art students, which New York "bohemians" try desperately to imitate without coming within a million miles of the reality. He lovedlightly sometimes-but never crudely. He was too fastidious to tolerate the viewpoint of his average compatriot, who regards a succession of dreary "affairs" as being the principal reason for visiting Paris.

On the whole, Seeger was more at home in the Latin Quarter than he could have been in an American city. He was often desperately hard up, but he knew how to wrap his tattered poet's cloak about him and go down the road without sacrificing either his dignity or his happiness. One can do that in Paris, where money is not the main consideration in life.

It was a matter of stubborn pride with him not to offer his poems for sale to magazine editors. One day, however, he came up to me in the Café de la Rotonde and asked me just how I made my living. I told him that I was working for an American newspaper and obtained most of the material for my articles from the French daily press.

He considered this for a moment, then coolly remarked:

"It is disgusting to have to do that kind of thing; but, after all, it is journalism and no standards apply. I believe I could stomach a little of it."

"Why risk the shock to your sensibilities?" I asked politely.

"I have been broke for several weeks,” he replied. "It is getting to be a nuisance. If you hear of anything, please let me know." And he stalked off.

Needless to say, with his fierce hostility toward the work, Seeger did not succeed in earning very much from newspapers.

In the summer of 1914, he went to London for the purpose of finding a publisher for a first volume of poems. The gathering storm-clouds overtook him there. When it became certain that war was going to break, he at once returned to Paris and offered his services to the French Government. He was told to wait until the mobilisation of the regular forces was ended and enlistments could be taken for the Foreign Legion.

I did not see him until the Corps of the rue de Valois rallied on August 25th. Nor, after that day of high romance, did I ever meet him again in the flesh. On the occasions when he got leave from the front, I happened to be away from Paris. But I talked with many of the men who had fought beside him in the Champagne and the battle of the Somme, where he was killed.

The admirers of Seeger who did not know him personally may be shocked to learn that at first he was unpopular in the Legion. Yet nothing could have been more certain than that this would be the case. He was among men radically different from himself, and he was a poor mixer. Naturally, he was misunderstood.

Bert Hall, who enlisted at the same time, and who was later an aviator in the Lafayette Escadrille, told me that when Seeger was questioned about his calling in civil life, he replied:

"I am a poet."

It may have been absurd of the legionnaires to consider this snobbish, but most of them did. They furthermore resented Seeger's habit of sitting apart and writing, then refusing nonchalantly to show anyone what he had written.

Before the training period was over, the feeling toward him had

grown so bitter that at a mass meeting of the volunteers it was voted to ask him to get himself transferred to another company. A close friend of mine, who was also friendly to Seeger, was delegated to notify him of his comrades' wishes. I suppress this soldier's name at his own request, though I may say that he has since been discharged for wounds and is living in New York.

He approached Seeger and explained the situation, adding that it was to the poet's advantage to go. The legionnaires were not the most law-abiding of persons and might maltreat him if their request were ignored. The reply was in character. Seeger flung up his head and said scornfully:

"I never alter my course because I am threatened or disliked. My reason for being here is to serve France. For me, the men who sent you simply do not exist."

The result of this courageous stand was to create a new respect for Alan Seeger in the Foreign Legion. Sergeant Ed. Morlae, a harsh disciplinarian, who trained him, used to sing his praises as a soldier. But the one big friendship he appears to have formed was with an Egyptian, Rif Baer. In his letters he often mentioned the Rif. The latter was with him in the last charge at Belloy-en-Santerre, and thus described

it:

"After the first bound forward, we lay flat on the ground, and I saw the first section advancing beyond us and making toward the extreme right of the village of Belloy-enSanterre. I caught sight of Seeger and called to him, making a sign with my hand.

"He answered with a smile. How

pale he was! His tall silhouette stood out on the green of the cornfield. He was the tallest man in his section. His head was erect, and pride was in his eye. I saw him running forward, with bayonet fixed. Soon he disappeared and that was the last time I saw my friend."

Alan Seeger's two posthumous books prove his growth as a poet, besides revealing a lofty idealism, an immeasurable belief in and devotion to France. And France is grateful to him. She has inscribed his name first on the roll of honour of foreigners who have died in this war that she might live. As I have said, she will raise a statue in Paris to his memory. If, beyond the divide, it is possible for him to know of this beau geste, I am sure that he will regard his sacrifice as having been amply rewarded. Remember, he loved Paris. That a niche should be set apart for him in some old street or quaint mediæval square, will seem to his proud ego the supreme honour.

He has written his own epitaph in the following lines from the Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France:

Be they remembered here with each reviving spring,

Not only that in May, when life is loveliest, Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the dis

puted crest

Of Vimy, they, superb, unfaltering,

In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,

Parted impetuous to their first assault; But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike too

To that high mission, and 'tis meet to strew With twigs of lilac and spring's earliest

rose

The cenotaph of those

Who in the cause that history most endears Fell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.

I

I WAS born in a small Russian village. Our home was a log house, covered with a straw roof. The front part of the house overlooked a large clear lake, and the back, open fields.

The first time I became aware of my existence was on a cold winter night. My father and I were sitting on top of our red brick oven. The wind, whistling through the chimney and rattling the ice-covered windows, frightened me, and so I pressed close to my father and held his hand tightly. He was looking across the room where mother's bed stood curtained off with white sheets. Every now and then I heard a moan coming from the bed, and each time I felt father's hand tremble.

Appearing and disappearing behind the bed curtains, I saw my little old great-aunt, in a red quilted petticoat and white, close-fitting cap. Whenever she appeared and caught father's eye, she smiled to him, a sweet, crooked smile. Finally, I recall hearing a few sound slaps, followed by a baby's cry and aunt calling out loudly, "It's a girl again."

About three years passed. With my little sister as companion, I recall many happy days we spent together. In the summer we picked field mushrooms at the back of the house or played near the lake and watched the women bleaching their linens. I was happiest in the morning when I first went out of doors. To see the sunshine, the blue sky,

and the green fields, filled my soul with unspeakable happiness. At such moments I would run away from my little sister, hide myself in a favourite bush and sit for a while listening to the singing of the birds and the rustling of the leaves. Then I would jump up and skip about like a young pony and shout out of pure joy.

In the winter we cut and made doll's clothing. Father was a tailor, and as soon as we were able to hold a needle we were taught to sew. Mother taught us how to spin, grandfather made toys out of wood for us, and grandmother told us stories.

These were the pleasant days during the winter. But there were others, days that were cold and dark and dreary, when we children had to stay a great part of the time on top of the oven, and no one came, not even a beggar. But when a beggar did come, our joy was boundless.

I remember that grandfather would hasten to meet the poor man, as we called him, at the door with a hearty handshake and a welcoming smile, saying, "Peace be with you, brother. Take off your knapsack and stay over night."

Mother would put on a fresh apron and begin to prepare something extra for supper. And grandmother, who was blind, and always sat in bed knitting a stocking, would stop for a moment at the sound of the stranger's voice to smooth the comforter on her bed. Her pale face, so indifferent a minute before, would

light up as if with new life, while we children, fearing if seen idle to be rebuked and sent into a distant corner, from where we could neither see nor hear the stranger, would suddenly find a dozen things to do.

On such a night after supper there was something of the holiday spirit in our home. We would light the lamp instead of a candle and place it on a milk jug in the centre of the table. Then we all sat around it, grandmother with with her knitting, mother with her sewing, all of us listening eagerly to the stories the stranger told. But more surprised even than any of us children about the wonderful things going on in the world, was grandfather. He would sit listening with his lips partly open and his eyes large with wonder. Every now and then he would call out, "Ach, brother, I never would have even dreamed such things possible!"

At bedtime grandfather would give up his favourite bed, the bench near the oven, to the stranger. Mother would give him the largest and softest of her pillows. grandmother would give him a clean pair of socks to put on in the morning.

And

The next day after he was gone we felt as after a pleasant holiday, when we had to put on our old clothes and turn in to do the everyday things.

II

When I was about eleven years old, there were five of us children. One day father went to town and came back with a stranger, who, we were told, would teach us to read and write. Our teacher was a young man of middle height, thin, dark and

pale. He had an agreeable voice, and when he sang it was pleasant to hear him. When we did our lessons well, his eyes brightened and his tightly closed lips would relax a little. But when we did poorly, he was angry and would scold us.

As soon as I learned how to read I would sit for hours and read to my grandmother. Besides the Bible, we had a few religious books. I read these again and again, and became very devout. I read the morning, noon and evening prayers, and sometimes I fasted for half a day. Then I became less stubborn and the quarrels between sister and myself became less frequent.

One day father left home on a three days' journey. When he returned he did not look like himself. His face was pale and he seemed to be restless. During the three days that followed, father went out only at night. I also noticed that mother collected all of father's clothes, and, as she sat mending them, I often saw her tears fall on her work. On the third night I awoke and saw father bending over me. He wore his heavy overcoat, his hat was pulled well over his forehead and a knapsack was strapped across his shoulders. Before I had time to say a word he kissed me and went to grandmother's bed and woke her up. "I am going away, mother." She sat up and rubbed her eyes and asked in a sleepy voice, "Where?" "To America," father whispered hoarsely.

For a moment there was silence; then grandmother uttered a cry that chilled my blood. My mother, who sat in a corner weeping, went to her and tried to quiet her. The noise woke grandfather and the children. We all gathered around grandmother's bed, and I heard father ex

plaining the reason for his going. He said that he could not get a passport (for a reason I could not understand at the time). And as no one may live in Russia even a week without a passport, he had to leave immediately. His explanation did not comfort grandmother; she still sat crying and wringing her hands. After embracing us all, father ran out of the house, and grandfather ran after him into the snow with his bare feet. When he returned, he sat down and cried like a little child. I spent the rest of the night in prayer for a safe journey for my father.

III

As father's departure to America had to be kept secret until he was safe out of Russia, we had to bury our sorrow deep in our own hearts, and go about our work as if nothing unusual had happened.

One morning mother went to the post-office, and when she came back she looked as if she had suddenly aged. She took a postal card from her pocket and we all bent our heads over it and read: "I have been arrested while crossing the border and I am on my way home, walking the greater part of the way. If we pass through our village, I will ask the officer to let me stop home for a few minutes. Be brave and trust in God." At the news more tears were shed in our house than on the Day of Atonement.

father away on a visit. He was not a person to have around in case of trouble, for the very sight of brass buttons put him into such fright and confusion, that he would forget his own name. After he was gone mother went to town to see her brother and arrange for the escape. Then there was nothing left to do but wait for father's home-coming. I remember that I used to run out on the road many times a day to see if he were coming.

One afternoon, mother put on a cheerful face and busied herself laying the cloth and setting food on the table, and grandmother put on her best apron, father's last gift, and sat down near the table with her hands folded in her lap, waiting. We children stood at the window looking out. Soon we saw father open our gate. He was closely followed by Yonko, the sheriff, in his grey fur cap, which he wore summer and winter, and his grey coat tied with a red girdle.

Father was limping and when he came nearer I saw how greatly he had changed. His face was thin and weatherbeaten, and his eyes had sunk deep into his head. At sight of us near the window his lips twitched, but the next moment we saw, his own old smile light up his whole face.

Our greeting and our conversation were quiet and restrained.

When father sat down at the table he said that he was very hungry, but after taking a few mouthfuls he fell asleep. The peasant, who sat near the stove resting his elbows on his knees and turning his cap between his hands, rose and wanted to wake father. "Oh, let him sleep a little while," mother entreated. "Impossible," said Yonko, "the roads are