Oxford eagle. (Oxford, Lafayette Co., Miss.) 1876-current, 1920-02-26
Shall Chaos or, Reconstruction
in Europe Follow the Great
World War;
NOW WEAK AND HEARTBR0KEN
In Mourning and Poverty She Counts
Her Dead and Looks With Eyes OF
Sadness Toward tho Threat
eninQ Future.
Article Il.
BY FRANK coMERFoRD.

4 tnat uay Germany Oecldrcu W"I w
Russia. The fire alarm rang around
the world. Peasants In the field
Strengthened their backs, listened and
! looked into the sun confused, wonder
ing. Flags were unfurled, bands
i played, faces were white, tense ana
! serious. Men left their work ana
| talked In groups on the street corners.
| Women laid down their brOOms, put
aside their washing, and talked In
whispers; sad lights were In their
! eyes. Children stopped playing. Some
thing had happened. Evil things were
ahead. August 3 and found France
and Great Britain mobilizing their
sons The torch was sweeping Eu-
rope-the fire of death had started.
For four long years-heart-sicken-
ing years-the world ran red. Men
| waded through mud and blood, fought,
suffered, cursed, prayed, while back
home In the manless houses women
and children worked, cried, prayed
and waited. The world was mad.
Death poisoned every breath the
people breathed.
It is over now, it Is finished. A
stunned, numbed, weak, heartbroken
Europe is again sitting In the sun OF
peace. Europe is in dirty black rags.
The black is mourning, the rags are
poverty. Her face is deeply lined
trenches made by suffering. Her eyes
are downcast and dead. Hope flutters
weakly in her breast; faith has faded
from her soul. Her home Is house
Of darkness. The fire on the hearth
has turned to cold gray ashes. The
kettle no longer sings, it means. Her
mind is weary, her body. is wasted.
Hunger has robbed her of her strength.
Her stOckingless, shoeless feet are
blue from the cold. Her lips wear
starvation color. Ice In the winters
wind lashes her shivering, half-naked
body. She mumbles as she stares va
cantly into space-she is tired, so
tired. AS I beheld her it seemed to
me that a face SO troubled and sad
must never have known smile.
l listened to her mutterings. found
that she was counting. Over and over
again she counted on her thin, tired,
worn hands-she was counting her
dead.
Thinking Of Her Loss.
She was thinking. Her eyes looked
over the hundreds of thousands OF
square miles Of war zone, slashed
with trenches, pitted and pockmarked
by shells. She sees where they fell.
No tears are in her eyes. Long ago
the hurt had reached the point where
tears dry up. Row upon row, line
upon line, mile upon mile, white
painted wooden crosses mark their
graves For the most part they were
her youngest born, her most beloved,
who dug deep in the soil to sleep for
ever in the dark dugouts.
AS they fell bleeding from steel and
lead, choking from gas, writing In
agony from fire, they proved in the dy
ing word they spoke that they were
mere boys, as they had shown in their
fighting that they were brave men. To
the peoples they intrusted their mes
sage, and the red peoples remember
the last word of Europe's dying sons,
who went out into the great beyond
with this last word on their lips,
Mother"
She has finished counting; an ache
shudders through her bent body. She
sighs and sobs, "Seven and half mil
lion Of my sons are dead"
Her thoughts turn to the living, her
arms open to receive them, she holds
them to her heart. They have come,
but how?
Some with sightless eyes, doomed to
grope through the world in a never
ending darkness, night without stars
or moon; sunless, black, hopeless days,
and these, too, young men In the very
morning of their day.
Others sentenced to silence-deaf
and dumb. Never again will she hear
their voices nor will they hear hers.
Still others in wheel chairs, dwarfed,
legless.
More hobbling on clutches, 1imping
on canes.
some WIFI C1upty SACCvC0s
Many with great scars, where once
was a handsome face.
She sees them all, her heart bleeds;
the twisted, the mangled, the torn
She is counting them, the 1866 OF,
the wounded Of the war.
Wars Friehtful Cost.
Her voice is husky, her hands are
tired, but she must count on. Six and
q half million Of her sons were marked
'missing and prisoners In the official
war score. Many Of these have come
back to her, but she does not question
tiem-she dare not. Their faces tell
Of the unspeakable horrors they en-
dured. She sees In their eyes depth
Of pain that Is unfathomable. She II
Z mOther-she knows.
The war is over, but she is not over
the war. Must she never stop count
ing? Is there no end to her losses
msl,< nrovovorda Oro 0pnudn6 Her