When he is
not on actual duty the German private is always going somewhere
in a great hurry with something belonging to his superior
officer--usually a riding horse or a specially heavy valise. On
duty and off he wears that woodenness of expression--or, rather,
that wooden lack of expression--which is found nowhere in such
flower of perfection as on the faces of German soldiers and German
toys.
The Germans prove they have a sense of humor by requiring their
soldiers to march on parade with the goose step; and the French
prove they have none at all by incasing the defenseless legs of
their soldiers in those foolish red-flannel pants that are
manufactured in such profusion up at the Pantheon.
In the event of another war between the two nations I anticipate
a frightful mortality among pants--especially if the French forces
should be retreating. The German soldier is not a particularly
good marksman as marksmen go, but he would have to be the worst
shot in the world to miss a pair of French pants that were going
away from him at the time.
Still, when all is said and done, there is something essentially
Frenchy about those red pants. There is something in their length
that instinctively suggests Toulon, something in their breadth
that makes you think of Toulouse. I realize that this joke, as
it stands, is weak and imperfect.
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