The Raymer enterprise., 1920-01-29
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 the Threat.
snino Future.
Article u.
sy FRANK coMERFoRp.

- TuSNN VOm mEnrOnO.
August l, 1914. was the day. On
that day Germany declared war on
Russia. The fire alarm rang around
the world. Peasants In the field
straightened their backs. listened and
looked Into the sun confused, wonder.
Ing. Flags were unfurled, bands
played, faces were white, tense and
serious. Men left their work and
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 . and 4 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-s t-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.
1t Is over now, II Is finished. A
stunned, numbed, weak, heartbroken
Europe ID 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 a house
OF darkness. The fire on the hearth
has turned to cold gray ashes. The
kettle no longer sings, 1t 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 shlverlng, half-naked
body. She mumbles as she stares va
cantly into space-she Is tired so
tired. As l beheld her II seemed to
me that 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. pltted 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, writhing 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 poppies they intrusted their mes
sage, and the red poppies 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, "Seyen 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 howf
SOiut Will sibnlESs cyNs, uVuhHeu w
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 crutches, limping
on canes.
Some with empty sleeves.
Many with great scars. where once
was handsome face.
She sees them all. her heart bleeds
the twisted. the maneled. the torn
ahe II counting them. the 12816.0t7,