The Washington times., 1933-02-15

has groaned to a. halt. The
baggage man dips in with
grimy hands and counts out
certain number of loaves for
each customer. One man will
get two; another will get five.
1t seldom goes any higher.
Some More Dirt
Off go the ragged men, the
bread in their arms or in a
basket that rests upon the head.
Every once in so often a loaf
will fall into the dust or the
slime. Whereupon the man stops
abruptly, picks up the loaf,
wipes it off by rubbing it
against his trousers-and pro-
ceeds on his journey.
Evidences of poverty are seen
only too plainly on every side.
Even though the people dress
their best to come to the sta
ton, their best is pretty sad.
The men wear misfit clothes
composed of odds and ends.
The younger girls offer the
styles of any year at all, the
most recent gown I noticed dat
ing back at least five years.
And the older women all wear
shawls that cover the head and
shoulders.
So the train pulls into sta
ton. Men rush for the bread.
My odiferous porter stands
proudly in front of the only
firSt-class car on the train. Men
and women regard the train
with fascinated eyes that are
filled with longing. A boy leaps
from the last car of the train
and races madly along the road
to sell papers. He rides with the
train, goes through the same
antics in each town, waits until
the train is beginning to move
and then races for it again.
Women hold their babies up
to the car window, so that 7
will be tempted to hand out a
coin. Soldiers, down from the
barracks and only half dressed,
lean against the station walls
and regard me with curious
eyes. Lambs, donkeys, chickens
and goats mingle freely with
the crowd.
And the Train Goes
Suddenly, a bell rings in the
station. The engine gives
warning whistle. With a jerk,
the train begins to move. The
people continue to stand and
stare until the last car has
passed. Nobody smiles. Nobody
waves. The only expression lies
in those longing eyes.
If you lean from your car
window, you can see the people
as they turn about and start for
home again. The donkeyS, the
babies, the sheep, the dogs all
file along.
Nothing to do now until the
next train passes in two days.
The excitement is over.
There is another American on
the train, although I didn't
know it until a few minutes
ago. He has the compartment
at the end of the car and he
spoke to me as I passed. His
name is Doc White and he
works for the Rockefeller
Found. ton in Greece.
Doc talked we'll, and proved
quite interesting. During the
conversation, I asked him what
he was doing on this awful
train.
Going duck hunting" he re-
piled. II get off at the third
station from here and spend the
night in a small town. I figure
I'll get in three or four hours Of
good shooting before I go back
to Athens"
DO you mean to sit there
and tell me-" I cried, "that
you're willing to spend "a hours
on this train, pass the night in
some awful dump and then
spend "a more hours on the trip
back to Athens-just to shoot
few duckS?"
Certainly" he replied. why
not? Of course, there are
plenty of times when I make
this trip that I don't get any
ducks. But the thrill you get
when you do shoot some is more
than worth the trouble. So
why not?"
Some r,eonla call them SonrtS.