The Lakeland evening telegram. (Lakeland, Fla.) 1911-1922, 1915-04-15
In the Path
Of Battle
20
Kathryn Jarboe

Uo9eSe9eSSGSeSeSe
Copyright. The Frank A. Munsey Col
Under the yellow August sunlight
the fields lay deserted; here a scythe
leaning against half-completed stack.
there sickle rusting on the stubble.
The twilight fell upon deserted
hearths where women. with trembling
fingers, cooked their scanty meals.
The round, full moon looked down
upon scattered homes where only the
children slept, where the women wept
and shuddered and waited.
For the men had marched away un.
der the brilliant. Haunting colors.
None had been too old to 60, none
too young Their lips had shouted the
raucous notes. the valiant words
Honneur. Patrie, Gl0ire-but every
eye was wet, every heart heavy with
despair and terror.
Bib had watched them go, the tiny
star in his clenched fingers beating
time to the brave music. to the hur-
rying feet, but. in the nameless ter
ror that had descended upon the land,
he chung to the old grandmother's
hand and, when all were kone-fa-
Their, uncle. brother-he flung himself
sobbing upon the ground. The wom-
an, left alone in the world save for
the small grandchild, watched with
eyes too old for tears until there was
no longer even a cloud of dust upon
the horizon: then she turned and hob
bled into the empty house, leaving
the child still lying there upon the
lonely road.
Before the hearth she sat. seeing
the long procession of all the others
who, under that same tricolor, had
marched out, away from her life.
never to return. Hours later, when
Bib came in, his little tragedy all for
gotten, his face rejecting only the
golden glory of the summer day. he
found her sitting there. dry-eyed. her
shriveled lips muttering prayers for
those already dead. for those about to
| die. Into her shaking hands he thrust
his offering--a nosegay Of bluets. the
color Of the sky, of field-poppies, a
flame of red, and mullen, white with
the dust Of the road-the tricolor that
had taken from them grandfather,
father. husband and sons.
A choking sob slipped across her
lips and she flung the flowers from her
on to the hearth, where the red petals
Of the peoples lay in mimicry Of the
IRE that might never again blaze
thereon.
Days passed; only . few-Bibi
could not count them. Mere Craquette
would not. The heavy-headed blades
of grain lay prone upon the ground.
ungarnered by the hands that we're too
tiny. the hands that we're too old.
There were others. Of course. in that
deserted land, as lonely as these two.
but there were no other quite SO
helpless-a child Of six, a grandam Of
eighty-six. Indoors, the woman could
only sit and pray. Out Of doors, the
child played with his fOwers-bluets.
bits Of the sky. peoples. red as blood.
and MULLEN, a dried and CHASTITY white.
The short-lived peoples dropped and
fell to the earth, the MULLEN crumbled
to dust, only the bluets we're left.
And then there dawned the day Of
horror. For hours of light and dark
ness the roar of cannon had filled the
universe, for hours of light and dark.
ness the grandmother had knelt quiv.
ering and trembling before the cruel
fix. At daybreak the low horizon
stretched-a long line of fire and
smoke; flames licking up the parched
fields with the novels that stood in
their midst, black smoke creeping like
pail across the sky.
In the gray light before the sun had
risen Mere Craquette stood in the
doorway and watched the oncomine
devastation, . foeman that feet, how
ever young and agile, might not out
distance, that no human hand might
stay. Clutching Bib by the wrist, she
reentered the house and closed ths
door. Better to die crouched before
the cross, with suppliant hands upor
its succoring feet. than to be caugh
creeping and crawling through tn,
fields Of matted grain.
For a little time Bib lay quiet II
her arms, listening to the ever-in
creasing roar: watching the light tina
even now was redder than any ray
Of sunlight that had ever flooded tn,
windows of his home. Soon. though
he grew restless and slipped ava,
from the feeble hands that, with tn,
passing Of all things earthly, had al
most forgotten to hold him. Out o
doors the horizon was still only lin
OF red and black, and Bib could no
know that IL was q score Of mile
nearer to his home than it had beel
short hour before. Here and Their
above the broken grain there wave
a tiny flag Of blue. Upon his baby lip
fragments of "Honneur, GIoire, Patrie.
he ran to and fro gathering his bs
loved bluets.
Tired, stifled by the heat, the sourc
Of which he could not understand. h
sat down at the edge of the road. An
nowhere was a new sound In the al
not the deadly roar of the canno
that had Numbered for two Who'll
days. not the rush of flame, but
steady, rhythmic throb that, with e,
cry instant. grew nearer and loude
Bibi's mind, already confused by tn