The name was singularly appropriate,
for assuredly Felice was the happiest of all four-footed
creatures. Her nature was gentle; she was obedient,
long-suffering, kind. She had known what it was
to toil and to bear burdens; sometimes she had suffered
from hunger and from thirst; and before she came into
the possession of Jacques she had been beaten, for
Pierre, her former owner, was a hard master.
But Felice was always a kind, faithful, and gentle
creature; presumably that was why they named her that
pretty name, Felice. She may not have been happy
when Pierre owned and overworked and starved and beat
her; that does not concern us now, for herein it is
to tell of that time when she belonged to Jacques,
and Jacques was a merciful man.
Jacques was a farmer; he lived a short
distance from Cinqville, which, as you are probably
aware, is a town of considerable importance upon what
used to be the boundary line between France and Germany.
The country round about is devoted to agriculture.
You can fancy that, with its even roads, leafy woods,
quiet lanes, velvety paddocks, tall hedges, and
bountiful fields, this country was indeed as pleasant
a home as Felice-or, for that matter, any
other properly minded horse-could hope
for. Toward the southern horizon there were hills
that looked a grayish blue from a distance; upon these
hills were vineyards, and the wine that came therefrom
is very famous wine, as your uncle, if he be a club
man, will very truly assure you. There was a
pretty little river that curled like a silver snake
through the fertile meadows, and lost its way among
the hills, and there were many tiny brooks that scampered
across lots and got tangled up with that pretty little
river in most bewildering fashion. So, as you
can imagine, this was a fair country, and you do not
wonder that, with so merciful a master as Jacques,
our friend Felice was happy.
But what perfected her happiness was
the coming of her little colt, as cunning and as blithe
a creature as ever whisked a tail or galloped on four
legs. I do not know why they called him by that
name, but Petit-Poulain was what they called him,
and that name seemed to please Felice, for when farmer
Jacques came thrice a day to the stile and cried,
“Petit-Poulain, petit, petit, Petit-Poulain!”
the kind old mother would look up fondly, and, with
doting eyes, watch her dainty little colt go bounding
toward his calling master. And he was indeed
a lovely little fellow. The cure, the holy pere
Francois, predicted that in due time that colt would
make a great name for himself and a great fortune
for his owner. The holy pere knew whereof he
spake, for in his youth he had tasted of the sweets
of Parisian life, and upon one memorable occasion
had successfully placed ten francs upon the winner
of lé grand prix. We can suppose that Felice
thought well of the holy pere. He never came
down the road that she did not thrust her nose through
the hedge and give a mild whinny of recognition, as
if she fain would say: “Pray stop a moment
and see Petit-Poulain and his old mother!”
What happy days those were for Felice
and her darling colt. With what tenderness they
played together in the paddock; or, when the sky was
overcast and a storm came on, with what solicitude
would the old mother lead the way into the thatched
stable, where there was snug protection against the
threatening element. There are those who say
that none but humankind is immortal,-that
none but man has a soul. I do not make or believe
that claim. There is that within me which tells
me that no thing in this world and life of ours which
has felt the grace of maternity shall utterly perish.
And this I say in all reverence, and with the hope
that I offend neither God nor man.
You are to know that old Felice’s
devotion to Petit-Poulain was human in its tenderness.
As readily, as gladly, and as surely as your dear
mother would lay down her life for you would old Felice
have yielded up her life for her innocent, blithe
darling. So old Felice was happy that pleasant
time in that fair country, and Petit-Poulain waxed
hale and evermore blithe and beautiful.
Happy days, too, were those for that
peaceful country and the other dwellers therein.
There was no thought of evil there; the seasons were
propitious, the vineyards thrived, the crops were bountiful;
as far as eye could see all was prosperity and contentment.
But one day the holy Father Francois came hurrying
down the road, and it was too evident that he brought
evil tidings. Felice thought it very strange
that he paid no heed to her when, as was her wont,
she thrust her nose through the hedge and gave a mild
whinny of welcome. Anon she saw that he talked
long and earnestly with her master Jacques, and presently
she saw that Jacques went into the cottage and came
again therefrom with his wife Justine and kissed her,
and then went away with Pere Francois toward the town
off yonder. Felice saw that Justine was weeping,
and with never a suspicion of impending evil, she
wondered why Justine should weep when all was so prosperous
and bright and fair and happy about her. Felice
saw and wondered, and meanwhile Petit-Poulain scampered
gayly about that velvety paddock.
That night the vineyard hills, bathed
in the mellow grace of moonlight, saw a sight they
had never seen before. From the east an army
came riding and marching on,-an army of
strange, determined men, speaking a language before
unheard in that fair country and threatening things
of which that peaceful valley had never dreamed.
You and I, of course, know that these were the Germans
advancing upon France,-a nation of immortals
eager to destroy the possessions and the human lives
of fellow-immortals! But old Felice, hearing
the din away off yonder,-the unwonted noise
of cavalry and infantry advancing with murderous intent,-she
did not understand it all, she did not even suspect
the truth. You cannot wonder, for what should
a soulless beast know of the noble, the human privilege
of human slaughter? Old Felice heard that strange
din, and instinct led her to coax her little colt
from the pleasant paddock into that snug and secure
retreat, the thatched stable, and there, in the early
morning, they found her, Petit-Poulain pulling eagerly
at her generous dugs.
Those who came riding up were strangers
in those parts; they were ominously accoutred and
they spoke words that old Felice had never heard before.
Yes, as you have already guessed, they were German
cavalry-men. A battle was impending, and they
needed more horses.
“Old enough; but in lieu of
a better, she will do.” That was what they
said. They approached her carefully, for they
suspected that she might be vicious. Poor old
Felice, she had never harmed even the flies that pestered
her. “They are going to put me at the plough,”
she thought. “It is a long time since I
did work of any kind,-nothing, in fact,
since Petit-Poulain was born. Poor Petit-Poulain
will miss me; but I will soon return.”
With these thoughts she turned her head fondly and
caressed her pretty colt.
“The colt must be tied in the
stall or he will follow her.” So said
the cavalrymen. They threw a rope about his neck
and made him fast in the stable. Petit-Poulain
was very much surprised, and he remonstrated vainly
with his fierce little heels.
They put a halter upon old Felice.
Justine, the farmer’s wife, met them in the
yard, and reproached them wildly in French. They
laughed boisterously, and answered her in German.
Then they rode away, leading old Felice, who kept
turning her head and whinnying pathetically, for she
was thinking of Petit-Poulain.
Of peace I know and can speak,-of
peace, with its solace of love, plenty, honor, fame,
happiness, and its pathetic tragedy of poverty, heartache,
disappointment, tears, bereavement. Of war I
know nothing, and never shall know; it is not in my
heart of for my hand to break that law which God enjoined
from Sinai and Christ confirmed in Galilee. I
do not know of war, nor can I tell you of that battle
which men with immortal souls fought one glorious
day in a fertile country with vineyard hills all round
about. But when night fell there was desolation
everywhere and death. The Eden was a wilderness;
the winding river was choked with mangled corpses;
shell and shot had mowed down the acres of waving
grain, the exuberant orchards, the gardens and the
hedgerows; black, charred ruins, gaunt and ghostlike,
marked the spots where homes had stood. The
vines had been cut and torn away, and the despoiled
hills seemed to crouch down like bereaved mothers under
the pitiless gaze of the myriad eyes of heaven.
The victors went their way; a greater
triumph was in store for them; a mighty capital was
to be besieged; more homes were to be desolated,-more
blood shed, more hearts broken. So the victors
went their way, their hands red and their immortal
souls elated.
In the early dawn a horse came galloping
homeward. It is Felice, old Felice, riderless,
splashed with mud, wild-eyed, sore with fatigue!
Felice, Felice, what horrors hast thou not seen!
If thou couldst speak, if that tongue of thine could
be loosed, what would it say of those who, forgetful
of their souls, sink lower than the soulless brutes!
Better it is thou canst not speak; the anguish in
thine eyes, the despair in thy honest heart, the fear,
the awful fear in thy mother breast,-what
tongue could utter them?
Adown the road she galloped,-the
same road she had traversed, perhaps, a thousand times
before, yet it was so changed now she hardly knew it.
Twenty-four hours had ruthlessly levelled the noble
trees, the hedgerows, and the fields of grain.
Twenty-four hours of battle had done all this and
more. In all those ghastly hours, one thought
had haunted Felice; one thought alone,-the
thought of Petit-Poulain! She pictured him tied
in that far-away stall, wondering why she did not
come. He was hungry, she knew; her dugs were
full of milk and they pained her; how sweet would
be her relief when her Petit-Poulain broke his long
fast. Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain,-this
one thought and this alone had old Felice throughout
those hours of battle and of horror.
Could this have been the farm-house?
It was a ruin now. Shells had torn it apart.
Where was the good master Jacques; had he gone with
the cure to the defence of the town? And Justine,-where
was she? Bullets had cut away the rose-trees
and the smoke-bush; the garden was no more. The
havoc, the desolation, was complete. The cote,
which had surmounted the pole around which an ivy
twined, had been swept away. The pigeons now
circled here and there bewildered; wondering, perhaps,
why Justine did not come and call to them and feed
them.
To this seared, scarred spot came
old Felice. He that had ridden her into battle
lay with his face downward near those distant vineyard
hills. His blood had stained Felice’s neck;
a bullet had grazed her flank, but that was a slight
wound,-riderless, she turned and came from
the battle-field and sought her Petit-Poulain once
again.
Hard by the ruins of cottage, of garden,
and of cote, she came up standing; she was steaming
and breathless. She rolled her eyes wildly around,-she
looked for the stable where she had left Petit-Poulain.
She trembled as if an overwhelming apprehension of
disaster suddenly possessed her. She gave a
whinny, pathetic in its tenderness. She was
calling Petit-Poulain. But there was no answer.
Petit-Poulain lay dead in the ruins
of the stable. His shelter had not escaped the
fury of the battle. He could not run away, for
they had tied him fast when they carried his old mother
off. So now he lay amid that debris, his eyes
half open in death and his legs stretched out stark
and stiff.
And old Felice,-her udder
bursting with the maternal grace he never again should
know, and her heart breaking with the agony of sudden
and awful bereavement,-she staggered, as
if blinded by despair, toward that vestige of her
love, and bent over him and caressed her Petit-Poulain.