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 CQFSRIGHT DEPOSrr. 
 
THE BALLAD 
 OF HATTONCHATEL 
 
THE BALLAD 
 OF HATTONCHATEL 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES LOUIS SEEGER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 1921 
 

 Copyright, 1921, by 
 BELLE SKINNER 
 
 OEC 28 1321 
 ^•CIA630985 
 

 9 
 
 2 
 
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 So 
 MISS BELLE SKINNER 
 
 EEBmLDEB OF HATTONCHATEL 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INVOCATION 1 
 
 PART I 7 
 
 EXPOSTULATION 37 
 
 PART II 45 
 
INVOCATION 
 
INVOCATION 
 
 O MUSES nine ! 
 Deign to confer upon a worshipper most humble 
 A tiny fraction of your powers divine ! 
 That may enable him at least to mumble 
 A few poor words that shall not quite displease 
 
 A certain gracious Lady. 
 I was wont to tease 
 Her on her infelicity in explorations 
 Of the highways that traverse our sweet France; 
 
 Highways, albeit shady 
 And straight and smooth, that terminate in bifurca- 
 tions, 
 Tempting fair woman to leave all to chance 
 And wander off the map 
 
In quest of what it insufficiently denotes. 
 But oh. ! I rue the day that ever I did dare 
 To treat with levity one who devotes 
 Herself to work beneficent. I would not care 
 
 A rap, 
 If she were formed of coarser clay, 
 But, when it comes to making fun 
 Of one whose wings are sprouting, I must say 
 It's shocking taste, and so I have begun 
 
 To write a ballad 
 About the Blessing of a Bell 
 And other countless blessings that befell 
 At picturesque Hattonchatel; 
 And last, but by no means the least, 
 A most incomparable feast. 
 
 From soup to salad. 
 
 4 
 
So, Muses all, — 
 Or almost all, — do help me pen my lay ! 
 Clio, thou most adorable, make me veracious; 
 Calliope, bestow an epic strain, I pray; 
 Polymnia, grant rhythm to my lines, and gracious 
 Melpomene, spread piously a pall 
 Upon the tragedy that havoc made 
 Of the fair town whose fete I will relate. 
 
 Erato, no, dear, run away, 
 I shall not need you, come another day. 
 My theme demands your sober sisters' aid, 
 To tune my lyre with science adequate. 
 
 O Muses ! Condescend to cast a spell 
 Upon the gentle giver of the Bell, 
 So that she may not wholly deprecate 
 These verses that to her I dedicate: 
 The simple Ballad of Hattonchatel. 
 
PART I 
 
PART I 
 
 BEFORE great Caesar wrote of Gaul 
 In Latin most correct, 
 And filled his Commentaries all 
 With discourse indirect, 
 
 That even now does still inspire 
 
 The schoolboy's brain with hate 
 
 And prompts the curious to inquire 
 Why Brutus struck so late, — 
 
 Before brave Vercingetorix 
 A Roman triumph graced. 
 
 Or ere the rich Orgetorix 
 
 Was sentenced and displaced, — 
 
 9 
 
Before the Merovingians 
 
 The crown of France had won, 
 Or ever Carlovingians 
 
 Beleaguered Carcassonne, — 
 
 Above the valley of the Meuse 
 A hill rose, whence, they say, 
 
 Rude warriors, clad in skins and furs 
 Of beasts less fierce than they. 
 
 The far horizon scanned, in search 
 
 Of an approaching foe, 
 And, swooping from their airy perch, 
 
 Pounced down on him below; 
 
 Or, if his forces were too great 
 To meet in combat fair. 
 
 They prudently did him await 
 In their well-chosen lair 
 
 10 
 
And greeted him with clouds of stones 
 
 Or, haply, boiling oil; 
 Then, careless of their victims* groans. 
 
 Rushed down to claim their spoil. 
 
 A dismal age it was, forsooth, 
 
 That prehistoric time. 
 When chieftains rude and troops uncouth 
 
 Were occupied in crime. 
 
 Hills were not valued in those days 
 
 As outlooks picturesque, 
 WTierefrom to view through rising haze 
 
 The river's arabesque. 
 
 The valleys leading miles away, 
 
 The forest's vast expanse. 
 The meadows, decked with flowers gay 
 
 Of sweet and sunny France. 
 
 11 
 
For centuries those heights still frowned 
 
 Upon the plains below; 
 Then feudal lords their summits crowned 
 
 With fortress and chateau, 
 
 Whose donjon, battlements and tower 
 
 Defied the foe with scorn. 
 And Knighthood blossomed into flower 
 
 And Chivalry was born. 
 
 Now gentler manners held their sway; 
 
 Fair ladies graced the board 
 And listened to the minstrel's lay. 
 
 No longer was the sword 
 
 The only weapon man did wield, 
 
 But eke the pen and lute. 
 Wherewith to make his mistress yield 
 
 And crown his ardent suit. 
 
 12 
 
That was a golden age, I ween, 
 For maids and matrons too. 
 
 When Thibaut wrote rhymes to the Queen 
 And Aucassins did woo 
 
 His "douce amie" with courteous love, 
 
 Despite a father's threat. 
 And scorned the joys of Heav'n above 
 
 For joy of Nicolette. 
 
 So passed the time right merrily 
 'Twixt love and war and song 
 
 And castled heights grew, verily. 
 So numerous and strong 
 
 That king and ministers began 
 To fume and fret and frown 
 
 And wondered if their lords did plan 
 Revolt against the crown. 
 
A haughty Cardinal appeared 
 
 At a convenient hour 
 And very promptly interfered 
 
 To stem the feudal power. 
 
 He chose a method most direct 
 To check the nobles' pride, 
 
 With gunpowder their chateaux wrecked 
 And breached their ramparts wide. 
 
 And so to-day on wooded crest 
 
 A tower or shattered wall 
 Will oft the trav'ler's eye arrest 
 
 And Richelieu recall. 
 
 But these are not the only towers 
 That crown the hills of France, 
 
 For, long before the feudal powers 
 Had suffered dire mischance. 
 
 14 
 
A builder far more competent 
 
 To meet the test of time 
 Had chosen sites most prominent 
 
 Whereon to rear subhme 
 
 The sacred symbol of the Cross 
 So all the world could see, 
 
 For Holy Church was ne'er at loss 
 To use publicity 
 
 For greater glory of Our Lord 
 Or e'en a martyred saint, 
 
 And now, as if with one accord. 
 Rose spires and belfries quaint. 
 
 Whose bells the faithful called to mass, 
 And, from the country round, 
 
 Came rich and poor, of ev'ry class, 
 Responsive to their sound. 
 
 15 
 
Where'er a church on hilltop stood, 
 
 'Neath its maternal wing 
 There nestled soon a little brood 
 
 Of red roofs, sheltering 
 
 The peasant folk, who tilled the soil 
 And pruned the fruitful vine, 
 
 Nor e'er forgot, in hours of toil. 
 The Blessed Virgin's shrine. 
 
 They brought to Her the poppies red 
 
 That grew amidst the wheat 
 And wreathed them round Her sacred head, 
 
 Or laid them at Her feet. 
 
 No errant knight nor paladin 
 
 Such courtesy displayed, 
 Nor ever to an earthly queen 
 
 Such loyal homage paid 
 
 16 
 
As Mary, Queen of Heav'n, received 
 From high afid low as well, 
 
 Whose intercession, they believed, 
 
 Would save their souls from Hell. 
 
 It was in this wise that the hill. 
 
 These stanzas celebrate. 
 Passed through succeeding epochs, till 
 
 Its profile delicate, 
 
 Adorned with spire and Gothic arch. 
 Stood out against the sky, 
 
 A witness to the onward march 
 Of peace and industry, 
 
 That beautified the fertile plain, — 
 The battle-field of yore, — 
 
 With yellow stretch of waving grain. 
 Where banners waved before. 
 
 17 
 
But naught in all the countryside 
 
 In beauty can excel 
 The village, seen from far and wide. 
 
 White-walled Hattonchatel. 
 
 A veritable diadem, 
 
 It rests upon the brow 
 Of Mother Earth. No costly gem 
 
 Such setting has, I trow. 
 
 Nor half so flawlessly reflects 
 The light that on it plays 
 
 As, when Apollo first directs 
 His horizontal rays 
 
 Upon the dull gray silhouette 
 Of roofs and gables old, — 
 
 It softens into violet, 
 
 Then rose, then burnished gold. 
 
 18 
 
The wayfarer, who passes by. 
 Can scarce believe his eyes. 
 
 For, there suspended in the sky, 
 A fairy palace hes, 
 
 By mist translucent glorified, 
 
 Through which its turrets shine. 
 
 Like those that Wotan reared to hide 
 The treasure of the Rhine; 
 
 Or like the castle that the wand 
 
 Of Klingsor improvised. 
 Where flower maids, with gesture fond. 
 
 The "guileless fool" surprised. 
 
 E'en as Walhalla's stateliness 
 And Klingsor's magic art 
 
 Did vanish into nothingness 
 
 When they had played their part. 
 
 19 
 
The wayfarer's bright fantasy 
 No longer can persist, 
 
 As Phoebus' chariot chmbs on high 
 And drives away the mist, 
 
 Disclosing beauties new and real, 
 Of all enchantment shorn. 
 
 But challenging with mute appeal 
 The glamour of the dawn. 
 
 And, when the sunset banners fly 
 Across the floating wrack, 
 
 The poplars cut the western sky 
 With spikes of deepest black. 
 
 Those who Segovia have seen, 
 
 Or proud Siena's site. 
 May celebrate their noble mien 
 
 And praise their lordly height. 
 
 20 
 
But give me fair Hattonchatel, 
 
 Whose promontory bold 
 Has been the valley's sentinel 
 
 For centuries untold. 
 
 One August day, six years ago, 
 
 It signalled the advance 
 Of the hereditary foe 
 
 For ravage of sweet France. 
 
 "Der Tag," — the Junker's frequent toast. 
 
 In arrogance conceived, — 
 Had dawned, and justified the boast 
 
 (At least, they so believed) 
 
 That they would dine on Christmas Day 
 
 In Paris by the Seine 
 And there confirm the Teuton's sway 
 
 From Baltic Sea to Spain. 
 
 21 
 
Across the Belgian frontier 
 
 The gray-clad armies poured 
 
 And marked each stage of their career 
 With scourge of fire and sword, 
 
 Proclaiming that a single cross, 
 
 In haste erected o'er 
 A German grave, meant greater loss 
 
 Than that of Louvain's lore 
 
 And all that Reims' Cathedral gave 
 
 Of beauty to the world, 
 Its sculptured portals, lofty nave. 
 
 Where Joan of Arc unfurled 
 
 The sacred oriflamme of France, 
 As by her King she stood, 
 
 His coronation to enhance 
 
 With her brave maidenhood. 
 
 22 
 
Can aught be found more typical 
 
 Of the Teutonic brain ? 
 A mind more analytical 
 
 Could never ascertain 
 
 Why, even if their claim was just 
 And Art was held so cheap, 
 
 They need exchange their precious dust 
 Such harvest poor to reap ! 
 
 The crosses of the German slain 
 Stand not on German soil. 
 
 In token of a duty plain 
 
 To guard their homes from spoil; 
 
 No ! Ev'ry one records a life 
 
 In mad adventure lost. 
 In vain invasion, senseless strife. 
 
 Essayed at honor's cost. 
 
 23 
 
By early victories misled, 
 
 The German host pressed on 
 
 To seize the prize they coveted 
 And fancied they had won. 
 
 Beneath Napoleon's stately arch, 
 Resounding with their tread. 
 
 They pictured a triumphal march, 
 The Kaiser at their head. 
 
 But e'en as 'twixt the cup and lip 
 
 Mishap doth often he, 
 Fate gave them the proverbial slip 
 
 And smote them hip and thigh 
 
 Upon the Marne's vast battle-field. 
 Where first they learned to gauge 
 
 The power that patriots can wield 
 To save their heritage. 
 
 24 
 
No less misfortune did they meet 
 
 At the Grand Couronne, 
 Where ignominious defeat 
 
 Completed their dismay, 
 
 Frustrated their design to end 
 
 The war in one campaign 
 And forced the Teuton horde to spend 
 
 Four years in which to gain — 
 
 Their object ? No ! In vain attempt 
 To prove their vaunted might, 
 
 They merely proved their own contempt 
 For justice, truth and right. 
 
 Brought ruin on their Fatherland 
 And wrought destruction dire 
 
 On land and sea, with iron hand, 
 More terror to inspire. 
 
 25 
 
We all remember, — ^who were wont 
 
 To follow anxiously 
 The changes in the battle front 
 
 From BeKort to the sea — 
 
 How, while elsewhere, with shot and shell, 
 
 The foe were driven back, 
 The salient of Saint-Mihiel 
 
 Resisted all attack 
 
 And, threatening with apex keen 
 To pierce the French defense, 
 
 It symbolized the German mien 
 Of boastful confidence. 
 
 Within that triangle, alas ! 
 
 Lay fair Hattonchatel, 
 Condemned four dreary years to pass. 
 
 As in a prison cell. 
 
 20 
 
In custody of jailers rude. 
 
 Who of its sculpture rare 
 The church and cloisters did denude 
 
 And brutally lay bare. 
 
 In order that it might bedeck 
 
 An antiquary's wall, 
 Or in some gloomy Glyptothek 
 
 Be lost for good and all. 
 
 No more the sound of bells was heard 
 
 From out the belfry high 
 Their bronze must go to make more shells 
 
 With which to multiply 
 
 Bombardments such as had bestrown 
 
 The byways, once so clean. 
 With shapeless heaps of tiles and stone, 
 
 Where humble homes had been. 
 
 27 
 
Unroofed the church, profaned its choir, 
 
 Its sacred altar wrecked, 
 And riddled the majestic spire 
 
 With cannonade unchecked 
 
 Until the little garrison 
 
 Must needs capitulate 
 To foes, who, in comparison, 
 
 Were more than adequate 
 
 To seize, on that September day, 
 
 The village on the hill 
 And hasten forward on their way. 
 
 Their purpose to fulfil. 
 
 At Apremont and Thiaucourt, 
 
 In all the country round. 
 The lowly dwellings of the poor 
 
 Were levelled to the ground. 
 
 28 
 
While onward the invaders went 
 To capture Saint-Mihiel, 
 
 And there complete the sahent 
 Wherein Hattonchatel 
 
 Was doomed to suffer martyrdom, 
 
 A victim to Kultur, 
 Her former Mairie now become 
 
 "Der Ortskommandantur," 
 
 Her church a barracks and its tower 
 
 An observation post, 
 Her heights a witness to the power 
 
 Of the Germanic host; 
 
 Her homeless cottagers despoiled 
 Of all that they held dear, 
 
 For which their ancestors had toiled 
 And saved for many a year. 
 
 29 
 
And so HattoncMtel, in shame, 
 Bowed helpless to the foe 
 
 Until a fourth September came 
 To terminate her woe. 
 
 A nation far across the sea 
 
 At last had rubbed its eyes 
 
 And roused itself from lethargy, 
 Responsive to the cries 
 
 That put to shame neutrality 
 
 And pharisaic cant, 
 Recalling its true quality 
 
 Of justice militant. 
 
 A million men declared that they 
 Were not too proud to fight 
 
 And crossed the ocean on their way 
 To battle for the right. 
 
 30 
 
They brought to France, with grief oppressed, 
 Fresh strength and eager hearts, 
 
 The optimism of the West, 
 
 That buoyant hope imparts. 
 
 Enthusiastic, confident, 
 
 They made but one demand, — 
 That into action they be sent 
 
 And under French command. 
 
 At Chateau Thierry, Belleau Wood 
 
 And in the dense Argonne, 
 They played their part as heroes should 
 
 And victors' laurels won. 
 
 Then came their chance to fight as well 
 
 In a distinct campaign. 
 To drive the foe from Saint-Mihiel 
 
 And hberate Lorraine. 
 
 m 
 
So this is how it came to pass 
 
 That fair Hattonchatel 
 Threw off the fetters that, alas, 
 
 Had bound her all too well. 
 
 For, on a glad September day, 
 (Thirteenth, to be exact,) 
 
 The enemy had shpped away 
 Before he was attacked; 
 
 The joyous sound of fife and drum 
 Now heralds the advance 
 
 Of troops in khaki clad, who come 
 To take the hill for France. 
 
 Our glorious Stars and Stripes beside 
 
 The tricolor they raise. 
 While over all the countryside 
 
 Rings out the "Marseillaise," 
 
 32 
 
And "Madelon" and "Over There," 
 
 In friendly rivalry, 
 Contribute equally their share 
 
 To swell the revelry. 
 
 But ah, the pity that no peal 
 
 Of mad revolving bell 
 Proclaims the turn of Fortune's wheel 
 
 That saved Hattonchatel ! 
 
 The riddled church tower silent stands. 
 
 Majestic as of yore. 
 But, voiceless, waits for pious hands 
 
 To give it speech once more. 
 
 Have courage, ancient belfry grim ! 
 
 The fateful sisters three 
 E'er now have spun a web too dim 
 
 For mortal eye to see. 
 
 33 
 
But bards have ever scorned the odds 
 
 That baffle human ken 
 And, e'en as Homer saw the Gods 
 
 Direct the acts of men, 
 
 Why should I not descry the thread 
 That Clotho's spindle wrought. 
 
 While Atropos, with scissors dread, 
 Forbore to cut it short 
 
 And Lachesis did pull, with such 
 
 Success, the filament. 
 That soon 'twas long enough to touch 
 
 Another continent. 
 
 Three thousand miles across the sea, 
 Where, at the Gods' command. 
 
 It twined itself full craftily 
 Around a woman's hand. 
 
 34 
 
With magic power it gently drew 
 The owner of the hand 
 
 From scenes of plenty, with a view 
 To help this stricken land, 
 
 And so, inexorably led 
 
 By Fate's resistless spell. 
 
 She followed up the slender thread 
 Until Hattonchatel 
 
 In mutilated splendor lay 
 
 Before her wondering gaze; — 
 
 No time she lost, — that very day 
 She planned a hundred ways 
 
 To remedy the damage wrought 
 By war's infliction sore, 
 
 And eagerly permission sought 
 Its beauty to restore. 
 
 35 
 
'Twas thus the lovely village won 
 Its bountiful Marraine; 
 
 With that accomplished, hereupon 
 I interrupt my strain, 
 
 To finish it anon, in verse 
 Less ponderous in tone. 
 
 And now and then to intersperse 
 Some lines that may atone 
 
 By help of pleasant anecdote 
 And touch of humor gay. 
 
 For aught of trite or tiresome note 
 That lingers in my lay. 
 
 36 
 
 y 
 
EXPOSTULATION 
 
EXPOSTULATION 
 
 O MUSES nine ! 
 (Particularly Clio,) 
 I have been waiting for an opportunity, 
 These many days, your temple to approach, 
 With firm intent to cavil and reproach. 
 Have you forgotten with what importunity 
 
 I begged your help benign ? 
 And yet you've let me flounder in the mire 
 Of verbiage cacophonous 
 
 Time after time, and caused my readers to inquire : 
 "What is there in this poet to admire? 
 " 'Tis rather rough on us 
 "To palm this off onus!" 
 
 39 
 
fie ! O Clio ! 
 You are the worst offender. Did you deem, perchance. 
 That I was capable of such presumption 
 As to attempt improvement on Guizot, 
 By writing a new History of France 
 
 In limping verse ? 
 If so, it was an ill-advised assumption 
 And was responsible, I'd have you know. 
 For all my wandering 
 And frequent maundering, 
 
 If nothing worse. 
 
 I did so earnestly desire to write 
 
 A sweet and lightsome lay; 
 
 Then why did you permit me to indict. 
 
 In tone emphatic. 
 The Germans for their love of devastation? 
 A ballad should not be a dissertation, 
 Nor from the paths of poesy be led astray 
 
 By aught pragmatic. 
 
 40 
 
And tell me too, — ^how could you ever let 
 
 Your worshipper importunate 
 
 Repeat the words unfortunate 
 
 Of our retiring Chief Magistrate? 
 
 You must admit that you have never met 
 
 A phrase so hackneyed and so very trite 
 
 As that of his: "We are too proud to fight." 
 
 Of course you've read, 
 That is, — if Muses ever read, for I suspect 
 You Muses take an undue time to muse 
 And the diversion of a Muse is to amuse 
 Herself by spinning lazily a dime 
 To see if she must finally reveal a rhyme 
 To some despairing poet. I correct. 
 Therefore, my statement and will say 
 
 Perhaps you've read 
 About a certain famous old Memorial, 
 Into whose preparation editorial 
 
 King Charles's head 
 Insisted on intruding ! — in like way, 
 
 41 
 
When an American, who lived in Mexico, 
 Attempts to write a ballad, speech or play. 
 The chances are that he will never know 
 When Woodrow Wilson's head will intervene 
 And tempt him grievously to vent his spleen 
 Upon that statesman cold. 
 You should not then withhold 
 Your aid divine, but guide the erring pen 
 Into the strait and narrow path again. 
 
 And now, O Muses fair, a final question 
 Before you say you can no longer tarry, — 
 My query covers not the least suggestion 
 
 Of any levity, — 
 Do any of you, ladies, ever carry, 
 
 m 
 
 As a side line, if I may call it so, 
 Thegift of Brevity? 
 For I would humbly ask that you bestow 
 Upon your servant here a share of it. 
 The proverb says it is the soul of Wit; 
 
 42 
 
Alas, if that be true 
 And probably it is, — what I have writ, 
 So far, is witless 
 And not a bit less 
 For being witness 
 Of many a struggle to reduce its length. 
 
 Well, well, I must not rue 
 The past, but try with all my strength 
 And with your help, henceforth to make amends. 
 So here this mild expostulation ends. 
 
 On with the Ballad of Hattonchdtel 
 And let us sing the Blessing of the Bell ! 
 
 43 
 
PART II 
 
PART II 
 
 In springtime, when, with careless mirth 
 
 And mischievous intent, 
 The idle zephyrs roam the earth, 
 
 Upon adventure bent, — 
 
 Before their amorous attack 
 The modest poplars quail. 
 Each little leaflet turns its back 
 And grows distinctly pale; 
 
 But straightway curiosity 
 
 Compels a stolen glance, 
 With shy impetuosity 
 
 They turn about and dance. 
 
 47 
 
The fleecy clouds now drift apart 
 And sunbeams dart between. 
 
 To join the riot and impart 
 
 More splendor to the scene; 
 
 They fleck the leaflets as they toss 
 Upon their tender stems 
 
 And, mirrored in their verdant gloss, 
 Become as flashing gems. 
 
 So mad a bacchanale, 'tis clear. 
 An orchestra requires, — 
 
 The song-birds quickly volunteer 
 To lend their feathered choirs; 
 
 The meadow flowers upward turn 
 Their eyes in wonderment. 
 
 With blushes red their faces burn, 
 To see such merriment. 
 
 48 
 
In sooth it IS a great event 
 
 For field and flower and tree, 
 
 When zephyrs on adventure bent 
 Steal softly o'er the lea ! 
 
 In tune with Nature's gladsome mood, 
 This smiling morn of May, 
 
 Within his cloistered portal stood 
 A priest, whose visage gay 
 
 His sober garb did contradict 
 And marked him for a man 
 
 Who knows that joy does not conflict 
 With Life's predestined plan. 
 
 Beneath the cassock that so well 
 Defines his sturdy frame, 
 
 The Cure of Hattonchatel 
 Conceals a heart of flame 
 
 49 
 
That burns with ardor quite as real 
 As fired the saints of yore, 
 
 And bids him work with holy zeal 
 His parish to restore. 
 
 To make this an accomplished fact 
 No method does he spurn, 
 
 Persuasion, strategy and tact 
 Are all employed in turn; 
 
 Or, failing by a clever ruse 
 
 To gain his pious end. 
 He knows when it is time to use 
 
 The power the Church doth lend. 
 
 *Tis thus he dominates his flock 
 And moulds them to his will. 
 
 Nor fails the dullards' thrift to block 
 With admirable skill. 
 
 50 
 
If haply any doubts exist 
 Of his discretion, — pray 
 
 Let those who question duly list 
 To all that passed this day. 
 
 Now comes a man upon the scene 
 
 Of quite another kind, 
 Whose knitted brow and visage lean 
 
 Betrays a gloomy mind. 
 
 "Good morrow, Monsieur le Cure." 
 '*Bon jour. Monsieur le Maire, 
 "Why on this merry morn of May 
 "Art so bowed down with care.f^ 
 
 "Dost see the sunlight gild the trees.'' 
 "Hast heard the mavis sing, 
 "Or hstened to the hum of bees, 
 "Or felt the breath of Spring.? 
 
 51 
 
"If all these beauties cannot drive 
 "The cobwebs from thy brain, 
 
 "Know that this morning will arrive 
 "Our generous Marraine, 
 
 "Her work beneficent to view, 
 "Our humble Hfe to share 
 
 "And, doubtless, shower blessings new 
 "Upon our village fair." 
 
 The Mayor shook his head: "The trees 
 "Will bear no fruit this year; 
 
 "I have no hives to which the bees 
 
 "Their homeward course may steer. 
 
 "Our benefactress, it is true, 
 
 "Is loved by young and old, 
 
 "To her munificence are due 
 "Advantages untold; 
 
 52 
 
*But while we value our Marraine 
 "And laud her kind intent, 
 
 *Her very benefits contain 
 "The seeds of discontent. 
 
 'My prominence political 
 "Subjects me to attacks 
 
 'From persons who are critical 
 "Of aught that swells the tax. 
 
 'In plain words, Monsieur le Cure, 
 "'Tis all about the pump; 
 
 They pester me both night and day 
 "And keep me on the jump, 
 
 Because they find the new machine, 
 "That they did hail with joy, 
 
 Consumes a lot of gasolene 
 "And proves a costly toy. 
 
 53 
 
"Each family will have to pay 
 "A franc per month at least, 
 
 "And that's too much, the people say, 
 "To water man or beast. 
 
 "You know the widow Lafontaine, 
 "Who's eighty-three years old, — 
 
 "She whines: ^For threescore years and ten, 
 "*In sun and rain and cold, 
 
 "'I've brought the water up the hill 
 "*And now I'm asked to pay, 
 
 "*That lazy girls their pails may fill 
 "*In this new-fangled way!' 
 
 "And as for Hegesippe Godard 
 
 "And Aristide Bidou, — 
 "They'll pay the price for their pinard, — 
 
 "For water, — 'pas un sou!' 
 
 54 
 
'Now by the . . . no, I must not swear, 
 "Although you rouse my wrath; 
 
 'I doubt if that old widow there 
 "Has ever had a bath ! 
 
 "And Hegesippe and Aristide 
 
 "Of course the pump would flout. 
 
 They think that water never need 
 "Be used inside or out. 
 
 'But theirs are not the only votes 
 
 "That will the case decide, 
 'We'll force the water down their throats 
 
 "And make them pay beside !" 
 
 'Mon frere," a woman's quiet voice 
 
 Cut short the dialogue, 
 'Instead of threatening, rejoice, 
 
 "The town is all agog. 
 
 55 
 
"The children say that they have seen, 
 
 "Approaching from afar 
 "In clouds of dust, what must have been 
 
 "Our lady's motor-car, 
 
 "Because, from time to time, its speed 
 "Was slackened, so they say, 
 
 "While Monsieur Louis stopped to read 
 "The guide-posts on the way! 
 
 "Come then and let us welcome back 
 
 "Our benefactress dear, — 
 "Oh, 'tis a pity that we lack 
 
 "A bell that she might hear 
 
 "A-ringing in the belfry high 
 
 "With loud and joyous peal, 
 
 "To let her know, as she draws nigh, 
 "The gratitude we feel." 
 
 56 
 
"My sister, I will find a way 
 
 *'To get the needed bell; 
 "Rome was not builded in a day, 
 
 "Nor yet Hattonchatel. 
 
 "Before the trees their foliage shed 
 "And autumn's glories pass, 
 
 ''A bell will call thee from thy bed 
 "To early morning mass. 
 
 *But on this day the motor-horn 
 "The church-bell must replace; 
 
 *A smile of welcome will adorn 
 "Our Mayor's careworn face, 
 
 'The village folk will flock to see 
 "The motor climb the hill; 
 
 'The boys and girls will voice their glee 
 "In accents high and shrill." 
 
 57 
 
The Cure's words describe so well 
 What happened on that day, 
 
 That naught remains for me to tell, 
 Except, perhaps, to say 
 
 That subjects seldom have displayed 
 
 To reigning sovereign 
 A truer homage than was paid 
 
 Hattonchatel's Marraine. 
 
 But even as in days of old 
 
 The subjects' loyalty 
 Oft owed its ardor to the gold 
 
 Dispensed by royalty. 
 
 Among the village folk were some. 
 Who ventured to propose 
 
 A meeting to which all should come, 
 Particularly those 
 
 58 
 
Who thought that water must be free, 
 Where'er 'twas made to flow, 
 
 And on the hill its cost should be 
 Just what it was below. 
 
 With this sophistic argument 
 They opened the debate. 
 
 In hope of aid benevolent 
 The pump to operate, 
 
 Thereby insuring the defense 
 Of each one's bas de laine 
 
 And putting the entire expense 
 Upon their chere Marraine. 
 
 The village socialist began. 
 
 With fiery eloquence. 
 Insisting on the right of Man 
 
 To all three elements: 
 
 59 
 
Fire, air and water, not to speak 
 
 Of many things beside, 
 Of which the strong deprive the weak, 
 
 To swell their bourgeois pride. 
 
 "My fellow townsmen, why delude 
 "Yourselves and so permit 
 
 "A little thing like altitude 
 
 "To cloud your mother wit? 
 
 "Does air less free to all become, 
 
 "The higher the ascent? 
 "Why then should water differ from 
 
 "Its sister element?" 
 
 The Cure smiled and said, "My friend, 
 "You must admit that air, 
 
 "For every league that you ascend, 
 "Grows constantly more rare; 
 
 60 
 
'*But ere we won the loving care 
 *'0f our Marraine, you know, 
 
 *No element was half so rare 
 "As that of HgO ! 
 
 * Forgive my language chemical; 
 
 "Your discourse erudite 
 *And argument polemical 
 
 "Did like reply invite. 
 
 *Now, children, to be serious, 
 "I am most deeply grieved; 
 
 'There's nothing so mysterious 
 "In what you have conceived. 
 
 'You know the water's worth to you 
 "A hundred times its cost. 
 
 But now it's here you grudge each sou 
 "And call it money lost. 
 
 61 
 
"I'm going to tell a bit of news 
 "That you will hear with glee, 
 
 "And if it does not change your views 
 "Mistaken I shall be. 
 
 "You know how all of us did prize 
 "The bell the Germans stole, 
 
 "But do you fully realize 
 "The danger to the soul 
 
 "Of always being late to mass, 
 "For lack of warning bell? 
 
 "I'll let your tardinesses pass, 
 "If what I have to tell 
 
 "Awakens generosity 
 
 "In your ignoble minds." 
 
 By this time, curiosity 
 
 Their calculation blinds 
 
 62 
 
And all would readily subscribe 
 A franc or two at least, 
 
 If by so doing they could bribe 
 The tantalizing priest 
 
 His wondrous secret to divulge; 
 
 So now the holy man 
 Resolved their humor to indulge 
 
 And with these words began: 
 
 "The piece of news I have to tell 
 
 "Will fill your hearts with shame 
 
 "Our good Marraine will give a Bell 
 "To bear her gracious name, 
 
 "And when it comes from overseas, 
 
 "If I do rightly guess, 
 "The Bishop of the diocese 
 
 "Her splendid gift will bless. 
 
 63 
 
"In truth, 'twill be a holiday 
 "That none will e'er forget, 
 
 "When people come from miles away 
 "To see our town en fete." 
 
 The Cure's speech was hailed with cheers; 
 
 The widow Lafontaine 
 Is first to quaver, midst her tears, 
 
 "Long live our good Marraine! 
 
 "May I but hve to see the day !" 
 
 The Mayor's lines relax; 
 He knows there'll be no more delay 
 
 To meet the water tax; 
 
 And even Aristide Bidou 
 
 And Hegesippe Godard 
 Become enthusiastic too 
 
 And join in the huzza. 
 
 64 
 
How did the Lady in the case 
 Comport herself the while ? 
 
 At first amusemeDt lit her face 
 And then a puzzled smile, 
 
 Becoming worried as her friend, 
 
 The masterful Cure, 
 Drew slowly nearer to the end 
 
 Of what he had to say. 
 
 Till then, it must be understood, 
 No talk of bell she'd heard. 
 
 But, being in a sporting mood, — 
 She graciously concurred. 
 
 Thus did the wily man of God 
 Bejuggle tout le monde, 
 
 To lovely woman or to clod 
 His arts did correspond. 
 
 65 
 
'Chere Miss, what shall we call the Bell?" 
 
 He asked, unblushingly, 
 'Your name, though it describes you well, 
 
 "Is quite too short, you see; 
 
 'Besides, no patronymic saint, 
 
 "As far as I can tell 
 'From records with which I'm acquaint, 
 
 "Was canonized as * Belle.' 
 
 'Two syllables, then, let us add, 
 
 "To make it *Isabelle,' 
 'And, if another name you had, 
 
 "'Twould round it out quite well." 
 
 'My mother's name was Sarah, sir, 
 
 "And, if you so incline, 
 ■ 'Twould please me much to honor her 
 
 "And link her name with mine." 
 
 66 
 
"No better name, chere Mademoiselle, 
 
 "Could possibly be found 
 "Than that of Sarah Isabelle 
 
 "To match the Bell's sweet sound." 
 
 Thus, even as the busy bee 
 
 The shining hour improves. 
 
 The priest, with equal industry. 
 Each obstacle removes. 
 
 The people, too, display a zeal 
 
 They never knew before. 
 The ravages of war to heal, 
 
 Their altars to restore. 
 
 The scattered stones in piles are set, 
 The village streets made clear 
 
 And all is ready for the fete 
 As autumn days draw near. 
 
 67 
 
Now let us hasten to Lorraine 
 
 In time to see how gay 
 Hattonchatel and- its Marraine 
 
 Can make a hoHday. 
 
 When Chanticleer the dawn proclaimed 
 In accents Rostand-esque, 
 
 As France's emblem, he declaimed 
 These phrases picturesque: 
 
 "Men of Hattonchatel, I pray 
 "You, hearken to my voice, 
 
 "Le jour de gloire est arrive ! 
 "Be thankful and rejoice. 
 
 "Let past rebuffs of adverse fate 
 "Your present joy enhance 
 
 "And show the strangers at your gate 
 "The bravery bf France !" 
 
 68 
 
I did not hear this, for I slept 
 
 Long after it was light, 
 (I've seldom seen the dawn, except 
 
 When I've stayed out all night) 
 
 But all the villagers, I'm told, 
 Distinctly heard him crow 
 
 And his injunctions young and old 
 With joy obeyed, I know. 
 
 For, when we visitors arrived, 
 
 The revelry and fun, 
 Of which they were so long deprived, 
 
 Already had begun. 
 
 Beribboned maidens thronged the lanes 
 
 And, so to dazzle more 
 The eyes of their respective swains, 
 
 Coquettishly they wore 
 
 69 
 
The lace-trimmed bonnet of Lorraine 
 
 Or black Alsatian bow. 
 Either of which will turn the brain 
 
 Of any man, you know. 
 
 A like temptation to entrap 
 
 Extended to the old. 
 For Mere Lafontaine's ruffled cap 
 
 Was wondrous to behold; 
 
 The Cure's sister, most demure, 
 • Displayed the silken gown 
 A victim to her charms mature 
 
 Had brought her from the town. 
 
 But none possessed the panoply 
 
 Of Sarah Isabelle 
 Beneath the flowered canopy 
 
 Enshrining her so well 
 
 70 
 
A mantle of the richest lace 
 Her shoulder overhung; 
 
 She wore it with a quiet grace 
 And silent was her tongue, 
 
 Like to a maid, who goes arrayed 
 In garb of purest white 
 
 To first communion, half afraid 
 Her lesson to recite. 
 
 Now to the church the people pass 
 And in its roofless nave 
 
 The Bishop of Verdun says mass, 
 In honor of the brave. 
 
 Who deemed no death more glorious 
 Than that they freely chose, 
 
 So France might be victorious 
 And triumph o'er her foes. 
 
 71 
 
In great cathedrals, where the Kght 
 Through jewelled panes invades 
 
 The gloom and, with a radiance bright. 
 Illumes the pillared shades. 
 
 One marvels and is filled with awe 
 
 Of human skill and art. 
 But those, who on that morning saw. 
 
 Through rafters torn apart, 
 
 The sunlight from the cloudless sky 
 
 Upon the altar shine, 
 BeKeved that straight from God on high 
 
 Descended grace divine. 
 
 The service ends. ... In eagerness 
 
 A nearer view to gain. 
 All crowd to see the Bishop bless 
 
 The gift of their Marraine. 
 
 72 
 
At first, in phrases eloquent, 
 
 He recapitulates 
 The Lady's deeds beneficent 
 
 And then he consecrates 
 
 Her lace-clad namesake, whom a pale 
 Gray mist of incense sweet 
 
 Enfolds, as with a perfumed veil, 
 Her toilette to complete. 
 
 To disregard these sacred rites 
 Would rob the Bell of power 
 
 To drive away the evil sprites. 
 Who fly about the tower. 
 
 And so she meekly held her tongue 
 (With splendid self-command, 
 
 Considering her sex . . .) till rung 
 By Monseigneur's own hand. 
 
 73 
 
Ah, with what joy the people heard 
 
 The long-expected note ! 
 The hearts of all were thrilled and stirred 
 
 By thought of days remote. 
 
 When bells a higher value bore 
 Than weight of bronze alone. 
 
 And shriek of shell and cannon's roar 
 Were sounds as yet unknown. 
 
 Like children, who from dreams awake 
 
 And soon forget their fear. 
 The Bell's familiar tone did make 
 
 The war less real appear. 
 
 And how delighted, then, they were 
 
 To hear the Donor fair 
 Repeat the sound and, after her 
 
 In turn, Monsieur le Maire ! 
 
 74 
 
Now that the Bell is duly blessed, 
 
 We cross the narrow way 
 To where a Tribune has been dressed 
 
 With flags and streamers gay; 
 
 The Stars and Stripes make gallant show, 
 
 The Tricouleur as well. 
 CTwas on this day, two years ago, 
 
 We took Hattonch^tel.) 
 
 Religion having had its hour, 
 
 'Tis fitting that the State, 
 Through both departments of its power. 
 
 Should now participate. 
 
 First General Berthelot will pay 
 
 "Hommage a I'Amerique," 
 And after him the Sous-Prefet 
 
 Of Commercy will speak. 
 
 75 
 
Less easy than when under fire, 
 The soldier reads his speech; 
 
 He has but one sincere desire, — 
 The end of it to reach. 
 
 The Sous-Prefet beheves that Art 
 
 Is long and Life is brief; 
 His present chance to play the part 
 
 Of orator-in-chief 
 
 May be his last and so, in heat 
 And length of brilHant phrase. 
 
 No rival can with him compete 
 Except Apollo's rays. 
 
 Which grow in strength as noon draws near 
 
 And pauses there are none 
 Until, between the two, we fear 
 
 Our brains are too well done. 
 
 76 
 
The Bishop mops his shining brow 
 And moves his Hps in prayer; 
 
 The General wonders why and how 
 He came in this "galere." 
 
 But all things come to him who waits 
 
 And with the "Marseillaise" 
 The ceremony terminates. 
 
 All go their several ways: 
 
 The peasants to their homes, to eat 
 
 A bountiful repast, 
 That their Marraine, with forethought sweet, 
 
 Has sent to break their fast; 
 
 The guests to gather at her board. 
 
 Where viands do abound, 
 For which Lucullus would have poured 
 
 Libations on the ground. 
 
 77 
 
But not alone the sense of taste 
 
 Will here be gratified, 
 For, when at table we are placed, 
 
 A panorama wide 
 
 Of all the plain from west to east, 
 
 Beneath an azure sky, 
 Provides a veritable feast 
 
 Of beauty for the eye. 
 
 Nor is the ear to be deprived 
 Of pleasure's share to-day; 
 
 This very moment have arrived 
 The bold chasseurs a pied; 
 
 With trumpets flashing in the sun 
 
 They play the "Sambre et Meuse,'* 
 
 Whose strain the heart of every one 
 To wild emotion stirs. 
 
 78 
 
Its echoes scarce had died away 
 To silence, when occurred 
 
 The crowning beauty of the day, 
 For suddenly was heard 
 
 A rush of melody so clear. 
 
 Tumultuous and strong. 
 It flooded all the atmosphere 
 
 With one triumphant song. 
 
 Peal followed peal in reckless race. 
 
 The harmony to swell, 
 And now we hear the populace 
 
 Cry out "The BeU ! the BeU !" 
 
 The company, in great amaze, 
 
 At one another stare, 
 Then stand with one accord and raise 
 
 Their glasses high in air. 
 
 79 
 
To drink, in unison, the health 
 
 Of Sarah Isabelle, 
 Who, with an unsuspected stealth, — 
 
 But how they cannot tell, — 
 
 Has left her comfortable bower. 
 Where they beheld her last. 
 
 And cHmbed the stairway of the tower 
 With daring unsurpassed. 
 
 Suspicion cannot help but fall 
 
 Upon the good Cure, 
 For he was at the root of all 
 
 That happened on this day; 
 
 And, if he could no longer wait 
 To make the welkin ring, 
 
 Then wherefore should he hesitate 
 Or balk at anything ? 
 
 80 
 
'Twas easy for him to invite 
 
 Some youths among his flock 
 
 To hoist the Bell and gain the right 
 To make it sway and rock. 
 
 And so the Angelus was rung; 
 
 The silence of six years 
 Was broken, and the people hung 
 
 With mingled smiles and tears 
 
 Upon the sound so sweet and rare, 
 Then all their hands did fold 
 
 And said the short famihar prayer. 
 As they had done of old. 
 
 Oh, ancient belfry, grim and gray. 
 Thy patience is repaid; 
 
 Destruction now has had its day 
 And pious hands have laid 
 
 81 
 
Foundations for an era new. 
 
 Those fateful sisters three 
 Have now fulfilled and proven true 
 
 The minstrel's prophecy. 
 
 No more wilt thou, in dumb despair, 
 Man's wanton wastage face. 
 
 But with thy new-found voice declare 
 Rehgion's saving grace. 
 
 So, ancient belfry, tall and gray. 
 Dismiss the minstrel then. 
 
 Ring down the curtain on his play 
 And bid him drop his pen; 
 
 For otherwise no one can tell 
 How long he might extend 
 
 The Ballad of Hattonchatel, 
 Or when he'd reach 
 
 THE END. 
 
 82 
 
Two hundred and twenty-five copies of this 
 book were printed for Belle Skinner by the 
 Scribner Press, New York, in December, 1921. 
 
 83