heart of even a war-photographer.

To give the whole exodus the right tragic setting, one is tempted to
write that tears were streaming down all the faces of the refugees,
but on the contrary, indeed, most of them carried a smile and a
pipe, and trudged stolidly along, much as though bound for a fair.
Some of our pictures show laughing refugees. That may not be
fair, for man is so constituted that the muscles of his face
automatically relax to the click of the camera. But as I recall that
pitiful procession, there was in it very little outward expression of
sorrow.

Undoubtedly there was sadness enough in all their hearts, but
people in Europe have learned to live on short rations; they rarely
indulge in luxuries like weeping, but bear the most unwonted
afflictions as though they were the ordinary fortunes of life. War
has set a new standard for grief. So these victims passed along
the road, but not before the record of their passing was etched for
ever on our moving-picture films. The coming generation will not
have to reconstruct the scene from the colored accounts of the
journalist, but with their own eyes they can see the hegira of the
homeless as it really was.

The resignation of the peasant in the face of the great calamity
was a continual source of amazement to us. Zola in "Le Debacle"
puts into his picture of the battle of Sedan an old peasant plowing
on his farm in the valley. While shells go screaming overhead he
placidly drives his old white horse through the accustomed
furrows. One naturally presumed that this was a dramatic touch of
the great novelist. But similar incidents we saw in this Great War