The Coolidge examiner., 1936-07-24

!
E sRzsssea m bile wheels left
on the other side
Ar'h"r brisbane of the Atlantic.
Here working men and women.
thousands of them, ride to and
from work, ten to thirty abreast.
depending on the width OF the
street.
They have the right of way, prop
erly, in a democracy.
So it used to be in America,
when automobiles were new, small
boys shouted Get a horse" and
New York state law compelled the
automobile driver to stop his car
and engine, while a farm wagon
passed, if the farmer raised his
hand, or even lead the farm team
past his machine if the farmer re-
quested it. Here the car stops,
while bicycles circulate around it
on both sides. Similarly, you stop,
later, meeting focks of sheep, on
roads across the salt marshes of
the Vendee.
France is a land of bicycles, Of
many political parties, and, at the
moment, a land of strikes. Like all
other European countries, it is a
land of permanent war scareS.
America looks upon war as dis
tant, improbable possibility, and
when it comes spends billions on
airships that do not fly, ships that
never 60 to sea, and similar evil
dences of patriotic dollar-a-year eff
ficiency. Europe's nations live in
state of fear, as an American
family might live if it knew that,
at any moment, well-equipped
gangsters from next door might en-
ter, "shoot up the household and
set fire to the house.
American travellers leaving the
boat by railroad, descending in
Paris at the Saint Lazare station,
were surprised to find crowds fight
ing each other, not waiting for
Germany, crowds made up entirely
of Frenchmen of different political
opinions.
Some wore ribbons with the red,
white and blue colorS of the French
flag; others, more numerous, wore
the plain color red. One side sang
the "Marseillaise," national hymn
of France since the revolution.
Others wearing small red flags
sang the Internationale, official
song of the Communists the world
over, from Moscow to Harlem.
Crowds grew bigger, the French
men sang the two hymns at each
other, more and more violently,
with excellent voices, not one out
of tune, all knowing the words of
their respective hymns. The Mar
sellaise' says, Let us go, chill
dren of the fatherland, the day OF
glory has arrived; the other says.
arise ye prisoners of starvation;
arise, ye Wretched of the earth.
1t was a scene never to be de-
scribed, now that Docley is dead,
and Artemus Ward. Nobody both
cred the descending foreigners
from across the water. A few
Frenchmen hit other Frenchmen,
not hard, then agents of the
Surete, whom we should call po-
icemen, gradually dispersed the
crowds, that met and sang at each
other again the next day. They
live in the suburbs and work in
Paris, or vice versa, and, meeting
in the railroad station, it enrages
them to encounter those that sing
the wrong hymn and wear the
wrong colors.
Those singers have chests like
drums, complexions that reveal
countless billions of red corpuscles
and voices that could be heard, al
most, from Los Angeles to Santa
Monica.
One of them broke off at the sad
word starvation" and said to your
narrator, who had politely congrat-
ulated him on his vigor: 'Tenez,
tatez mon bras, ct j'ai soixante
sept ans"-mcaning, Here, feel
my muscle, and 1 am sixty-seven
years old"
The muscle rose in a biceps like
a small melon.
The duty of a visiting foreigner
is to observe, describe and not
comment; but this writer, had he