“Here,” Philip continued, “as we lay concealed in a dugout under a bank, we heard a familiar whirr, and looked up to see an air-battle taking place between a French and Boche plane. With taut breath I watched the planes circle round and round in the air, while keeping up a steady fire at one another, until the French plane began to drive its enemy back and back, until they were directly over the British entrenchments. Then we heard the rat-tat-tat, and knew that one of the planes had been fired upon from below. Suddenly it burst into flames, lunged to one side, and then, in a long sweep through the air, began to circle downward like a great flash of fire, sending forth a shower of sparks as it fell. And then I screamed from sheer joy, for I recognized that it was the Boche plane that had fallen. It is needless to say that my speech had returned.”
After telling how they had regained the British lines, and how he had finally reached a hospital in London, where he remained for some weeks in a miserably depressed state of mind, on learning that his mother had died during his absence, Philip finished his story by telling how he came to sail for America. He told of his search for his grandmother, and how he came to live in the little cabin on the mountain. From the plaudits that greeted him, as he bowed and retired from the platform, it was evident that his story had been greatly enjoyed by his listeners.
When Tony a moment or so later, in his old velveteen vest, with his violin under his arm, and his velvety black eyes aglow in a beatific smile, bobbed a funny little bow to his audience, he was warmly received. But a sudden hush succeeded as the little violinist, with his instrument tucked under his chubby chin, fingered the bow lovingly as he moved it over the strings, evoking such sweet, rich music that the violin seemed like some enchanted thing.
Surely this little slum lad, with no training to guide him, of his own volition could not have produced such ravishing melody as floated through the room. As he played his face lost its smile, and there came a play of expression, now tender and sad, now dreamy or grave, in accord with the varied moods of the music, as he played on and on with a passion, a rich tenderness, every note in tune, that seemed almost marvelous. When he ended with a vehement little shake of his head—that sent his waving hair flying about—in much the same manner that great musicians affect, it brought down the house in loud applause.
As an encore he played several Italian airs, weird, dreamy music, finally ending with “Traumerei,” Schumann’s “Dream Song.” No, he didn’t play it all, only snatches, and these were not always rendered according to the score, but he held his audience in a hushed stillness, until, with a little shake of his bow, and a low bow, he turned and ran quickly from the platform.
Sheila hid her face in Nathalie’s skirt when her turn came to ascend the platform and speak her “liberty piece.” Nathalie was in the throes of despair, for fear that she was going to fail her, when Tony leaned forward and teasingly whispered, “Oh, Boy!” This reminiscent remark caused the little lady’s head to go up, and her chin, too, and in angry defiance she marched up on the platform. As Nathalie, who was sitting down in the front row of chairs, gave her the cue, her little treble was heard repeating James Whitcomb Riley’s poem “Liberty,” her voice ringing out loud and clear when she came to the stanza:
“Sing for the arms that fling
Their fetters in the dust
And lift their hands in higher trust,
Unto the one Great King;
Sing for the patriot home and land,
Sing for the country they have planned;
Sing that the world may understand
This is Freedom’s land!”
It was pathetic to see the little empty-sleeved Jean, as he straightened up his slender form, and, in an attempt at bravery, hurried on the platform. Without waiting for the accompanist,—forgetting to greet his audience in his fright,—he burst into the words of Belgium’s national anthem, “Brabanconne,” singing it with a verve and spirit,—as he stood, with his one hand nervously clinched in front of him and his eyes uplifted,—that showed that the soul of Belgium was not dead.
This impassioned appeal from the boy as he ended, and stood in mute bewilderment, his eyes again haunted by that look of hopeless terror, aroused the audience to prolonged applause. Philip now stepped to his side, and, as he laid his hand reassuringly on the little shoulder, the refugee began his pitiful tale.
His arm had been cut off, he told, by a German soldier, who had made his mother cry, when he had rushed up and pounded him with his fists to make him desist. The soldier had dragged his mother away, and then he had been told that she had died. There was a quiver to the lad’s voice as he related this sorrowful incident, but he winked his eyes together to keep back the tears.