The Lakeland evening telegram. (Lakeland, Fla.) 1911-1922, 1915-04-12
In the Path
of Battle
90
-By-
Kathryn Jarboe
Kathryn Jarboe

Under the yellow August sunlight
the fields lay deserted; here a scythe
leaning against a 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. Gloire-but every
eye was wet, every heart heavy with
despair and terror.
Bibi had watched them 60. the tiny
stan 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 gone-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
Els offerings nosegay Of duets. the
color of the sky. of fleld-poppies, a
fame 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
fire that might never again blaze
thereon.
Days passed: only q 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 we're no other quite 90
helpless child Of six, q grandam Of
eighty-six. Indoors, the woman could
only sit and pray. Out Of doors. the
child played with his nowers-bluets
! bits Of the sky. peoples. red IS 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 aud dark
ness the roar of cannon had filed 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 ant
smoke; flames licking up the parchet
fields with the novels that stood IL
their midst, black smoke creeping Xix,
pail across the sky.
In the gray light before the sun ha,
risen Mere Craquette stood in tn
doorway and watched the oncomin
devastation, a foeman that feet, how
ever young and agile, might not out
distance. that no human hand Nigh
stay. Clutching Bib by the wrist. sh
re-entered the house and closed tn
door Better to die crouched befor
the cross, with suppliant hands upo
its succoring feet. than to be caugf
creeping and crawling through tn
fields Of matted grain.
For a little time Bib lay quiet |
her arms, listening to the ever.il
creasing roar, watching the light tn;
even now was redder than any ra,
of sunlight that had ever flooded ii
J windows Of his home. Soon, thong
} ! he grew restless and slipped ava
from the feeble hands that, with Il
passing Of all things earthly, had &
most forgotten to hold him. Out
doors the horizon was still only lii
OF red and black, and Bib could n
know that 1t was score of mill
nearer to his home than it had bet
a short hour before. Here and the
above the broken grain there wav,
a tiny flag of blue. Upon his baby Ii
fragments Of "Honneur. Gloire, Patrie
, he ran to and fro gathering his
, loved bluets.
, Tired, stifled by the heat, the sour
. Of which he could not understand,
, sat down at the edge Of the road. Al
: now there was new sound in the 9
mot the deadly roar Of the cam
that had Numbered for two who
days. not the rush of flame, but
steady, rhythmic throb that, with ,
! cry instant, grew nearer and loud
Bibi's mind, already confused by I
~. ~