The Baltimore County union. [volume] (Towsontown, Md.) 1865-1909, 1908-12-05

/
night in a village two three miles further
north, reached the foot of the wooded knoll on
| which Nerduit rests, just as the school-house
bells were ringing, and moment afterward
overlook on the road group of youthful schol-
ars, CARRIED like miniature monks In loose black
robes, blouses, belted at the waist. A little girl
first spied me and, nudging a companion in the
ribs to attract his undivided attention, shrilly
cried:
'Voila un Anglais ~
After staring and whispering and veering to
the extreme edge of the roadway like covy of
frightened partridges, they fell in behind and
followed me at respectful distance. comment
ing the while as if they had discovered some rare
animal.
"But regard his long legs and the heavy club
he carries" piped timid youngster, I'll doit
etre dangereux.'
Curiosity, however, was stronger than tlmidity
and they trudged along at my heels until we
| overlook another party, schoolward bound.
| This second group Joined the first and, some
| PAGES further on, was augmented by third not
to speak of numerous dogs and other rag-tag
and bob tail picked up along the village street,
and when we finally reached the public square
was marching at the head of small army
The bells had long ceased ringing, and it was the
irate schoolmaster. birch in hand, come in search
of his tardy pupils, who finally delivered me
from the young Philistines.
The older citizens regarded me with somewhat
the same curiosity, and the keeper of the tavern
where l stopped for breakfast shamelessly sent
his young son forth to announce throughout the
neighborhood that by purchasing cup of coffee
at his fathers auberge, one might have the
privilege of seeing a real live "Anglais." Among
those who took advantage of this exceptional
| ifx,x xvh IN nrOudlv n
nounced, in French, that he could speak Eng
lish, and invited me to converse in the latter
language. The conversation, opened by me, was
exactly as follows:
"Where did you learn English. my friend 9'
"Do hi spike Ingles? Yesl Oh Hellr"
"But are you able to understand what say
to your"
"Do hi spike Ingles? Yes Oh Hellr'
II am inclined to think your grandfather was
a pig, ~ ventured very politely; and smiling
sweetly the carpenter responded:
"Do hi spike Ingles? Yes Oh He'll
Then we reverted to French and made better
progress. So far as can learn, there is no dis
tinctive patois in this part of Normandy, and
the only difficulty in comprehending the peas
ants lies in their tendency to speak with q
rapidity that jumbles or at best eldes the words
Take, for example, q very common phrase.
Nearly always when Frenchman Is thanked
for some trifling favor, he responds:
I'll ny pas de quoi.''
But if he is a countryman, he telescopes the
words and says, "Pakwa."
In using the simplest phrase of all, ''n'est-ce
pas 2" the same class of people pronounce it
'Spa?''
In these little out-of-t he-way places, off from
the direct line of tourist travel. the people are
/ afmnla- rnindQd friQndV and intanaolv
| interesting, because they preserve the customs
and manners of the real Normandy. The wo-
men cultivate their little fields of "ble noir''
| sometimes with donkey or OK, sometimes with
| their own shoulders beneath the yoke. have
seen Norman peasant blowing with his wife
and daughter hitched like oxen to the heavy
| wooden beam. Readers who have travelled in
| Normandy may exclaim that these things no
| longer exist. Let them turn aside from rail-
| roads and grandes routes, let them throw away
| their guidebook. travel the unmarked paths
| and see for themselves. They will see twelve
| year-old girls with dropping shoulders and hol
low chests, bending beneath burdens fit only for
| strong men; they will see girls who rise in the
grey dawn to 60 afield and cease their work only
when night falls They will see children and
toothless old women at work side by side, and if
they choose to follow these unfortunates home
houses, straw matched and often windowless.
with beds of straw spread out upon the earthen
| floor within. These unhappy souls work in other
| peoples fields, and earn from ten to fifteen
/ cents a day. Americans, outside of the great
| cities, do not know the meaning of real misery.
| Of course this is only one side of the picture.
/ and the blacklist side. More frequently the
| Norman peasant owns tiny farm, fertile and
| beautiful as a flower garden, cultivated inch by
| inch, and poisoning like the rose. His stable
| holds donkey. and perhaps COW. His house
has one or two windows and wooden or cement
| floor. He labors long but he and his family are
| comfortably housed, we'll fed and happy.
| For those who own no property life as general
rule is hard and their remuneration barely suffi-
cient to keep them alive from day to day. While
walking from village to village in the cantons
between Volognes and Contances, made re-
peated inquiries concerning the daily wages of
the various classes of laborers. Among the field
hands the women receive from ten to fifteen
cents per day, and the men from twenty to
twenty-five CENTS The purchasing power of
this money is perhaps one-t third greater than in
the United States Therefore, the laborer here
is, at best. on a par with the American who
earns thirty three cents per day, if there be any
American so unfortunate. One evening on the
highway I fell in with vender of shrimp, carry
ing basket of his wares, and after travelling
with him for several miles, invited him to join
me in mug of cider. He asked me If l would
mind giving him instead the price of the cider
one copper sous. The days trade had been
bad, he said, and there was paralytic father to
support, in addition to his wife and baby. How
much had he earned that day? Seventeen cents.
How much did he usually maker Anywhere
from thirty to forty cents when trade was brisk,
What labor did he perform to earn this sum?
Oh, that was more difficult to estimate, and, in
answering, he dropped into the almost unintel-
ligible fisherman's argot, but by many questions
1 gathered in a hazy sort of way that he waded
half naked into the water every morning, some
times before dawn, sometimes after, according
to the times, and after two or three hours work
with the net shouldered his basket and tramped
ten miles to find market. This was but one of
many instances.
One Sunday morning, after enduring for sew
eral hours a shoe whose torn seam had rubbed
painful blister on my heel. came to an humble
hut, in the window of which hung the sign Cor
donnier." The little dwelling was built against
q stony hillside, just below neglected shrine {;
in his doorway sat the shoemaker, grey-haired
old man, whose furrowed face, though not of a
type indicating high intelligence, was frankand
kindly as that of child. On hearing my re-
quest, he shook his head. He was sorry but his
shop was shut; he was good Catholic, and it
was sinful to labor on the Sabbath day.
demonstrated; he reiterated. 1 argued; he
still shook his head. Finally, pointing to the
tall stone cricihx on the hilltop, he exclaimed:
1.-THE blessed Saviour would withdraw His pro-
lection if profaned the Sabbath"
Taking advantage of the opening called to
his mind as best I could the story of the OK in
the pit, and concluded by showing him my badly
blistered heel.
Then,s with some misRiving, he consented to
mend the shoe, but declared he would have to
do it as an act of Christian charity and could ac-
cept no money for the work. Fifteen minutes
of hammering and stitching remedied the trou-
BILE. and after expressing proper gratitude, l
made ready to depart.
With gravity and hesitation, almost with
trembling appeal in his voice, the old shoemaker
laid his hand on my arm and said:
Monsieur, the incident of the shoe is closed,
is it not ?''
He evidently expected an assent so answered