Evening journal., 1891-03-17

the air was soft with calm, hearing that
question / saw the honest peasants-sim-
pie, sturdy folk-toiling afleld in far
Provence | saw the Breton fisher, sing
ing as he patched his nets on the shore Of
the dear old sea. saw gay Paris and the
sweet valley of the Loire. 1t was strange
how the memories crowded on my mind.
looked at the wanderer-a man of 40
maybe. Old to begin life anew. He was
above medium height, little stopped fin
the shoulders. He carried a small parcel
under his arm. 1t was woful story
he told, with the spring moonlight all
about u.s.
He had come that day on the Bretagne--
confound the man and his two children in
Picardy This paresis was an awful thing
But what if it were all breath from ole
Egypt, and my greatgrandfather had heard
a story about fellow Picard and a roll Of
money stolen in steerage and-then /
swore As ] said, / had learned some
French in boyhood. Then / had bought
drinks for Paris boulevardier, and-well
never mind. The Paris boulevardier had
taught me to swear in such fashion as
would have made me hail fellow Ia Mont
nArtre.
And damned the beggar and called
him the worst things that his native tongue
permitted.
The man who knew McGlory blushed
and looked back and forth from the beg
gar to me.
And the man with the bundle shrunk
and shrunk, and made no reply. He crept
always facing us, backward, further from
the light and disappeared into the deep
shadows under the trees. His form was
lost. His pale face was the last thing
which J. still swearing, saw.
And we went away.
Summer makes Gramercy park pretty,
and the lights Of the Players club shine
out and men drink there and say cynical
things in the small hours.
An August night was passing through
Gramercy square homeward. There was
just the distant murmur of Fourth ay-
enue, with the occasional football of a late
fellow walking along Irving place.
could hear the fountains drippings fall
into its still basin. The air was sweet with
the fragrance of blossoms, waited ont
through the tall iron palings.
Out OF the shadows of the park came a
man. In voice, which in that soft night
was the most utterly piteous sound / ever
heard, he cried, stretching out one hand in
a suppliant way:
'Parle0 vous Francois, monsieur?"
IL was strange, courteous question to
arrest homegoing chap at such an hour.
turned, then stopped. Then | closed my
right very tightly, as Bob Turnbull had
showed me how long ago. Then / an
swered, My God, yes"
/ had learned some French ia boyhood
then had bought drinks for Paris boule-
Warbler, and fulfilled the dubious linguistic
requirements Of New Jersey college /
had deep seated love for the French peo-
pie and deal Of fondness for the French
tongue.
There in that sultry night, hearing that
question, | saw the honest peasants-sim-
pie, sturdy folk-toiling afield in far Pro
vence. ] saw the Breton fisher, singing as
he-Lordl who and what was this genius
of Gall, who with his pale, beggar face and
dismal, beggar voice kept stalking out
upon me from dark placess
Was he going to be like Mr.. Dicks head
of Charles I? Could / know no refuge from
this garlic breathed Picard and his two
children ana his roll Of money lost in the
steerage Of La BretagneY
Profit, cried I, thing Of evil
Profit STILL If bird or devil
hit him very hard. Assuming that his
face was France in profile, my fist landed
in the Norman territory.
He moaned and muttered something in
French Ipaused while he lay and waited
for me to so away.
It was enough. There was no fight in
him. In an ecstacy Of meanness | walked
OF whistling loudly the "Marseillaise,"
"Allons, alloas, mes braves"
The air was filed again with December
SHOWS Gray looked the tall buildings
through that sitting cloud Of white The
street lamps were dim and duh, like the
eyes of poppy eaters.
Far down a shabby narrow west side
street, in the purlieus of old Greenwich
village, the shop windows CLEANED gay,
with the frost upon them.
Men and women and children with
bright faces leaned against the storms
great harsh breast and laughed Street
cars with their merry bells, bundled along.
A white door, with the snow heaped
about it. Some tracks up the steps, and
the already nearly obliterated evidences
that wagon had been at the curbstone,
told that the undertaken and the coroner
had been there. 1t was a coroner's case
suicide from dependency, they said.
There was no carpet in the gusty hall
A blowsy landlady showed me to the sec
ond floor In a GEAR room fire. not
much Of a one, burned in tired stove
The room was chill An oil lamp shed
light over form upon the low bed in the
corner, covered face. and ALL with sheet
At a table sat a child girl of not more
than a dozen years. She was reading
when / entered She laid the book down
gravely. noticed that it was French
prayer book,
said, and her calm voice there in that still
room beside the dead was the most utterly
piteous sound / ever heard:
"Parlez vous Francois, monsieur?m-
York World.