Who would’ve thought that in a dusty corner of IHS, a little room with pink walls holds just a few cabinets with bundles of old Tattler issues? As the Tattler Archivist, I get to explore the tales and stories that once lived in the halls of IHS. Whether you enjoy history a lot or not as much, I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll enjoy in this section. Without further ado, here’s just a handful of these pieces, dating all the way back to 1892!
April 1893
A Puzzle
We publish a puzzle which we hope will interest our readers. The answers will be printed in the next issue.
I have a box, which all pronounce a wonderful piece of mechanism, and very few ever remember the strange things which make up my whole.
THIS BOX CONTAINS:—
1. Two lids; 2. two cups; 3. two musical instruments 4. two established measures; 5. a great number of articles that a carpenter could not dispense with; 6. two good sized fish; 7. a great number
of smaller fish; 8. lofty trees; 9. some gaudy flowers; 10. the fruit of an indigenous tree; 11. two domestic animals; 12. a number of smaller and less tame animals; 13. a fine stag; 14. many small whips without handles; 15. two halls or places of worship; 16. some weapons of warfare; 17. a number of weather-cocks; 18, the steps of a hotel; 19. the House of Commons resounds with two of its essential articles on the eve of a decision; 20. two students; 21. ten Spanish Grandees; 22, an epicure; 23. an artist’s tool; 24. many Chinese working rooms; 25. something which can be found in certain agricultural implements; 26. a very important part of a two-horse wagon.
April 1899
TO MOTHER
It seems as though a gift had been sent me from above,
To teach me how to write a few lines of those I love;
I first wrote of one and then of another,
And now a few lines to my dear, loving mother.
The child ne’er forgets the prayer at mother’s knee;
It will follow him through life, and no matter where he be,
If inclined to do wrong, the tears will surely come,
And choke him for a moment, when he thinks of that dear home.
Its influence ne’er leaves us, but when young we’re light and gay,
And do not think how many cares a mother has each day;
But it’s not because we’re heartless, or love her any less,
One little word explains it all, and that is carelessness.
What child would see a mother, in sorrow or distress,
And not reach forth his hands and kindly words express?
There are other who are near and are dear to us I know,
But who can take a mother’s place in this cold world below?
When in after life we meet, in that Heavenly home above,
Who’s the first one we will seek to renew that tender love?
Some may think it is the father, but to me it seems the mother
Is entitled to first place in this world, and the other.
M.
April 1917
THE SACRIFICE OF BEAUCARÉ
BEAUCARÉ was one of those pretty little Belgian villages which used to seem so drowsy and peaceful and picturesque to the traveler as he passed through them. When the Germans first invaded the land the little town passed almost unnoticed and for over two years of the war it stood unharmed with all the outward evidences of peace and plenty. There were never any attacks and not much trouble between the people and the soldiers, and they seemed to submit easily to German demands. But this was merely a veneer; underneath the surface was an undercurrent of hatred and rebellion which only needed a little provoking to show itself.
This is past. Today there is not one house standing in the whole village; it is now nothing but a charred heap of ruins over which the weeds and the ivy are already climbing as if to cover its desolation.
It seems hardly possible that this destruction should have taken place in one day, but such is the fact. About three months ago a notice was put up in the little village to the effect that every man who would not work should be deported to Germany. This was caused by the fact that the Belgian workmen who were left at home had, in the main, refused to work in any way that would help Germany in the war. To force them to do this the Germans ordered that every man who refused should be carried off to Germany and imprisoned there.
As the inhabitants of Beaucaré read this paper their faces blanched; it seemed unbelievable and yet must be true. They would make any sacrifice if it would help Belgium, but this was terrible. ”God in Heaven,” they cried, “can we leave our wives and little ones to the mercy of these murderers?” The crowd around the notice assumed a threatening look; the men clinched their fists impotently and the women groaned aloud. The soldiers in the military guard took a tighter hold on their rifles for the situation was growing tense. A dull roar broke from the desperate mob, they swayed for a moment toward the soldiers and then fled in every direction as the Germans, at a sharp word of command from their officer started forward with fixed bayonets.
To the little cottage where he lived with his father and mother and little sister—Jean Frèbau hurried as fast as his legs could carry him. Into the house he broke with a frightened cry and finding his father,
proceeded to give him the awful news. A hard look came into the father’s eyes and, Calling his little family around him he swore a solemn oath to die rather than desert them. Almost the same scene was being enacted all over the whole village. Human patience could stand no more; the inevitable breaking point had arrived.
Meanwhile the soldiers laid their plans for the enforcement of the decree on the following day. Five men were detailed to each house and, if any resistance whatsoever was encountered that house was to be raised and the offenders immediately executed. The temper of the people had been rightly judged from the events of the preceding day.
Early the following morning the German started out. Five men surrounded every house before anything else was done. Then, the orders were to call the men to the door and put the question. If they refused they were to be seized and dragged off to the Central square of the village. The Germans depended on this simultaneous attack to overcome any resistance.
But here a hitch occurred. The five soldiers who had been detailed to the Frèbau cottage were ignorant brutes with no intelligence whatsoever. They arrived at the home and soon became tired of waiting.
“Let’s get the old fool now and see if we can’t be the first at the square. We can have some fun with the old devil and his breed, meanwhile,” said the corporal. With that he went up to the door and pounded on it. It was opened by Jean’s father.
“What do you wish, Messieurs?” he asked.
“We want you, you dog, unless you’ll agree to work after this. What’s your answers? The soldier replied sneeringly.
“Jamais, never!” answered Frèbau, and, quietly closing the door in their faces, he shot the bolt. A roar of rage went up from the five. The largest of them threw himself once, twice, 3 times against it and with the fourth attempt it fell in. They crowded inside with oaths and imprecations. They stood M. Frèbau and his family. “Kill the old devil!” One of them yelled and lunged quickly forward with his bayonet. The point sank Into the father’s breast but at the same moment a knife glittered in his hand and was buried in the soldier’s throat. They fell to the floor together. The rest stood stunned for a moment and then, losing all control over themselves poured bullets into Frèbau’s helpless body. As the mother sank in a faith to the floor, one of the soldiers aimed his rifle at her. Then—but the rest were better not described.
At the sound of the shots the rest of the villagers became desperate. They had no way of knowing that they would not meet the same fate and then men though unarmed, rushed in a frenzy on the soldiers. It was not a fight; it was a slaughter and by night-fall all that was left of the little village of Beaucaré was some dying embers which glowed weirdly in the darkness. Shrieks and groans rose into the night and even the murderers looked askance at each other as they made their camp in the fields.
Beaucaré is dead and gone but its memory will live and be cherished forever in the hearts of the Belgian people. The noble sacrifice of the village has not been without great results. Belgium is inspired by such crimes to an even more steadfast resistance which will in the end be triumphant. McA. ’18.