Long lines of grey-clad soldiers stretch irregularly across the dawn-lit horizon. Armed guards, in muskrat headgear, move restlessly before swaying tents. Bonfires die out with each growing moment of dawn. Arms are gathered, stations called, ranks formed. Excitement and anticipation fill the camp. A huge gaunt figure, hatless and cloakless, sweeps imperiously on a white charger to the front of the newly formed platoons. This man commands attentions, respect, admiration, fear. Ranks become straighter, shoulders stiffer, guns arched higher. His voice booms like a cannon through the crisp morning air: "Comrades, this is an historic moment. All Europe watches us today. Victory means freedom from the treacherous claws of Louis of France . . . if we loss our lives, our Country and our homes are the pledge . . Every man will be expected to do his duty. I will do mine . . ." so spake His Grace, Charles Duke of Burgundy, early on the morning of the Battle of Paris some five hundred years age. And so the Vagabond, at ten o'clock this morning will journey to Sever $3 to hear Mr. Kelsey enliven the routine of French A as he presents delightful hits from French history.
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The Crimson Playgoer
