New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1916-08-06

the Seine. A path runs along
the very bank, against hedge Of haw-
thorn. Beyond that the ground rises
across fields of young grain to the forest
of Senart. In boats on the river sat
patient fishermen. under big colored UNI
brellas-old men and women, most OF
them.
We sat on a green bank in the shade
of a big poplar. Nothing more peaceful
could be imagined than this pastoral
place. The experience of the morning
seemed a dream. Here was quiet spot
that reminded us of picnics we had had
at home For once we seemed so lar
away from the war that we talked OF
fires we had built, camps we had made
on little wild rivers in Minnesota and
Wisconsin-on the Namekagon, the st.
Croix. the Flambeau. The smell of
coffee cooked in little black pail, the
smell of bacon broiled on stick, was
almost in our nostrils. We were home
sick.
Then we heard the guns. We felt
them. 1t was not like sound, but like
a heavier pulse in our veins, dull thud
of our own blood in our ears. Once,
twice. then faster than we could count;
then a short pause; then five or six
times together. Forty or fifty times a
minute.
1t was the cannonade Of the opening
offensive in Picardy, some ninety kllo-
metres, some ffty-fve or sixty miles,
away. We knew we had come to one OF
the most awful moments in the war-a
moment when all of us in France would
tremble. hold our breath, with the great
hope of deliverance, the fear of dlsll-
fusion.
Back in the animated village that dim
sound of battle was blotted out by hum
drum cheerful daily noises-children be-
ing called in to supper, dogs barking,
carts rafting over the cobbles.
Every one greeted US with this:
Have you heard about the gun? LIE
grand canon qui va passer"'
We had just been hearing the guns
down by the river, we said. No, no,
not that! The great French gun that
was going to pass through the village
on a train at half-past eight-it would
be something to see, that gun! A 32O
cannon, going to the front.
Well. we had seen guns, big ones, too
But we might go down if we had moth
ing else to do. We were rather bored
with all this TODD about gun.
We dined late in the bosquet at the
inn. When we had finished salad and
were discussing cheese came ThereSe,
daughter of the innkeeper, to tell us
that It was now time to go to see the
gun. We had but three minutes. we
could have our cheese and coffee after
ward. 1t was clear that she did not
mean to miss it. There was nothing
for It but to leave our bosquet.
Down the one road of Ris Orangis
streamed the whole village, children and
women and old men, nurses from the
hospital, the mayor, old crones hobbllng
on sticks, excited dogs. At the little
gates along the track next the station,
already closed, was gathered a crowd
that waved and shouted at us to hurry.
Three shrill whistles announced the
train-we were in the nick of time.
1t passed very slowly dragging
weight that would have sundered those
slim lines of track at any speed.
Five cars, crammed with soldiers who
hung out of the windows laughing and
shouting, with flowers in their hats.
Every window was festooned with pop
pies. cornfowers, daisies. 1t went so
slowly that the chef de care had time
to pass into the hands of one bronzed
fellow an immense bouquet of roses, the
offering of the village to the crew Of
the big gun.
Five cars, decorated as for carnival.
Then two long fiat cars bearing the
L. k,.I