ry, who
escaped with the tiny delivery cart pulled by a Belgian dog. Within the
cart are the remains of his prosperous past--a coat, photos of his dead
wife, and his three sons at the front, and a brass kettle.

I heard from an aged man how he escaped death. He, with other villagers,
was locked into a room, and from without the German carbines were thrust
through the blinds. Those within were told to "dance for their lives,"
and the German bullets picked them off, one by one, from the street. He
had the presence of mind to fall as though dead, and when the house was
set on fire crawled out through a window into the cowshed and got away.

Now, these stories are not the worst or the only ones. Nor are these 300
refugees more than a drop of sand on a beach of the thousands upon
thousands who are at this moment in like case. They are pouring through
the country now, dazed with trouble, robbed of all they possess.

Who can help them, even to work? No one has money. Even those rich
villa people, Americans, are unable to pay their servants. There is no
"work" save in the fields garnering crops, for which no wages are paid.
Their country is a devastated waste, tenanted by the enemy, who spread
like a tidal wave of destruction in all directions. We take the better
class into our homes, clothe them and feed them gladly, that we may in a
minute way repay the debt civilization owes their husbands, sons, and
fathers. France, too, is invaded, and now thousands more of French are
homeless and penniless.

We in this formerly gay, fashionable little town see nothing of the
pageantry of war--only its horrors, as trains leave with us hundreds of
wounded from the front. In their bodies we find dumdum bullets, and we
hear tales which confirm those of the refugees.

Will America help them? I, an American woman, could weep for the
inadequacy of my pen, for I beg your pity, your compassion, and your
help. Not since the days of Rome's cruelty has civilization been so
outraged.

I beg your paper to print this, and to start a subscription for this far
corner of France, where the tide of war throws its wreckage. The Winter
is ahead, and with hunger, cold, lack of supplies, and isolation will
create untold suffering. Paris, too, is now sending refugees from its
besieged gates. Every corner is already filled, and hundreds pour in
every day. The garages, best hotels, villas, and cafes are already
filled with "those that suffer for honor's sake.