New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1916-11-05
By ARTHUR GLEASON

torn up their roots from places where
their family line had lived for thou
sand years, pass from street 10 street,
and from city to city, Of the new coun-
try, with no heavy investment Of af-
lection in the local habitation. Once
the silver cord of ancestral memory is
loosened, there is little in the new life
to bind it together. The wanderer
flows on with the flowing life about him.
To many of us it would be an effort Of
memory to tell where we were living
ten years ago. The outline of the
building is already dim.
The peasant of France has found a
truth of life in planting himself solid
ly in one place, with an abiding love
for his own people, for the house and
the village where he was born. Four
centuries ago the French poet wrote;
"Heureux qui CONNIE Ulysse a fat un
beau voyage
Gu CONNIE cestuy-la qui conquit la
Toison
Et puts est retourne plein d'usage ct
raison
Vivre entire ses parents lie reste de son
age.
Quand revoiray-je helas! de mon petit
village
Fumer la cheminee, ct en- quelle saison
Revoiray-je lie clos de ma pauyre
maison
Qui NEST une Province, ct beaucoup
advantage.
Flus me plaist lie sejour qu'ont basty
mes ayeux
Que des palais romans lie front auda-
cieux
Tlus que lie marbre dur me plaist Par
doise fine.
Plus mon Loyre gaulois que lie Tybre
latin
Plus mon petit Lire que lie mont Pala-
Et plus que Fair marin la douceur
Angeyine."
Happy the man who like Ulysses has
kldf tlAEu 4dl anu Nlufs
Or like that other who won the Golden
Fleece,
And then wendell home full worn and
full wise,
To spend among his own folk the re-
mainder Of his days.
When shall see once more alack!
above my little hamlet
Rise the chimney smoke, and in what
season Of the year
Shall Z see once more the garden OF my
humble home,
Which is a wide province in my eyes.
and even more.
Dearer 20 my heart is the home my
forefathers built
Than the cloud-capped tops OF naughty
Roman palaces.
Bearer than hardest marble the fine
slate Of my roof.
Dearer my Gaulish Loire than Theirs
Latin stream.
Bearer my little hill Of Lire than
Mount Palatinus,
And than sea-ars the sweet air Of
Anjou.
Till yesterday that voice still spoke
for the unchanged life Of France. The
peasant remained where his fore
fathers had broken the fields and
loaded the wains. Why should he be
seeking strange lands. like the troubled
races? lie found his place OF peace
long ago. To what country can he
travel where the sun is pleasanter on
happy fields? What people can he visit
who have the dignity and simplicity
os his neighbors?
Then the hordes from the north came
down, eager 10 win this sunny quiet
ness, curious 20 surprise the secret Of
this Latin race, with its grace and
charm, its sense OF form and style, its
sweet reasonableness. Why are these
Southerners loved? Why do their ac-
complishments conquer the world so
gently, so irresistibly7 Surely this
hidden beauty will yield to violence. So
II came, that dark food from the north,
pouring over the fertile provinces,
breaking the peace of those peasants.
Something was destroyed where the
human spirit had made its home for a
longer time than the individual life: a
channel for the generations. Their
fields are still red with the poppy, bu,
their young men who reaped are busy
on redder fields. Their village street
is crumbled stone, through which the
thistle thrusts. The altar of their
church is sour with rain water, and the
goodness Of life is legend that was