The Pensacola journal. (Pensacola, Fla.) 1898-1985, 1922-04-12

hunting for bits of orange peels, apple
cores, or anything that once resembled
food: little boys and girls sleeping in
stables, with straw and manure spread
over their bodies to keep them from
freezing to death; or, in the early
morning, deserted children lying in the
| doorways of the buildings, wrapped in
old burlap bags, some silent perhaps
already dead, others sobbing uncon-
sciously in their sleep. They have been
placed there during the night by their
mothers who, unable to feed them any
| longer, have resorted to desertion as
a final chance to save their children's
lives. There is always a chance that
they will he rescued by the Americans,
and it is with this one hope that the
mothers leave their little children,
praying to God that they will be saved
by the kind and generous Americans
Has that story of unutterable suf-
fering, OF passionate love and gratitude
for what has been given, that trust
ing, prayerful appeal for rescue Of
children whose lives now depend on
us-has it all grown wearisome to us?
Are we tired OF being kind and gener-
ous?' Is there no longer any sacrificial
tenderness for little children in our
hearts? Is 1t time OF be rid of the bur-
den to stop our giving, and so, through
the board of trustees OF the Near East
Relief, who must act as we dictate, to
pronounce the sentence OF death on
these thousands of boys and girls who
have believed, to the last moment, that
we would save them?
Mothers and fathers of America, it
is not true! You will not allow It'll
Your hearts have not turned to stone!
What are a few paltry miles of dis
tancei They cannot separate you from
that famine-stricken land where dead
and dying children litter the city
streets. They cannot shut out from
your vision those hunger ptnched faces
and outstretched handsI You cannot
shut your windows, as they did, in
very desperation. in the city of Erivan:
but the walls and means of little chill
dren, waiting in the rain and snow, by
day and night, to be picked up and
clothed and fed, can not be shut out
OF your heart.
From PARKWAY stations, by the
magic of science, our homes are being
filled with song. and story, and music
for the dance. But there are messages
more wonderful than any controlled by
the wizards OF the wireless They are
coming now from faF- away, and the
story they bring Is burdened with
tears. The music is not for dancing, for
those whomake 1t can scarce stand
upon their feet. The song, swelled to
chorus OF woe by thousands OF little
voices that ought to be musical with
laughter. is always the same: Hun
ger!-Breadl" And with the pleading
cry of the children there comes a voice,
sweet and solmen. saying: These are
My little ones; we are My shepherds;
feed MY lambs"
American heart that has thrilled at the
laughter of little child or throbbed its
cry OF pain Is the receiving instrument,
and the messages are broadcasted to
US from the very throne OF heaven.
No mistake can be more tragic at
this moment than for you to say. as
you read. THE call Is not to me: I
can mott need not respond this time:
others win give. and the children win
not have to die.
There are no -others-f you turn
away. The appeal has gone throughout
the length and breadth of this great
land, and these Others" have heard it
and some have given gladly; but too
many have said. Il need not respond
this time" During the past four
months not enough has been given to