The Washington herald., 1916-06-19

( ulcI Inc sun is shInlhs on lne stFeeIs
and on the wide, quiet river-but the light
has died forever in many a heart and
| home in France today.
Walk along the thoroughfares Of Paris.
At every turn OF the road you will en-
counter suffering. and sorrow will walk
with you hand in hand. Here comes
wounded "poilu" in an invalid chair, and
! by his side marches little madame, his
young wife. She knows that her poor
Pierre will never recover from his wound.
Did not the good doctor break the news
gently to her only this morning? 'Tis
| but a matter OF few short weeks, ma
dame" he had said. in his kindly, SYM
pathetic voice, but know that you will
/ hide your fears from him"
Watch little madame as she smiles and
laughs with her Pierre. 'Ah. mon ami.
she is saying, what a glorious day OF
summer, and how thankful to le bon Dieu
we should be for it!' But when she turns
her head away from Pierre. her pretty
lips are trembling-and her voice catches
and breaks even while she laughs.
| The glorious Champs Elysees is ablaze
with color. The windows Of the Ritz
Carlton restaurant-now the Russian hos
pital-are wide open. and one can watch
the pretty nurses at their work. Here
comes a Russian princess. her dark hair
coiffed with the nurses flowing veil and
kindliness in every line of her beautiful
face. Sne is OF royal blood. and halls
from Petrograd. over the pillow OF a
poor dishgured zouave she bends. as
though he were a much-loved brother,
and one can see the soldier rub his eyes
| for fear he may wake up and find the
exquisite vision only a dream. But thou
art beautiful as the angels, princess he
is saying in a bewildered way.
In the same wide, sunlit street, between
the Arc de Triomphe and the ouai dor
SAL is the famous Japanese hospital
where the clever little surgeons and the
queer. dark-skinned little women do such
wonderful work.
| Walk through the Jardln des Tuileries
and across the wide river to Notre Dame
| cathedral. The summer sunlight fades
behind you ss you enter. In the cool
| Interior Is dusk silence. Then the faint
est sound OF music and distant singing
falls on the ear.
And mass begins and the professional
winds through the dim cathedral. Under
rich canopy, supported by four priests
totters the venerable bishop His hands
are folded. his head bowed above them
and his lips are murmuring increasing
prayers for France and her sons Not
only for the triumphant and victorious
does he pray. but for those who are lying,
! trampled and forgotten, on some name
less battlefield.
There is a silence on the great multi
tude, while a thousand candles burn be-
fore the images OF saints Now lips are
moving in earnest supplication for the
souls Of husbands, brothers, sons Mere
words could never paint the solemn
scene.
While mass is being celebrated in the
! body Of the cathedral a strange little
funeral takes place in a side chapel. No
hero here. See, the conn is Of roughtest
wood and the "cocher" Of the hearse
has been pressed into service as a pail
bearer. It's only a poor French 'poilu"
who has died ingloriously Of his wounds
in a Paris hospital The lank priest
numbles the solemn words in hasty fash
ion. and before he has finished signs to
an acolyte to extinguish the candles on
the little altar Of the chapel. Why
waste the wax" he thinks. Yes-and
| hurry the service, for there are more
| to follow. Hurry the rough coffin from
| its resting place out into the sunlight
| For he was only a common soldier But
/ he was dearer than any one in the whole
world to the sad-faced woman who is
mourning him so deeply. Her slender.
! black-clad figure fits shadow-like, from
column to column as she follows the
dead man out OF the church. Only a
| common soldier? Yes; but her son
AS she nears the door, her eye lights
on a wounded man. His head is ban
| daged. his arm is in sling. but he
! is able to participate in the service.
/ The one shall be taken and the other
left" she nurmurs brokenly. yet both
sacrificed greatly for the truth. Why,
oh why"
"Ah. madame. le bon Dieu seul
salt" says the wounded soldier sym
pathetically. And his simple philos-
ophy seems to comfort her. The or
gan breaks into song Of triumph. and
! the crowds stream out into the sum
mer sunlight.
! At LIE Bourget. in the north of the
wounded soldiers. discharged from the
! hospital. are made ft and strong
again. Outside the limits of the
station they are not allowed to wan
! der, but in the spacious grounds they
! play all manner of games and exer-
else. There are peace and comfort
here A big "poilu" is swinging an
| locker. My arm was broken in three
places" he explains. but daily it
/ makes the improvement. When the
/ fingers can touch the shoulder,
| shall again be able to use the So
! longed-for rife. Then I shall rejoin
my regiment once more. Is not that
| joyous? You see, I have a little ac-
I count " scllle Win lHe oOCneS. Inc
smile fades from his lips. a hard light
! comes into his eyes, and the Indian
club swings dangerously. My little
! brother" his voice breaks. and he
turns hastily away
One wonders about that brother
was he crucihed to a door like the
Canadian officers, or kicked to death
by a drunken German mess? One
has read OF such things. But this man
has seen it. And his brother-One
wonders.
! In the Care de rEst the man on
leave" is arriving by the hundred. He
is always a hero, the "permissionaire"
Sometimes he is decorated with the
Croix de Guerre. Sometimes he is
| scarcely able to walk. There is a
| strange, inscrutable light in his eyes,
as of one who looks on old familiar
scenes from q different angle. He
has grown so accustomed to trench
| life that he feels himself a stranger at
| his own hearthside. The sights and
sounds of Paris amaze him. He jumps
at every shutting of the door, he
trembles at every unexpected noise
"a thousand pardons, me cherie." he
will say apologetically to his anxious