Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 127, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 June 1918 — SPIRIT STILL THERE [ARTICLE]

SPIRIT STILL THERE

French Patriotism Defies Hun Flightfulness. Refugee Gives Thrilling Account off Children In Devastated Town Singing the “Marseillaise” Despite Orders Forbidding IL There are many persons, by nd means all of whom are French, who think that the Marseillaise is the very; finest of aU war songs. Certainly it is a great song of freedom as well as of France, and is associated historically; with the progress of liberty among the nations. Youthful America used it before the Star Spangled Banner had been composed; new-born free Russia stilt sings it, scarcely less often than its own new national hymn. It binds together in the memory of Frenchmen a hundred thrilling scenes of their country's history; and to this rosary of patriotism new jewels are added as the great war goes forward. Jt is not easy to read unmoved the narrative of how, although sternly proscribed, it was sung recently In one of the invaded districts. A refugee told the story to the American novelist, Mrs. Dorothy Canfield Fisher: We have tried our best to keep the life of French children what it ought to.be. I remember last year Aunt Louise taught a group of children in our part of the town to sing the Marseillaise. The studio of my cousin Jean is at the back of the house and high up; and so she thought thg children's voices could not be heard from the street The mayor heard of what she was doing, and sent word that he should like to hear them sing. The news spread • rapidly. When he arrived with the city council, coming in one by one, as if merely to make a call, they found the big studio full to overflowing with their fellow citizens —the old men and women who are the fellow citizens left there. Two or three hundred of them were there—the most representative people of the town, all in black, all so silent, so old and so sad. The children were quite abashed by such an audience and filed up on the little platform shyly—our poor, thin, shabby, white-faced children, 50 or 60 of them.

There was a pause. The children were half afraid to begin; the rest of us were thinking uneasily that we were running a great risk. Suppose the children’s voices should be heard in the street, after all. Suppose the German police should enter and find us assembled thus. It would mean horrors and miseries for every family represented. The mayor stood near the • children to give them the signal to begjn—and dared not. We were silent, our hearts beating fast. Then all at once the littlest ones of all began in their high, sweet treble those words that mean France, that mean liberty, that mean life Itself to “Allons, enfants de la patrie,” they sang, tilting their, heads back like little birds; and all the other children followed: “Against us floats the red flag of tyranny!” VjTe were on our feet In Snlnstant. It was the first time any of us had heard it sung since—since our men marched away. I began to tremble all over, so that I could hardly stand. Everyone stared up at the children; everyone’s face was dead white to the lips. The children sang on—sang the chorus, sang the second stanza. When they began the stanza, “Sacred love of our, fatherland, sustain our avenging arms,” the mayor’s old fifce grew livid. He whirled about to the audience, his white hair like a lion’s mane, and with a gesture swept us all into the song: “Liberty, our adored liberty, fight for thy defenders!” There were three hundred voices shouting it put, the tears streaming down our cheeks. If a regiment of German guards had marched into the room we would not have turned our heads. Nothing could have stopped us then. We were only a crowd of old men and defenseless women and children, but we were all that was left of France in our French town. Youth’s Companion.