Grand Forks daily herald., 1916-02-01

cry indescribable. Around their sides,
in the pouring rain, feeble old men
clad in patched rags seek to dam the
torrents that continually break thru
the earth dykes and seep into the
tents. Others lie on the ground with
in, wrapped in blankets, too wretched
to move. The hospital is full of the
more seriously ailing-there is no
room for those who are simply slight
ly ill, or weary.
At one end Of tent, seated on
petroleum box as if enthroned, is a
young woman, a shawl drawn over her
head. She is rocking to and fro,
moaning. From time to time she bur
les her face in the torn rag of what
was once pillow slip, held clutched
in her lap. Her shoulders shake with
the rythm of expressed grief. Old wo-
men, sQuatting on the ground about
her in semi-circle at little distance
tumble at inconsequent tasks, chat
tering like a Greek chorus. No one
speaks to her. Only occasionally the
children come and stand staring with
the cruel curiosity Of youth, whisper
ing among themselves.
Her baby was ill when she left
Ghevgheli week ago. There was no
food for him on the journey afoot.
! The bitter wind of the Vardar valley
bit through the inadequate shawl. The
boy died at last in her arms. She had
to bury him there, in shallow grave
hastily dug by a French soldier.
Such fairly able-bodied men as
there are among the refugees are
employed by the allied armies in con-
struction work, on the fortifications
now hurriedly building around Sa-
loniki. The French pay them four
francs day, the British three
princely wages, that help the little
colony vastly. Meanwhile the Russian
relief committee has been busily at
work. A hundred fifteen thousand
drachmaes have been collected
|itself-wherewith to feed and clothe
the more destitute. Princess Demidoff,
the wife of the Russian minister at
Athens, is head of the work, herself
on the ground directing everything,
with the assistance of the Russian
consul at Saloniki. Her work is the
immediate relief of those whose mis-
cry cannot wait the long process of
the establishment of an elaborate per-
manent refugee camp at Volo pro-
jected by the British Serbian relief
committee.
Night falls. The few men creep in
from their work on the French and
British trenches. covered with mud
The lamp, hanging on a string from
the middle of the tent, is lit. A few
soldiers, Serbians, who have also been
at work. stroll in, followed by Ser
bian policeman or two, who them
selves are the sole guardians of the
law in their own camp. The mass of
them heats up the tent notwithstand-
ing the dampness. Four unearth from
q corner curious. wierd-shaped instru-
ments--a huge bass viol that is play
ed with pick, not a bow; mandolin,
strung however, like a guitar; q gui-
tar-shaped instrument whose double
strings are those of mandolin, finally
tiny instrument no bigger than a
porridge bowl, with long neck and
plaintive tenor voice that sings the
melody. The music begins-the prim-
tive music Of simple people. in the
minor, with poignant reiterations.
Some one in the shadow starts to
sing softly. Others join. one by one
the infinitely sad voices Of those to
whom music is alone left. Songs, cous-
ins to the minor larmonies of the
Russian folk songs; slay songs, race
songs-the voice of a people, one and
indomitable.
And far at the end Of the tent in
the semi-darkness, still rocking to and
fro, to the beat Of the music now. the
mother sits alone accustoming her
arms to their lonliness for the baby
she left by the sombre road from Ser
bia.
HArald Want Ada T2rinr Y2Aaulfa