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Show Hj A LITTLE TRAGEDY OF THE WAR H In some special correspondence which recent- H ly appeared in the New York Times, the follow- H ing human interest story with a heart-appeal H came from France: H The old woman was busy feeding her chick- m ens as wo rode up. H "You must come, vite, tante," says the off!-. M c ir in charge of the rounding-up party. "We will H give you a lift." Hl "But I cannot leave my pullets," says the old H countrywoman, aghast. "They will starve." M "You must come, tante," repeats the officer, fl inflexibly. "I am sorry for you, ma mere; hut this H bitter time we must make sacrifices. Get your M clothes, old lady. We cannot wait now." M "But my pullets!" wails the old woman again. M "They will starve if I am not here to feed H M "Come, come, old lady," says thfe officer, and M signs to his sergeant. "Dismount, Jean, M and help her pack." 9 But the old woman backs up against the coop fl and fiddles a moment behind with her left hand. H Abruptly she has the door open, and with a move- H ment wonderfully quick for so old a body she H steps inside, among her beloved poultry, and slaws Hj to the wire-covered door. H There is a tumultuous flapping and fluttering 11 of bewildered poultry, and the air inside the coop Hfl is full for some moments of dust and feathers. H Then the chaos subsides, and the woman looks 9 out defiantly from her refuge within the coop. M The officer looks at me and laughs gently, yet M with a queer little look of unexpected understand-' M ing in his eyes. m "Ah, Monsieur," he whispers, "the poor old M body! It breaks their hearts. But how many i hearts are breaking these days! I have seen them H thus many times these last days." K Then he dismounts and goes forward himself Hl to the coop. Ho does his best to persuade the B old woman to listen to reason and come out; but 1 she is too old and too frightened and too rooted to H year-long customs and habits. B "No, no! I will not come. My pullets they i will starve," she says, reiterating endlessly. H "But the Germans will come, ma mere," he H says, patiently. "They will kill your pullets and m cat them." H "Never!" screamB the old woman. IH The situation has. become impossible. The S old woman is Insensible to reason, totally unable H to face and comprehend this sudden new neces- H slty which war has brought across her quiet H H Picture the scene as I see it in that moment, H , standing, pitiful and silent helpless as all the H world is in this moment to help the old body. H She stands in there, backed rigidly against B the far side of- the coop, with the chickens crowd- H ing away into the corners, cackling uneasily. H Outside the officer stands, silent; for he has Hj ceased to expostulate. The Sergeant, a big, bearded man, is crying quite frankly, and I see that several of the men are in tears. It is an extraordinary ex-traordinary moment, but I am getting used here to seeing these Frenchmen shdw emotion like a woman one hour and fight like the incarnate spirit of war the next. I comprehend their tears, though I am very far from tears myself only full of a great pity for the old woman. Thus this moment of drama around an old hencoop, and then, suddenly, action showing the iron underneath the surface in these men who are not ashamed of crying. The officer turns quietly and says three brief words to the Sergeant. The Sergeant and two of the men step forward and around the front and sides of the coop. There is a sudden crashing crash-ing of woodwork, and the coop is torn apart. Then an old woman screaming wildly, insanely, and a vast fluttering and clucking of outraged chickenhood! They lift the old woman, fighting and kicking, kick-ing, out of the ruins of the coop, and the soldiers catch the chickens as they come soaring and clucking out in all directions. The Sergeant and his helper take the old woman into her little house, and there, I presume, pre-sume, helped her to pack, for a few minutes later she comes out, very white-faced and rigid, carrying carry-ing a small bird cage and a clock, while the Sergeant carries a bundle on his broad back, tied up in a bed quilt. The old woman is not allowed to pass near the coop, but is taken to the rear and put aboard a light wagon along with a number of other" unfortunates. un-fortunates. The Sergeant comes back, and the officer whispers something to him, and I notice that he passes him a couple of 20-franc pieces. The big Sergeant mutters something nodding nod-ding toward the disrupted coop, and after a moment mom-ent the officer nods. "Very well, Jean," he says. "Just one, but no more. We can't cart all the livestock on the countryside!" From the coop I hear sounds that tell me unmistakably un-mistakably that chickens are being converted into in-to poultry, and I glarice for explanation to the officer. "If we leave them," he tells me, "they will only be destroyed. They will be better in our camp pot tonight." Just that he tells me. Not a whisper about the fact that out of his own pocket he has sent 40 francs to the old woman to recompense her for the poultry which sho was bound to lose. Five minutes later we were ready to move on, and I went to the rear to see one of the loaded wagons start off to the southward. In the tail end of it the old woman sat upon her big bundle, done up in the old bed quilt. Jn one hand was her bird cage. The other was gripped on (I doubt not) the Lieutenant's two gold pieces. In her lap reposed snugly two things her clock and one of her hens, which I guessed the big black-beared Sergeant had begged for her. The wagon went away to the southward, and we moved forward on our errand of mercy and pain; for we had to see that all the country for , a certain area was empty of non-combatants. Twelve hours later great flames were rising up in our rear. The hen coop and the little farm were going up to heaven in smoke, along with many another, on the borders of the great Forest of Compiegne. |