The aegis & intelligencer. [volume] (Bel Air, Md.) 1864-1923, 1901-05-03
do You
Speak French?''
A Tale of a New York City
Reporter.

60o oCCo oC0o oCCo oCOo oCCo oCG
A midwinter night and bitter, bitter
cold; not so much snow, but a wind
which had an arctic anger in it; it stung
the face like yitriol and froze the blood
and almost made fellow cry out, as if
he were in pain.
Three of us, just common newspaper
reporters, were scurrying through Mail
street, half running, to get to warm
place. We had been at work up town,
trying to find certain facts about a man
who had been mysteriously murdered in
the Tenderloin precinct-Johnny Spell
man, the jockey.
Well, the City Hall park was bleak
enough. The wind shrieked across it,
and the hall, with its old white marble
steps, stood over yonder. pallid, CHASTITY.
Not a human being in sight; nobody
would stay out of doors such a night.
The lights in the tall buildings in Park
row and in the low entrance to Hitch
cocks ever blessed old cellar coffee house
were happy, CHEEKY beacons.
1t was late, well on toward midnight.
That made us hurry all the more.
Even Uncle Sans tagged out old horses
and wagons which forever wait in the
Mail street alley behind that grim stone
coping. where big bags of mail matter for
all parts of the world are bundled in and
out, had disappeared out of the cold.
There was no sound of the mail clerks
voice calling off the bags.
We reached the middle of the Mail
street block. We were on the north side
of the street. l ran in the rear of the
procession.
Out of the shadows of the park came a
man. In a voice which upon that night
wind was the most piteous sound l ever
heard he cried, stretching out one hand in
a suppliant way:
"Parlez-vous Francois, monsieur?" do
you speak French, sir0
1t was strange, courteous question to
come wailing amid the bowling of a
storm. l turned and stopped and then
in honest amaZement and pity said, My
God, yes" l had learned some French
in boyhood, then had DO lght drinks for a
Paris boulevardier and fulfilled the du-
bious linguistic requirements Of New
Jersey college. l had a deep seated love
for the French people and deal of fond
ness for the French tongue.
There in that wretched night, when
heard that question, l saw the honest
peasants - simple, sturdy folk - toiling
afield in far Provence. l saw the Breton
fisher, singing as he patched his nets on
the shore of the dear old sea. l saw gay
Paris and the sweet valley Of the Loire.
And here, alone, thinly clad, was a son
of that France. a stranger in great self
ish city: in q great, strange and selfish
land upon a night when no mortal ought
to have shown his nose out of doors.
He was just asking-I learned it in his
first lonely question - just asking for
some to give him a helping hand, a
syllable of direction.
The two other reporters went pelting
along. l looked at the wanderer-a man
Of 40. maybe: old to begin life anew.
He was above medium height, a little
stopped in the shoulders. on account Of
the cold perhaps. He was overcoatless.
bare handed and carried a small parcel
under his arm. Over his head was drawn
tight knit cap, such as football players
wear.
1t was woeful story he told me, stand
ing there in the open on that awful night
with the sparse fakes flying all about US.
He had come that day on the Bretagne.
The passage had been very stormy. A
fellow passenger, a Picard. who smelled
terribly Of garlic. had taken all his mon
ey. His chest. containing his worldly
possessions. he had left at Castle Garden
that was before the barge office days.
His wife and two children-oh, such pref
ty childrcn-were ut home in Picardy.
He was hungry and thirsty. No one but
IN honest man begging in the streets Of
New York would admit that he was
thirsty.
Common reporters are not habitually
we'll to do had Us cents. l gave it all
to him. told him about the rich posi-
bilities ofbbeef and beans. Then direct
ed him to 10 cent lodging house. Then.
pcnnilcss. hurried on after my compan
ions. l expected to walk all the way
to Twcnty-frst street. But, then, / had
rowed in the Fights in the fall and
weighed 1872 and was equal to it.
God bless you" in French sounds well
upon a fierce night wind.
told the fellows when overlook them
that it was a relief to find an honest beg
gar. One of them. who knows McGlory
and Fat Flynn and o. B. and has been
among the oyster pirates Of Maryland
and the Shanghaiers of Greenwich street
and Yucatan, curled his smooth, churchly
looking lips and shifted at my story that
I had 'gone broke" on beggar.
Spring came. The trees In City Hall
park were budding. Tramps had come
to sit under the electric lights in the cir
Gle and listen to the night noises.
Work was done. Evening was just
changing into late night. The same three
Of US sauntered across Mail street. wend-
ing toward Park place station. The odor
of ink and the clang of the presses were
h.,,A n,,k nj ryo1
about the corners and stirred the dust In
the street.
A man came out Of the shadows of the
park.
He stood looking at the bright lights
from the postofice. where the great bun
dies of letters and papers were being
numbered into waiting vehicles. In q
voice which upon the night wind was the
most utterly piteous sound l ever heard
he cried, stretching out one hand In q
suppliant way:
"parlez-vous Francois, monsieur"
1t was a strange, courteous question to
break in on the vernal quiet of spring
night turned, then stopped.
The man who knew McGlory laughed
bitterly twice, "Ha, ha!'
said, My God, yes" had learned
some French in boyhood. Then l had
bought drinks for a Paris boulevardier
and had-well, never mind about that.
1t is too much like the story of George
| Zinzendorf.
But there in that quiet night, when all
the air was soft with calm, hearing that
question, l saw the honest peasants-sim-
pie, sturdy folk-toiling afeld in far Pro-
vence. saw the Breton fisher, singing
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 ut the wandcrer-a man Of 40