfully promised to distribute. They gave him letters and a thousand messages, which he repeated painstakingly after them. He was so gentle with them, so eager to do as they asked.

He was particularly pleased over a little bunch of wild flowers a tiny girl had gathered for him, the flowers were drooping and faded from being clasped in her hot little hand, but he told her again and again how much he loved them, until her little cheeks glowed pink with joy and her eyes shone like stars.

After they had gone, I stole away and left Angele alone with him. They sat in the open doorway, her cheek against his arm, her hand in his. She was not sad, there was a happy, busy note in her voice as she chatted to him.

Before he climbed the stairs to bed, he sought me. I was smoking and thinking, on a little bench beneath the trees. Louis sat beside me and laid his hand on my knee.

"Well, my friend, I leave before you. For a little while we part, is it not so?—then, God willing, we meet again."

I tried to tell him what my visit had meant to me. What a place France and her people would for ever more occupy in my heart. All those things I struggled to say, but when it comes to expressing that which lies close to our heart, I find we are a halting, tongue-tied nation!

Then I spoke of Angele. I wanted him to know before he left how much I cared for her. I was afraid he might be displeased, but, instead, he pumped my hand with joy.

"This is American fashion," he laughed, then he leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Since you love a French girl you will have to get used to her brother's greeting," he said.

I told him I had not spoken to Angele. I had not dared to. I could not hope she would care for me.

"But you must speak to-night, before I go," he shouted. "Let me prepare her first. Oh, but this is of a great happiness to me!"

And before I could stop him, he hurried away.

After a long silence, while my heart thumped against my ribs and I felt myself growing hot and cold by turns, his voice sounded through the darkness.

"Come here, my friend, and see what you can do to make this child change her mind."

I ran toward him. I saw the flash of Angele's white gown, but when I reached her side, Louis had gone. She awaited me. Somehow she looked like the poppies at twilight, when their petals are folded....

We were there together so long, that at length Louis' voice broke in upon us and startled us. He shouted that he must leave in six hours—that a brother returning to the Front had some claim upon his sister's time. Angele flew to his side, begging him to forgive her selfishness, but he pinched her cheek and laughed at her, brimming over with happiness at the romance for which he claimed he was responsible.

"But you must not take her away until after the war," he pleaded. "I want her here to greet me when I come home. I am a selfish brute, I know, but I would have nothing to return to if my little sister were gone."

I promised him. I would have promised anything that night I was so happy. It did not seem, as I stood in that quiet, leafy garden, with Angele's hand in mine, that there could be pain and anguish in the world—that cannons could be roaring and star shells bursting less than a hundred miles away!

Louis left at daybreak. We drove to Paris with him and to the station. It was a gay morning with a red sun rolling up from the east.

Angele was all smiles and animation, full of eager plans for his next leave. She submitted to his teasing with a laugh, but, for all that, her eyes looked as though they held a world of unshed tears, and I saw her, once or twice, press her lips together as though to choke back the sobs.

The station was full of men returning to the Front. They called eagerly to one another—they compared packages, and boasted of the good times they had had. Louis caught my hand and wrung it. Then he laid Angele's in it.

"She is all I have," he said; "it is fitting I leave her in the care of our beloved ally."

He kissed her and teased her about capturing an American in seven days, saluted us smartly and stalked through the great gate, turning to wave and smile and kiss his hand.

I never felt such a sense of loss in my life. It seemed as though the sun had gone out of the day.

"I cannot bear it," Angele whispered, so I took her away.

We spent the few remaining days of my leave planning our life after the war. She will not marry me until then. She and Louis are coming to the States to live and we three are to be as happy as the days are long. We will be, too. I know it.

I have been across seven times since and I have seen her four of those times in the past year. If there is any man on earth who wants this war to end it is I—and the reason is a certain flower-like girl in France. Good Lord! you don't know what waiting for her means!

We've got to finish those Germans quickly and thoroughly so that Louis and Angele and I can set sail for America. If that is not a reason for ending this war, find me a better one!

The first big love story to come out of the war zone—founded on fact more strange, more powerful than fiction.

The author, Lt. Credo Harris, stationed in France with the International Red Cross, is a Kentuckian. He just couldn't keep out of it "Over There." His story starts with the entrance of America into the war and ends on the firing line of France. There is charm and skill in his style which insures keenest interest on the part of the reader.

"A story of strong characters blended, it exemplifies the old maxim that 'truth is stranger than fiction,' and in this case more powerful."—Buffalo News.

"One of those books that grip and grip."—Milwaukee Sentinel.

"A book worth while and a book to recommend."—Louisville Herald.

"Combines the interest of character study with a realistic picture of life in the war zone."—Courier Journal.

"Jeb proves that a coward can become the bravest of men."—Pittsburgh Chronicle-Telegraph.

Every grown-up will remember the time when

Many a fond mother will be glad to know of another "Chicken Little" just brought to light in handsome book form under the alluring title

Little folk will at once fall in love with this new "Chicken Little" of the far western prairies—the same being an affectionate nick-name given to a dear little girl and always used when she was very, very good—but when she misbehaved it was "Jane"!—just Jane!

Many are the inspirational books that now abound written around the various phases of existence, but "Laugh and Live" is a thing apart from any other. Perhaps it is the author's style of writing, sort of "hammer and tongs," breezy, convincing, seeming to come out of real experience. But the remarkable quality of the book is that it fascinates the mind the same as a high-class novel—grips one's faculties from chapter to chapter. There is no preaching, no "Fatherliness," no "Big I" and "Little You" in the text. It is more like the talk of a widely experienced comrade back from a voyage. Asked to tell what he saw in his travels he proceeds to do it modestly and well.

This volume is not the usual dull plodding kitchen cook book made up from "collected" recipes and enlivened by photographic reproductions of cakes, pies, roasted turkeys, and tables set with knives and forks placed "just so." Rather it is the "life and adventures" of "Bob" and "Bettina," who sail into the complexities of housekeeping the moment the wedding journey is at an end. Bettina's "know-how," plus "Bob's" good-natured helpfulness, bring about immediate success to a lively and interesting attempt at home-building.

Unique—practical—for two people in particular and small families in general. For economy and plenty at one and the same time it has no equal.

Filling a long-felt want of thousands who desire to know the methods of the top-notch moving picture writer, this celebrated photo-dramatist has sanctioned the use of eighteen of his best synopses, and one full scenario, representing a wide range of successful productions participated in by world-famous stars familiar to millions. Each Synopsis is accompanied by one or more actual scenes of the finished play in which twenty-five screen favorites are pictured in their strongest acts.

Here's as gay a little gift as any girl could wish. Bright, sparkling and joyous—letters from a matter-of-fact old uncle who talks to his young niece straight from the shoulder, exactly as he might to a boy.

Uncle Bill gives facts about moonlight, becomes violent over athletics, taboos snobbery, takes a fling at heredity, and touches up a few complexions.

The result is extravagantly and deliciously funny—Just the Book for an Ingenue.