The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1900-05-30
Blackwood's Magazine.

Blackwood's Magazine
From him that hath not shall be taken
away even that which he hath"
1t IS 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and a
blaze of scorching sunlight is beating
down on the cracked yellow plaster walls
of the hotel The brown leaves Of the
vine that Chambers over the latticelike
roofing of dried reeds which shades the
stone terrace below are crisp and brittle
with the heat. The little blue waves
are tapping softly against the red of jut-
ting rocks and the sharp white line of
the landing place belonging to the op-
poSlte villa. 1t seems as though the
landscape in fit of that frothy French
patriotism of which we hear so much
has turned itself red, white and blue. like
the dingy old flag winch hangs at the
door of the cafe.
The dingy old flag is not there today
and the cafe is deserted A few skinny
fowls scratch about among the stones
and hard baked earth. A dragon fly
darts like a green flame across the sun
SHINE, and down toward the peacock blue
bay.
DO you want to know why the e,crD.,1
trlcoIor has been taken from the cafe
door? 1 will tell you.
MY story begins years ago. on a bare
hlllslde blotched here and there nv q few
crimson vine leaves clingfng still IN tba
stakes which had held up the cranes
IL was as desOlate a spot as one could
very well see, though the sky which hung
ABOVE 1t was blue and the bright Medi-
terfanean waves glittered below. PeoDIe
taIk OF the gayety of this Southern land
people who walk in their best clothes
on the Promenade des Anglais or the
6oulevard de la Croisette. They are
mistaken. They have never seen the
terablet deselation-the South, silent and
deserted, with its tracks Of fertile land
IeIt implanted, sacred to the HYMN of
that monotonOus little sun worshipper
the cicala.
Here on the hillside. beyond the dead
oelt OF the vines, some one had quilt a
queer little shanty-built it of broken
stones, Oh split bricks, of all kinds of odds
and ends of rubbish. 1t had been erected
very long ago, for there were holes in
the walls, into which had been thrust
punches of dried reeds-the tall reeds
whose feathery heads wave over the lit
Tie river below, like the crests of ghost
~ knights and paladins in some old. for
gotten romance. Here was no snug gar
oen plot gay with yellow marigouIs and
nasturuums, and fenced round with a
neoge OF scented privet, such as we see
before the door of a country cottaga
in England. The earth was all baI<e6
and beaten down before the door. and a
little yellow grass showed in sicIxIv
patches upon the burnt soil, from which
the clcalas sprang up in clouds at every
tootstep' tWirling their blue and red petit
coats in the sunshine like innumerab Bile
different colored ballet dancers.
On the day 1 remember a woman was
slandlng by the door Harvesting a small.
dusty looking donkey to a broken dowr,
In
ply of milk bottles-the neat tin can of
our civilized areas is here a thing I'M
known. The donkey had a weary. pa
Ient air. as though he had never known
thoroughly rested bones or a thoroughly
satisfied appetite. The woman. with her
shabby dress, of which no atom of dis
tlncuve color remained beneath the fierce
onsIaughts of the sun. and her big coun-
try hat tied about her ears. seemed a
creature of labor, a thing of endless and
hopeless toll.
yer remember that when I spoke TO
her she had the quick cheerfuIness Of her
race, and all its childish disposition to
ward lettering gossip. Yes-she lived
there. She was the milk woman of the
district driving down at O'clock every
morning to the little toy station by the
hotel, more than a mile away and then
climbing all the sloping heights around
10 carry mix 10 the tiny hutS, or some
times villas, perched upon them. She
got very little by this mode of living, she
said, in her breezy, cheerful way. as
though it hardly mattered to her. Ev-
cry one was poor. She had almost AWAY;
enough for the children and her husband.
and she did not look for more Of her
self she did not speak, and I felt that
there We're times when she and the dusty,
patient donkey kept their fast together.
Then she opened the door of her little
shanty and showed me the interior-a
strange, dim place, which had a poverty
stricken Wierdness of its own. A paralyz-
ed man, some years her senior was sit
ting near the tiny slit of window. with
the light falling on his pale face and va
cant eyes. This was the husband OF
whom she spoke. On the floor a boy OF
three or four, was eating wild figs, and
playing with a battered tin trumpet. This
was Va Youngest child. The other some
years older. was gone to pick mushrooms
As she spoke he came in, his basket
brimning with zampignans, as he called
them in his queer childish patoiS These
children hardly understood civilized
French. They were small and pale, like
ali Southern children. with an underfed
air, and big sad eyes. They sat MUNICH
ing their figs and handling the toy trUm-
pet with strange Old-fashioned solemn
ty.
Yes, she said, they would be a help 20
her by and by, when they had done their
service and come back to their Old hcme.