French Perspectives

French Perspectives

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French Perspectives

French Perspectives

Read FREE!

Excerpt

It was nearly two years before the beginning of the war that a disquieting symbol of change first appeared to me in the French sky. I was sitting in a friendly garden, basking in the warm autumnal sunshine, savoring, as a New Englander can, the charm of being again in France. Above me, a red-roofed cottage; below, a steep, terraced hillside; beyond, closing the ripe green valley, a darkly wooded horizon. No sign of life but a solitary pony-cart climbing the one white road that cut the opposite hill. No sound in the golden air but the scratch of a pen at an upper window, the click of garden shears among the rose-bushes. Then suddenly, brusquely, an ominous whirr, a mysterious pulsing throb directly overhead. Staring up, I saw the long brown shadow of an army biplane sharp against the opalescent sky. Almost grazing the cottage roof, it wheeled, swooped across the valley, and disappeared. But the spell was broken. Those mechanical wings had left a sinister echo in the quiet garden; and . . .

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