BRINGING IT HOME

Dominion, Volume 8, Issue 2353, 8 January 1915, Page 6

BRINGING IT HOME

HORSES TIRED TO DEATH PRIVATIONS OF A SOLDIER (By Emma M. Wise, in the "Daily Mai].' 1 ) A few of us have no relatives in the War. 1 have none. I have friends in Lord Kitchener's Army, but as yet they are soldierß in the making. At the present there are 110 sick beds, no wo.unds, no deathß in my family to bring it home to me that war exists. But it is brought home in other ways. One day I was walking up Boulevard Raspail in Paris! At the corner of Rue de Ronnes a crowd had gathered. Two Army horses had returned from the war. They had come, the report ran, from Gare Montparnasse. How they had gotl to that particular corner was a mystery which none but the police could fathom, and they kept the solution to themselves. Why they had stopped there was obvious—they could go no farther. Side by side, they stood alongside the kerb, admitting defeat. For them the game 'was up, the war was ended. They stood- alone. No one claimed them. Neither could havo borne a rider, and if they- had had leader or driver hehad deserted, them. Halters dangled from -their skinny necks, but halters foT tether .those poor beasts were an. absurdity; they would not run away. The larger horse had, more vitality left than his companion. For him the world still"held some interest, and at intervals he turned almost sightless eyes upon the crowd as if asking what it was all about. The smaller horse did not care. . His drooping head was never lifted, his eyes were never opened. Occasionally his legs gave way and he staggered a little. Except for that he stood motionless. Blood-flecked' foam trickled from their mouths, autumn flies sought "the bruises 011 their fleshless bodies. • 'l'he ambulance was a long time coming. And all 'the while the crowd gathered. For a Paris crowd it was singularly sifent. -"La guerre," _ the people said in quiet voices, and pointed to the branded shoulders. Handkerchiefs were brought into play, and aprons, and occasional a coat sleeve. One observer, more daring than others, stroked the big horse's bony flank. •• "Madame, madame," a policeman said, and shook his head, but there was no sting in his rebuke. _ 1 Then ambulance came. They, let down the platform. The larger horse seemed to realise that that . waß the Brst stage of his last journey. .'The interior of the ambulance looked inviting, and he stepped forward without urging* Somo assistance* was required ■in mounting the gentle slope, but on the whole he accomplished it .pretty well. I The smaller horse had to he : assisted I entirely. He was willing to go, but his ; strength was spent. . Somewhere back ! on. the on the Jong roads, every bit of energy, of physical development that had made ham a fine horse, had been wasted. Whatever'effort was required of him now must be supplemented by outside forces. The ambulance driver* the policeman, the onlookers were willing to help. On all ?idcs ihey surrounded him and, literally lifted him into the van. A sorry sight the pair made huddled together in that narrow bos.. The ambulance driver shut it out by slamming the doors, then, ho climbed to his. seat and drove a.way. Those horses had been in the war. And that brought it home. _ - . Another day. I visited a friend in a Paris suburb. War has robbed our pretty- suburb of most of its men. My friend's husband, being an 1870 veteran, is exempt frond service; but the neighbour women all up and down the street have .sent their menfolk to -the war. It is wonderful how they have taken hver the business of those absent men, They run' bakeries, 'florists' shops, greenhouses, groceries, cafes; and one woman, the cleverest of the lot, manages to keep a sand business going with the few. horses the Government has left The sand woman is a cheerful soul, but that-afternoon ;she came crying into my friend's house. In her hand she'held a letter and a scrap of something that looked/like a very thur piece of grey board. , "Oh, Mme. Martine," my friend exclaimed, "no bad news from-M. Mar'tirie, I hope?" ( Mme. Martin© smiled. "He is not dead, nor even wounded, if that is what you mean," Bhe said, "but still the news is sad. Just look at this.' What do you think this is?" She. handed over ithe piece of hoard. We could not guess. "It is a piece of M. Martrne'a shirt," she said. "The only shirt he haa at the war." _ Then she explained. A man who haa fought beside M.. Martine . in _ the trenches had' contracted i an illness, which had necessitated his being inva- i lided home. By him M. • Martine had sent that bit of shirt and a letter. : "Again I ask you," he wrote, "why in Heaven's name you don't send me a shirt? Four letters I have written begging you for a shirt. Did you get them? if so, I have had no reply. I have no' shirt. Every week I get picture postcards from the children. They aro very pretty and I am pleased to get them, but—why, oh,_ why, can I get post-cards and no shirt? "I have worn this thing I have on for two months. Yesterday I -had the misfortune to break—l say break, not' tear, for this' stuff is past tearing— a piece out of one of the sleeves.- I send it to you as a souvenir. It may stir you up to sending me a shirt." "And' I have sent him eight," said Mme. Martine; "two in reply to each letter. To think of Francois wearing this—Francois, who -was always washing and shampooing and ohancing his clothes. Gaston 'says ho is like the ground. And he cannot get a shirt." We laughed, but behind the laughter were tears. We handled the scrap of sodden cloth almost reverently—it represented so much of human privation, suffering, devotion. • . ■ That piece of shirt had been in the war. 'And that brought it home.