My Little Boy
We sit down and can't understand it.
We tell each other all the stories that we know of Jean's wonderful size and strength. The one remembers this, the other that. And, as each story is told, the whole thing becomes only more awful and obscure.
At last we go home by train.
Besides ourselves, there is a kind old gentleman in the compartment, who would like to make friends with my little boy. But the boy has nothing to talk about to the kind old gentleman. He stands at the window, which comes just under his chin, and stares out.
His eyes light upon some tall chimneys:
"That's where Jean is buried," he says.
The landscape flies past. He can think only of that and see only that and, when some more chimneys appear, he says again:
"That's where Jean is buried."
"No, my little friend," says the kind old gentleman. "That was over there."
The boy looks at him with surprise. I hasten to reassu