. A green tent in Flanders. vilian and lay him on a we know it they have vanished. We draw near. The old man is so weakhe cannot give his name. We strip him and—turn away our heads. He lies on the bed before us all, abjectin the wantonness of his emaciation. Thebrazen bones and sinews raise and stretchthe withered yellow skin into ridges withgray hollows in between and push their 89 90 A GREEN TENT IN FLANDERS joint-heads through red raw spots In Itstenuous fragility. The prism-shaped Hmbsend in fans of long, spiked finger nails andturned-up, horn-spiked toes. The head, withwhat had
. A green tent in Flanders. vilian and lay him on a we know it they have vanished. We draw near. The old man is so weakhe cannot give his name. We strip him and—turn away our heads. He lies on the bed before us all, abjectin the wantonness of his emaciation. Thebrazen bones and sinews raise and stretchthe withered yellow skin into ridges withgray hollows in between and push their 89 90 A GREEN TENT IN FLANDERS joint-heads through red raw spots In Itstenuous fragility. The prism-shaped Hmbsend in fans of long, spiked finger nails andturned-up, horn-spiked toes. The head, withwhat had once been a gentle, large-eyed tasselled with spears of gray hair groundednow with filth. Filth cakes his body—filthoozing from within, filth grinding from with-out, mixed in with dust and wisps of strawsqueezed of its moisture and pressed into acompact mass by the dead weight of a help-less body. The old man cannotspeak. He opens hisdeep-set eyes with thepiteous appeal of adog ambushed to die. We speak to A GREEN TENT IN FLANDERS 91 The doctor comes and—turns away. Where is his family? He has beenstarved. No one can find his family. * Who will take him in ? We cannot keep astarved old man. We are not here for that. The village shuts its lips. No one knowswhere he came from, no one will take him is old; he is dying. His horny handshave worked hard while they could. Hismuscles will contract no longer; there isnothing he can do. We fetch our basin, our soap, our scissors,our clean, warm towels. We come near him. The orderly gently lifts the shrunken brit-tle body. He turns away his head and is not this his father—is not this himself .^^The nurse dips her glove in the hot water,soaps it, and bends over him. She turnsaway her head and clears her throat. Here isher mother—here herself—the silent endof long, close years of planning, saving,striving. No one wants him. He has noth-ing more to offer life. They scrape away thefilth; they wash hi
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Keywords: ., boo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1910, booksubjectworldwar19141918
