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Angellotti, Marion Polk, 1894-1979

"The Firefly of France"

I rubbed my eyes
sometimes. Surely I should wake up presently! We couldn't be here in
the forbidden region, in the war zone, plunging deeper every instant, in
peril of our lives.
Yet the proof was thick about us. In the towns we passed we saw troops
alight from the trains and enter them; we saw farewells and reunions,
the latter sometimes tearful, but the former invariably brave. We saw
_depots_ where trucks and ambulances and commissary carts were filled,
and canteens and soup kitchens where soldiers were being fed. At
Croix-le-Valois we saw the air turn black with the smoke of the munition
factories that were working day and night. At St. Remilly above the
towers of the old chateau we saw the Red Cross flying, and on the
terraces the reclining figures of wounded men. It seemed impossible that
sight-seers and pleasure-seekers had thronged along this road so lately.
The signs of the Touring Club of France, posted at intervals, were
survivals of an era that was now utterly gone.
With the coming of afternoon, the country grew still more beautiful.


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