Still Another “Pick” to Feed.
Former President Roosevelt’s fear of race suicide would have received a rude shock had the colonel been in the front office at the Young Men’s Christian Association in Nashville, Tenn., when “Bee,” a crippled porter, and quite a fixture at the building, asked for a day off.
“What in the world do you want with a day off, Bee?” asked one of the secretaries to whom this request, coming from Bee, was something unusual.
“Well, suh,” said the old negro exultantly, “Ah have a visitor at mah house dis mawnin’. It’s de nineteenth, suh. Ah shore has a hard time to sport ’em, suh. Eatin’s am high and money am mighty procrastinatin’.”
Bee’s request was granted.
“Up, You Dead!” Cry Saves the Trench.
A French lieutenant, now lying wounded in a Paris hospital, has given this account of the thrilling action in which he received his injury:
“We were fortifying a trench which we had taken. Behind a barrier of sacks which blocked one end of it, two sentinels kept careful watch. We could work in all security.
“Suddenly an avalanche of bombs tumbled down on our heads. Before we could recover, ten of our men were stretched on the ground, dead or wounded, pell-mell.
“I opened my mouth to urge them on again, when a stone from the parapet, torn out by a projectile, hit me on the head. I fell unconscious. My stupor lasted a second[Pg 60] only. A splinter of shell tore my left hand, and the pain brought me to.