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33 chapters
MEDAL OF THE RECONNAISSANCE FRANÇAISE
MEDAL OF THE RECONNAISSANCE FRANÇAISE
By decree of the President of the Republic, the silver medal of the Reconnaissance Française was conferred on Mrs. Elsie Deming Jarves for the devotion she showed since the beginning of the war to our wounded. The Citation reads as follows: "Mrs. Deming Jarves, since the beginning of the war, showed the most generous solicitude for our wounded soldiers in Brittany, has never spared herself and has shown the greatest devotion." As announced elsewhere, Mr. Deming Jarves was made a Chevalier of the
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INSTITUT DE FRANCE
INSTITUT DE FRANCE
Madame: Vous avez véçu dans notre pays ces années de terrible guerre; vous vous êtes interressée à tout ce que nous avons véçu de misères, à tout ce qu'on souffert nos enfants. Vous m'avez demandé combien des miens étaient mort; J'avais quatre petits neveux, trois sont tombés au Champ d'Honneur; un reste qui était aviateur en Russie et qui a obtenu trois citations à l'ordre de l'armée, cela, c'est le cas habituel des familles Bourgoises; je ne me plaine pas, ne m'eu vaute: Aucun des enfants, n'é
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I
I
Sing me a song of the west country Where 'priest and peasant still abide; Where giant cliffs come down to the sea To lave their feet in the long green tide; Atlantic rollers, huge and free, Beat high on the coast of Brittany!...
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II
II
Sing of the pearly sky hung low, Of verdant forests girding the land! Where heather and gorse on the hillsides glow, The long gray lines of the Menhir stand, Guarding their secret constantly Through age-long silence, in Brittany....
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III
III
The high-flung roofs in lichen decked, Yellow and green and golden-brown, With tiny flowers and weeds o'er-flecked, Shelter the cottages of the town; While up from the chimneys, silently, Floats the thin, blue smoke of Brittany....
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IV
IV
A gleam of brass through the open door, Of walled-in bed of carven oak, Of polished flags upon the floor, Neath heavy rafters black with smoke; The song of the wheel as, cannily, The wife spins her flax in Brittany....
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V
V
The sabots clatter down the street, The church bell sounds across the bay, The brown sails of the fishing fleet Grow black against the dying day; While sun and 'peace sink glowingly Upon the land of Brittany....
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VI
VI
Mystic and weird is the ancient tale Of Arthur and Merlin, and knights of old, Of Celtic ardor, and holy Grail, Of Church, and Priest, and Castlehold! Of Prince and Peasant ardently Guarding the faith in Brittany....
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VII
VII
Land of the Legends! Country of Dreams— Of Saints, and Pardons, and Ancient Faith! Deep-hidden beside your forest streams Still live the sprites and ghostly wraith! Land of Crosses, where, fervently, The peasants still pray in Brittany!...
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VIII
VIII
Brave are your sons as they sail the seas 'Mid storm and tempest and winter gale! Brave the wife as she waits on the leas For the distant gleam of homing sail! Brave and patient and earnestly —Elsie Deming Jarves....
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THE TRAIN OF THE WOUNDED
THE TRAIN OF THE WOUNDED
T he train draws up gently, soldiers appear at the doors, silent and patiently waiting, some with foreheads swathed in reddening bandages, others with their arms in slings, again others leaning on crutches. One could not judge of the number, as more wounded were lying on the seats. One saw only black and white and yellow faces peering anxiously forth, and one understood that these soldiers had no words to express their sufferings, they only wait "for help." A young doctor, just commencing his li
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DINARD DAY BY DAY
DINARD DAY BY DAY
U p the village street comes the funeral. Gusts of wind, bearing fog and rain on their wings, roar up the roadway, tossing the branches against the low sky, tearing the last Autumn leaves from the trees, whirling the skirts of the women and the white garments of the priest, as the mournful little band struggles towards the church. The bell is tolling in long, heavy notes; the funeral cars, alas! three in number, move slowly along; the "tricolor," wet and draggled, whipping above the heads of the
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1914-1915
1914-1915
T here are four thousand wounded in Dinard this winter, and the need for chemises, antiseptic cotton, sacks and bandages, never diminishes. I, fortunately, have a few things left from what I brought over, and I am dealing them out, as if worth their weight in gold. Socks are much appreciated, as many are wounded in the feet, and cannot put on slippers or shoes. One poor wretched Belgian hospital has depended all the winter on what we gave them. The Matron told me but for us they would have had n
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TO A DYING BOY
TO A DYING BOY
Poor little soldier, lying there weak and wounded, Why were you horn to live so brief a day? Is your young manhood hut to serve as target For the grim guns of war to injure or to slay? So young to die. On lip and cheek and forehead Still flame youth's brilliant colors, white and red, And your clear eyes so full of hope and courage, Must we tomorrow count you with the dead? All life before you; glad and useful hours Lay shining in your path unsullied, clear, Youth's dreams fulfilled in manhood's
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(A Story of France)
(A Story of France)
I n the old house, heavily garlanded with ivy and climbing roses, at the end of the village, lived the old maid. Through vistas of thick foliage, the broken sky-line of tiled roofs appeared. In the west, the church tower showed dark against the sunset skies. Here she had lived in seclusion these many years. Her pigeons feeding on the green lawn. Her rose garden, fragrant and sunny, facing the Eastern hills. Her peulailler (poultry yard), her dogs, her cats, filled the long hours of her austere l
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THE SONS OF FRANCE 1915
THE SONS OF FRANCE 1915
T o you, in God's country, safe and sound, far removed from the conditions existing over here, a few notes of our daily existence may not come amiss. First, let me quote the lines found on a dead boy in Champagne, his " Feuille de route " (diary), which shows eloquently how the little "piou-piou" feels these sorrowful days of 1914....
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FEUILLE DE ROUTE
FEUILLE DE ROUTE
Diary of Albert Ledrean, volunteer for France in the war of 1914. Aged 18 years. In the 10th Regiment of Infantry. Fell on the field of honor, October 17th, 1914, in Champagne. (This diary was found on his body and sent home to his mother.): "Auxonne, Cotes d' Or, September 15th, 1914—At last this long-wished-for moment has arrived. The great clock on the facade in our barracks marks 12:45, it is the hour for our departure; the clear notes of the bugles announce our colonel's approach; he appear
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(Salut Aux Morts!)
(Salut Aux Morts!)
How many sad hearts are in France this night of the Jour des Morts (All Soul's Day), in this third dolorous year of the Great War? All over the country, from earliest hours, thousands upon thousands of black-clad mourners have placed their homage of respect and love on the tombs of those who have died in the past twelve months. Churches held constant services, chants and prayers rose in unbroken succession; bells tolled, people flocked to the cemeteries; everywhere the "soul of the French" has b
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I
I
Within the walls of this cool, tranquil place Lie wounded men from Northern battlefields; With shattered limb, with wan and pain-streaked faces. Safely they rest; they whom the Red Cross shields, The roar of gun, the shriek of bomb and shell, The shrapnel hissing through the awful din, Are silenced here. A nearby chapel bell Strikes the calm hours. Quietly within The restful rooms the men lift up their eyes, To that small crimson cross afloat in peaceful skies....
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II
II
From rain-filled trench, from bare and blood-soaked ground, Where in low piles the dead and dying lie— (The mitrailleuse has swept each ridge and mound Where Frenchmen rushed to conquer or to die) They bring them to us—broken, crippled boys, White as the linen bands around the head. And some may live. To some life's hopes and joys Are growing dim—unto the glorious dead Their souls depart. Ah! God will speed them well. These gallant men who for their country fell....
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III
III
From the White Alps up to the gray North Sea, Along the Somme and Meuse the Army holds; Calm in the certitude of Victory— They see her shining on their banner's folds. These injured boys have helped to do this deed. Their strength and youth were gladly offered here, That their dear land might once again be freed From the black curse of war, and grief, and fear. When Peace returns, let their great sacrifice Remain forever holy in our eyes. August, 1916....
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THE CASTLE OF COMBOURG
THE CASTLE OF COMBOURG
T he September morning was crystal-clear. The old fortifications at St. Malo, violet in shadow, lay wrapped in sunlight as from the crest of the hill we turned for a farewell glimpse of Dinard and the sea, before turning eastward on our long proposed trip to some Brittany hospitals. Our motor was packed in every corner with hospital supplies—tins of ether, rolls of absorbent cotton, hundreds of compresses and bandages, surgical supplies and instruments, cigars, cigarettes, chocolate, hospital-sh
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A BELGIAN ROMANCE
A BELGIAN ROMANCE
S he was a slender, graceful creature; tall, blond, highbred; so young and so good-looking, one wondered how she was able to escape from Belgium without unheard-of difficulties from those brutes of Germans; but here she was, that cold February night, coming to Val Fleuri with a pitiful handful of luggage, a great courage, and soul-racking remembrances. A mutual friend had months ago told me of her tragic experiences and her keen desire to escape from the German tyranny in Belgium, so we originat
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Le Journal
Le Journal
Paris, 30 Mars, 1917. Madame: J'ai lu et hautement apprécié la belle traduction que vous avez faite de mon poème et je vous remercie de votre pensée de la faire connaître dans votre pays. Autant d'Américains fraternels partagent notre indignation française et qui s'unis si réellement â la cause de la justice et du droit. Daigniez agréer, Madame, avec tous mes remerciements, mes hommages respectueux. Henri de Regnier....
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THE VOW I
THE VOW I
I swear to keep forever in my heart This sacred Hate, until the final beat. This holy venom will become a part Of every drop which forms its living heat. Forever graven on my sombre face A tragic furrow on my mournful brow. This outrage leaves its utmost loathly trace Upon my mind and soul, Forever, Now....
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II
II
My ruined fields, my cities sunk in flame, My murdered hostages, my fallen sons, My wounded babes, the nameless deeds of shame Upon my women, helpless, fore the Huns, I swear I shall avenge! My justice and my right Shall conquer, or my last red blood I shed. I, France, austere and blazing in my might Shout forth this message to my valiant dead....
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III
III
This Holy vow of wrath, this oath of hate, Before high Heaven solemnly I swear, Before the waters of the Marne and Aisne, Still crimson with French blood, I consecrate Myself. Oh, Rheims sublime! Thou torch whose glare, Still shows the sacred ruins of thy fane, Burning and crumbling on the horizon, Hear, thou, my vow of vengeance on the Hun! Henri de Regnier. 1917, Translated by Elsie Deming Jarves....
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WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING IN WAR TIME
WHAT FRENCHWOMEN ARE DOING IN WAR TIME
W ith the full blast of war sweeping over this old Continent, with the young manhood of France forming a wall of steel between us and the enemy who would annihilate, with the prospect of this tragedy continuing for an indefinite period, each Frenchwoman, safe behind the living barrier, asks herself what she can do to help. How to use her individual capacities to the best advantage for the sustenance and comfort of those dear ones—the son or grandson in the trenches, the husband or brother at the
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"F. F.
"F. F.
"Interne Français. "Hotel du Chamessaire, Leysin, Suisse." With this authentic picture before us, shall we not do well, we Americans, to realize what our own boys will have to face, should they fall into German hands? Dinard has recently been obliged to open her doors to one thousand homeless children from Nancy. That historical and beautiful old town in Lorraine is no longer a safe place for kiddies. Twelve thousand have been sent here to Brittany, escorted by American Red Cross doctors and Ame
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TO A POILU
TO A POILU
Hail to you, Poilu! Before the world you stand Clad in the glory of your deathless fame; War had no terrors for the dauntless band That held the line 'gainst bombs, and shells, and flame. Through tragic months of winter cold and rain, When snow and water filled the narrow trench, Steadfast and patient you did bear the strain; Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French. From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm, From mountain village, or town's crowded mart, When first the Toscin shrilled
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Deming Jarves August 14, 1918
Deming Jarves August 14, 1918
S ince the following article, "Our War Work," was written, Mr. Deming Jarves has been decorated by the French government with the cross of the Chevalier de la Légion d'Honneur. The Jarves Family were represented in the Great War by Mrs. Jarves' brother, Capt. John P. Jackson, U. S. N., commanding American transports bringing soldiers to France, and the following great-nephews of Mr. Jarves: Captain Francesco Marigliano, Duke Delmonte of the Cavalliera di Udine, Italian Army, received two of the
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AMERICANS IN BRITTANY
AMERICANS IN BRITTANY
W hen the Yankees return home after the great war is over, those who have been quartered in Brittany will carry back a vivid impression of long stretches of green forests and fields, of tumbling green waters, of gray-and-white skies with dashes of tender blue, of glinting sunshine lying warm on blue slate roofs, of low stone villages huddled about quaint church-towers, and of granite buildings of unknown antiquity—and some may carry home recollections of yellow- or auburn-haired girls, rosy-chee
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VICTORIOUS BELLS OF FRANCE
VICTORIOUS BELLS OF FRANCE
I t is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time. We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with longing for Peace, can sca
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