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French children gazed in wonder women left their washing. Up in the window stood a black Major, a Captain, a Teacher, and I with tears behind our smiling eyes. Tim Brimm was playing by the town-pump. The audience was framed in smoke.
Tim Brimm and the bugles of Harlem blared in the little streets of Maron in far Lorraine. The tiny streets were seas of mud. Dank mist and rain sifted through the cold air above the blue Moselle. Soldiers soldiers everywhere black soldiers, boys of Washington, Alabama, Philadelphia, Mississippi. Wild and sweet and wooing leapt the strains upon the air.
Here was France beaten to her knees yet fighting as never nation fought before, calling in her death agony across the seas till her help came and with all its strut and careless braggadocio saved the worthiest nation of the world from the wickedest fate ever plotted by Fools. Tim Brimm was playing by the town-pump.
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