Joy in the Morning | Page 3

that live in the so large country across
the ocean. They came over and saved all our lives, and France.
_Angélique_. (Surprised.) Did they save my life, Jean-B'tiste?
_Jean-Baptiste_. Little _drôle_. You weren't born.
_Angélique_. Oh! Whose life did they then save? Maman's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She was not born either.
_Angélique_. Whose life, then--the grandfather's?
_Jean-Baptiste_. But--even he was not born. (_Disconcerted by
Angélique's direct tactics_.) One sees they could not save the lives of
people who were not here. But--they were brave--but yes--and friends
to France. And they came across the ocean to fight for France. Big,
strong young soldiers in brown uniforms--the grandfather told me
about it yesterday. I know it all. His father told him, and he was here.
In this field. (_Jean-Baptiste looks about the meadow, where the wind
blows flowers and wheat._) There was a large battle--a fight very
immense. It was not like this then. It was digged over with ditches and
the soldiers stood in the ditches and shot at the wicked Germans in the
other ditches. Lots and lots of soldiers died.

_Angélique_. (Lips trembling.) Died--in ditches?
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Grimly._) Yes, it is true.
_Angélique_. (_Breaks into sobs._) I can't bear you to tell me that. I
can't bear the soldiers to--die--in ditches.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (_Pats her shoulder._) I'm sorry I told you if it makes
you cry. You are so little. But it was one hundred years ago. They're
dead now.
_Angélique_. (Rubs her eyes with her dress and smiles.) Yes, they're
quite dead now. So--tell me some more.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But I don't want to make you cry more, _p'tite_.
You're so little.
_Angélique._ I'm not very little. I'm bigger than Anne-Marie Dupont,
and she's eight.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But no. She's not eight till next month. She told me.
_Angélique_. Oh, well--next month. Me, I want to hear about the brave
'Mericans. Did they make this ditch to stand in and shoot the wicked
Germans?
_Jean-Baptiste_. They didn't make it, but they fought the wicked
Germans in a brave, wonderful charge, the bravest sort, the grandfather
said. And they took the ditch away from the wicked Germans, and
then--maybe you'll cry.
_Angélique_. I won't. I promise you I won't.
_Jean-Baptiste_. Then, when the ditch--only they called it a
trench--was well full of American soldiers, the wicked Germans got a
machine gun at the end of it and fired all the way along--the
grandfather called it enfiladed--and killed every American in the whole
long ditch.

_Angélique_. (_Bursts into tears again; buries her face in her skirt_.)
I--I'm sorry I cry, but the 'Mericans were so brave and fought--for
France--and it was cruel of the wicked Germans to--to shoot them.
_Jean-Baptiste_. The wicked Germans were always cruel. But the
grandfather says it's quite right now, and as it should be, for they are
now a small and weak nation, and scorned and watched by other
nations, so that they shall never be strong again. For the grandfather
says they are not such as can be trusted--no, never the wicked Germans.
The world will not believe their word again. They speak not the truth.
Once they nearly smashed the world, when they had power. So it is
looked to by all nations that never again shall Germany be powerful.
For they are sly, and cruel as wolves, and only intelligent to be wicked.
That is what the grandfather says.
_Angélique_. Me, I'm sorry for the poor wicked Germans that they are
so bad. It is not nice to be bad. One is punished.
_Jean-Baptiste_. (Sternly.) It is the truth. One is always punished. As
long as the world lasts it will be a punishment to be a German. But as
long as France lasts there will be a nation to love the name of America,
one sees. For the Americans were generous and brave. They left their
dear land and came and died for us, to keep us free in France from the
wicked Germans.
_Angélique_. (Lip trembles.) I'm sorry--they died.
_Jean-Baptiste_. But, _p'tite!_ That was one hundred years ago. It is
necessary that they would have been dead by now in every case. It was
more glorious to die fighting for freedom and France than just to
die--fifty years later. Me, I'd enjoy very much to die fighting. But look!
You pulled up the roots. And what is that thing hanging to the
roots--not a rock?
_Angélique_. No, I think not a rock. (She takes the object in her hands
and knocks dirt from it.) But what is it, Jean-B'tiste?
_Jean-Baptiste_. It's--but never mind. I can't always know everything,

don't you see, Angélique? It's just something of one of the Americans
who died in the ditch. One is always finding something in these old
battle-fields.
_Angélique_. (_Rubs the object with her dress. Takes a handful of sand
and