The Major's Daughter by J. P. Francis Page A

the words sound queer and funny to your ear, a little bit jumbled and jivey,
    Sing “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy.”
    â€œI don’t know why you like that ridiculous song so much,” Amy said, taking a seat at the shoreward end of the log, “but you’re driving me to distraction with it.”
    â€œSing it with me. You’ll like it,” Marie said, breaking the song for a moment while she spun on the log to return to them. “Everyone likes it except you.”
    â€œEven the Germans sing it,” Collie said, sitting on the opposite side from Amy. “They say it’s popular in Europe, too.”
    â€œIt’s catchy, I’ll give you that. But to hear it over and over . . .”
    Marie began singing it again. Collie laughed at the pained expression on Amy’s face. She couldn’t help herself: she chimed in with Marie, and Marie, delighted, began singing louder. The sun felt good and warm and the camp felt far removed, Collie thought, and she sang right out, glad to follow Marie’s nonsense. She grabbed Amy’s hands and tried to get her to dance, but when she refused Collie hopped onto the log and danced with Marie. They did a silly minuet, pointing their toes and pretending to be grand ladies, all the while singing the delirious lyrics. It was infectious. Collie couldn’t resist, and she led the next round, kicking higher now, laughing when Amy shook her head.
    â€œPlease, please, please, please, please, can we ride to the camp now? It’s right on our way home,” Marie asked when they came to a good stopping point.
    â€œWill you promise never to sing that song again in my hearing range?” Amy asked.
    â€œNever?” Marie squealed.
    â€œFor a week, then.”
    Marie jumped down off the log and ran to Sylvester. She turned and made a face, pretending that the words of the song tried to force their way up through her throat. She slapped her hand over her mouth, but her cheeks puffed wider, and she crossed her eyes to demonstrate the pain of not singing. Collie laughed. It felt good to be in the sun and good to laugh, and she linked her arm in Amy’s and made her friend run with her to their horses.
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    August watched the traffic pass by: children laughing and pointing, cars creeping slowly past, civilians walking as if on an after-dinner constitutional, except that they had obviously come to gawk. It was difficult to avoid doing something to satisfy the American voyeurs. How odd the circumstances seemed to be, he thought. If the situations were reversed, and Americans were held prisoners in a camp, he could not imagine the German citizenry paying much attention. Prisoners, like sawdust to a carpenter, came from wars, plain and simple. To gaze at tanks and cannons on parade made sense to him, but to wander past Camp Stark and spend a day watching German men do nothing struck him as peculiar. He wished he could ask an American about it. He supposed it had something to do with the fact that Americans had little experience with war on their continent.
    Boris—his barracks leader—had issued orders to do nothing about the audience. August had no intention of disobeying Boris, but it seemed like an opportunity lost. Wasn’t it their sworn duty to attempt escape? If so, he thought, it made sense to speak with the citizens in order to find out as much as possible about the surrounding area. That only stood to reason. Boris had consulted with the Nazi leadership committee and had repeated the instructions to ignore the Americans staring at them through the fence. The Nazis were a group of older, brutal men, and August did not think seriously about defying them.
    In any case, he was glad to have a day to recover. His hands hurt from the saw and ax, and his back ached from lifting and moving wood. He had eaten a good dinner—yes, Red, the Munich cook, was a