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Somehow he had made us gossip to that extent. So I was interested now to hear the name of Chautonville, and that he was coming. He was to sing us forward again. There was a pang in that, as I craned forward to look at the valley.

This was not good for the trenches. ... Now I realized that they were talking of Chautonville, the singer, the master of our folk-songs. We had heard of him along the line how he had come running home to us out of Germany at the last moment in July literally pelted forth, changed from an idol into an enemy and losing a priceless engagement-series on the Continent.

The dead of the valley arose before my eyes.... Perhaps within an hour my room would be ready. Still I should be sorry to pass, and leave Chautonville living on. They beckoned me to his escort. I followed, hoping to see him die presently. This new hope was to watch him die and not do it with my hands. Yes, I trusted that Chautonville would not come back from the trenches.

The least soldierly kind of a man I had seen in many days, save the Brigadier so white and fat was Chautonville, the top of his head small, his legs short and thick, hands fat and white and tapering, a huge neck and chin with folds of white fat under it a sort of a perfect bird dressed for present to the Emperor.

I made them think I was afraid. I made them think I was simple. One of them told me of the tenor Chautonville with the army. I played to that. It was very petty of me to get caught in this cleverness, because that's how I fell " "You didn't sing the lines into a new advance?" Fallows asked. His face looked lined and gray as he leaned forward. "No, I didn't do that.

"There is an operatic tenor in the command one Chautonville. We might have sent for him, but our thought was to reach the soldiers directly. It is a great honor." "Is it? How and where do you want me to sing?" "An advance is to be ordered immediately. We will send an escort with you along the trenches just before the order is given. I heard you singing yesterday.

Chautonville was big-eyed with all this large, innocent brown eyes innocent to me, but it was the superb health of the creature, his softness, clearness of skin and eye, that gave the impression to us, so lean and stringy. For his eyes were not innocent something in them spoiled that.

I associate it with "Chautonville" by Will Levington Comfort, and "The Flying Teuton" by Alice Brown, as one of the three stories with the most authentic spiritual message in American fiction that the war has produced. In this study of the spiritual reactions of a starved environment upon an imaginative mind, Mrs.

Chautonville opened his mouth. It was like sitting by a fire, and falling into a dream.... He sang of our fathers and our boyhood; the good fathers who taught us all they knew, and whipped us with patience and the fear of God. And the officers followed him along the trenches, crying to us, "Prepare to charge!"

There was that indoor look of a barber about him, too. "You want me to sing to them for courage as it were?" Chautonville questioned. I had marked his voice. I saw now that he needed all the thickness of throat and bust that he used it all. I hoped they would not send me away with a message.... "You want me to walk up and down the trenches?" "Yes, singing."