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In_the_Rut_of_War

30 THE SATURDAY EVENING POST January 2, /9/5 Your Boy's Spending Money Wouldn't it have been better if your boy had earned his Christmas money instead of having had it given to him? Any manly boy would rather get his money that way. The fun and feeling of independence which a boy has in spending "his own money" are quite different things from spending what has been given to him. The Saturday Evening Post has already solved the problem for thousands of the brightest and manliest boys in America. These boys sell The Saturday Evening Post. They get a lot of fun out of it, earn their own spending money, and without interfering with school duties get a moral and business training, the value of which cannot be reckoned in money. Everything necessary for trying the experiment we will furnish without cost. As soon as a boy starts work he receives one of the most novel volumes ever prepared for boys, being a clever book brightened with 250 illustrations telling of the experiences of an army of red-blooded boys who have "made good." It is really an unusual book on salesmanship and high-grade business methods brought down to the level of the average boy. Any boy who wants to try the plan and to earn his own spending money can do so. Address your letter to Box 707, Sales Division The Curtis Publishing Company Philadelphia L matter how long or how hard the diggers kept at their work. At Aix-la-Chapelle, for example, in the principal cemetery the sexton's men dug twenty new graves every morning. By evening there would be twenty shaped mounds of clay where the twenty holes had been. The crop of the dead is the one sure crop upon which embattled Europe may count this winter and next spring. That harvest will not fail the warring nations, however scanty other yields may be. In the towns in occupied territory the cemeteries were the only actively and constantly busy spots to be found, except the hospitals. Every schoolhouse was a hospital; indeed I think there can be no schoolhouse in the zone of actual hostilities that is not serving such a purpose. In their altered aspects we came to know these schoolhouses mighty well. We would see the wounded going in on stretchers and the dead coming out in boxes. We would see how the blackboards, still scrawled over perhaps with the chalked sums of lessons which never were finished, now bore pastedon charts dealing in nurses' and surgeons' cipher-manual, with the bodily plights of the men in the cots and on the mattresses beneath. We would see classrooms where plaster casts and globe maps of the world and dusty textbooks had been cast aside in heaps to make room on desktops and shelves for drugs and bandages and surgical appliances. We would see the rows of hooks intended originally for the caps and umbrellas of little people; but now from each hook dangled the ripped, bloodied garments of a soldier—gray for a German, browntan for an Englishman, blue-and-red for a Frenchman or a Belgian. By the German rule a wounded man's uniform must be brought back with him from the place where he fell and kept handily near him, with tags on it, to prove its proper identity, and there it must stay until its owner needs it again—if ever he needs it again. Melting a Frozen Bow We would see these things, and we would wonder if these schoolhouses could ever shake off the scents and the stains and the memories of these present dolorous visitations— wonder if children would ever frolic any more in the courtyards where the am- bulances stood now with red drops trickling down from their beds upon the gravel. But that, on our part, was mere morbidness born of the sights we saw. Children forget even more quickly than their elders forget, and we knew, from our own experience, how quickly the populace of a French or Flemish community could rally back to their old sprightliness, once the immediate burdens of affliction and captivity had been lifted from off them. From a jumbled confusion of recollection of these schoolhouse-hospitals sundry in- cidental pictures stick out in my mind as I write this article. I can shut my eyes and visualize the German I saw in a little parish school building in the abandoned hamlet of Colligis near by the River Aisne. He was in a room with a dozen others, all suffering from chest wounds. He had been pierced through both lungs with a bullet, and to keep him from choking to death the attendants had tied him in a half erect posture. A sort of hammocklike sling passed under his arms, and a rope ran from it to a hook in a wall and was knotted fast to the hook. He swung there, neither sitting nor lying, fighting for the breath of life, with an unutterable misery looking out from his eyes; and he was too far spent to lift a hand to brush away the flies that swarmed upon his face and his lips and upon his bare, throbbing throat. The flies dappled the faces of his fellow sufferers with black dots; they literally masked his. I preserve a memory which is just as vivid of certain things I saw in a big institute in Laon. Although in German hands, and nominally under German control, the building was given over entirely to crippled or ailing French prisoners. These patients were minded and fed by their own people and attended by captured French surgeons. In our tour of the place I saw only two men wearing the German gray. One was the armed sentry who stood at the gate to see that no recovering inmate slipped out, and the other was the surgeon-general of the staff of Over-General von Heeringen, commanding the German center, who was making his daily round of inspection of the hospitals and had brought us along with him. Of the native contingent the person who appeared to be in direct charge was a handsome, elderly lady, tenderly solicitous of the frowziest Turco in the wards and exquisitely polite, with a frozen politeness, to the German officer. When he saluted her she bowed to him deeply and ceremoniously and silently. I never thought until then that a bow could be so profoundly executed and yet so icily cold. It was a lesson in congealed manners. As we were leaving the room a nun serving as a nurse hailed the German and told him that one of her charges was threatening to die, not because of his wound, but because he had lost heart and believed himself to be dying. "Where is he?" asked the German. "Yonder," she said, indicating a bundledup figure on a pallet near the door. A drawn, hopeless face of a half-grown boy showed from the huddle of blankets. The surgeon-general cast a quick look at the swathed form and then spoke in an undertone to a French regimental surgeon on duty in the room. Together the two approached the lad. "My son," said the German to him in French, "I am told you do not feel so well to-day." The boy-soldier whispered an answer and waggled his head despondently. The German put his hand on the youth's forehead. "My son," he said, listen to me. You are not going to die—I promise you that you shall not die. My colleague here "— he indicated the French doctor—"stands ready to make you the same promise. If you won't believe a German, surely you will take your own countryman's professional word for it," and he smiled a little smile under his gray mustache. "Between us we are going to make you well and send you, when this war is over, back to your mother. But you must help us to do it; you must help us by being brave and confident. Is it not so, doctor?" he added, again addressing the French physician, and the Frenchman nodded to show it was so and sat down alongside the youngster to comfort him further. As we left the room the German surgeon turned, and looking round I saw that once again he saluted the patrician French lady, and this time as she bowed the ice was all melted from her bearing. She must have witnessed the little byplay; perhaps she had a son of her own in service. There were few mothers in France last fall who did not have sons in service. Evening at Maubeuge We might safely assume that the hospitals and the graveyard of Maubeuge would be busy places that evening, thereby offering strong contrasts to the rest of t$ie stagnated town. But I should add that we found two other busy spots, too, the railroad station—where the trains bringing wounded men continually shuttled past— and the house where the commandant of the garrison had his headquarters. In the latter place, as guests of Major von Abercron, we met at dinner that night and again after dinner a strangely mixed company. We met many officers and the pretty American wife of an officer, Frau Elsie von Heinrich, late of Jersey City, who had made an adventurous trip in a motor ambulance from Germany to see her husband before he went to the front, and who sent regards by us to scores of people in her old home whose names I have forgotten. We met also a civilian guest of the commandant, who introduced himself as August Blanchertz and who turned out to be a distinguished big-game hunter and gentleman aeronaut. With Major von Abercron for a mate he sailed from St. Louis in the great balloon race for the James Gordon Bennett Cup, and came down in the Canadian woods and nearly died of hunger and exposure before he found a lumber camp. Their balloon was called the Germania. There was another civilian, a member of the German secret-service staff, wearing the Norfolk jacket and the green Alpine hat and on a cord about his neck the big gold token of authority which invariably mark a representative of this branch of the German espionage bureau; and he was wearing likewise that transparent air of mystery which seemed always to go with the followers of his profession. During the evening the mayor of Maubeuge came, a bearded, melancholy gentleman, to confer with the commandant regarding a clash between a German underofficer and a household of his constituents. Orderlies and attendants bustled in and out, and somebody played Viennese waltz songs on a piano, and altogether there was quite a gay little party in the parlor of this handsome house which the Germans had commandeered for the use of their garrison staff. At early bedtime, when we stepped out of the door of the lit-up mansion into the street, it was as though we had stepped into another country. Except for the tramp of a sentry's hobbed boots over the sidewalks and the challenging call of another sentry round the corner the town was as silent and seemingly as empty as a town of tombs. All the people who remained in this place had closed their forlorn shops where barren shelves and emptied showcases testified to the state of trade; and they had shut themselves up in their houses away from sight of the invaders. We could guess what their thoughts must be. Their industries were paralyzed, and their liberties were curtailed, and their businesses were dead or the same as dead, and every other house was a riddled, worthless shell. Among ourselves we debated as we walked along to the squalid tavern where we had been quartered, which of the spectacles we had that day seen most fitly typified the fruitage of war—the shattered, empty forts lying now in the moonlight beyond the town, or the sullen, conquered, half-destroyed town itself. I guess, if it comes to that, they both typified it. Illainanimallaug Mega THE daylight illuminating engineer is the latest specialist in the newest profession— illuminating engineering. His duty is to design buildings so that they shall make the best possible use of daylight. All architects pay more or less attention to this subject, but the daylight specialist is developing tricks of his own to justify his existence. The interference of neighboring buildings, the effect of direction of windows, architectural decorations, and a score of similar points, are studied, with the idea of suggesting changes that increase the amount of daylight for every room. Two such engineers have applied their ideas to the new courthouse in the city of New York. First, they constructed a large model of the building in pasteboard, taking great care to have the windows and the outside architectural trimmings exact. With this model the effect of direct sunlight for every day of the year is studied. Wires are stretched on a curve above the model so that a lamp, traveling along the wires in imitation of the daily passage of the sun, will throw its rays into the windows just as the sun will do in the finished building. As the sun's course in summer is very different from that in winter a great many such wires are requirecIto give all the variations of sunlight. From the information obtained by this model it will be entirely possible for the engineers to make up a schedule of just what lights will be needed in the building every clear day of the year. For instance, they can decide by the model that on December second, in a certain room, daylight will be sufficient until four-fifteen in the afternoon, when one fifty-candle-power lamp should be switched on. The immediate value of the model, however, is to suggest slight changes in design that will improve daylight advantages. 02d olialfrzeoll OZONE has a new use—as a stimulant for public speakers. Premier Asquith, of Great Britain, has been delivering many vigorous but fatiguing speeches in English cities, to urge recruiting, and the ozone idea was developed to help him. An electric generator of ozone is set up in an anteroom, and a pipe is run under the floor to the speaker's stand or to the table from which he is to speak. The ozone is then poured into the air round the speaker. Whether or not the ozone actually does invigorate Mr. Asquith he has not said, but it might do so; and in any event the presence of ozone gives a feeling of freshness and tang to the air. In the past year doctors, chemists and electricians of the United States have conducted a spirited controversy over the beneficial effects of ozone, some doctors declaring tnat it neither helped nor hurt, and some chemists and electricians declaring that it was of real value in ventilation. That ozone will kill disagreeable odors seems to be well established, and the advocates of it claim much more for it.


In_the_Rut_of_War
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