MARKET DAY.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVIII, Issue 143, 16 June 1917, Page 13

MARKET DAY.

HOW THE FREMCH WOMEN KEEP THINGS GOING.

UXE IN A COtnSTJEtY TOWN. One comes to Franco <with a mind peculiarly open to impressions. One is eager to learn of this wonCerlul country, which has suffered so mucti from the material expression of the "will-to-con-quer,' , but >et maintains an amazingly firm, unflinching resolve to 6ee the thing through, be the end what it may, writes a. correspondent in the London "Daily Clirouicie." Life in a small country town is oiten an index of national aspiration and ettort, and in the little community of which I write the determination to carry on" is remarkably evident, and on market day one realises that it is the women who are keeping things going.

Jlarket day, a festival equally dear to the heart of the bourgeois, the farmer, the peasant and the children, occurs once weekly; and prolonged and noby are the preparations therefor. At a perfectly impossible hour in the morning—even from the military point of view—one hears the rumbling of the farm carts, the unloading of merchandise, the pitching ol stalls and booths, the careful arranging of goods to the best advantage, accompanied by incessant chatter and laughter, general cheerfulness and unvarying politeness. If one climbed to the top of the beautiful tower of our hotel de yUle it would be possible to see a continuous stream of these ancient farm carts, drawn by astonishing horses, rolling towards the town from every direction. Women, for the most part aged but healthy, are usually the carrier? and the vendors, in addition to being the actual producers. The aye rage acf of the female farm labourer in the North of France io 65. THE MARKET ARRIVES. The nucleus of the market is the central square or "place," but it overflows into most of the main streets and trickles even into odd lanes and byways. Each stall-holder has her own pitch: at least one can always expect to find the same lady in the same place unless she is ill, when her great-grand-mother deputies for her. The women pitch their own stalls, and it would please the soul of any physical training sergeant to see the muscular etrength with which these young things of threescore years toss boards and tarpaulins about." and the agility with which they climb the poles. Half an hour suffices to cover a barrow and convert it into an overstocked drapers shop. Kight to the top go the reels of thread, handkerchiefs, blouses, stockings, and even more intimate articles. Many of these female merchants, especially the purveyors of iruit and vegetables, have rii'itiier nor barrow, but arrange t'.ieir potatoes and parsley, cabbage and carrots nj on the ground. By 0 a.m. the niarke; i= thoroughly well started; and it is over soon after lunch. It provides for most of the wants of humankind. These French peasant women are shrewd bargainers; ODe requires all the business instincts of one's former civil life to combat with. them. One suspects that in Prance, ac in Eighty, attempts to exploit the pur-' chafer are not altogether unknown, and even the French market women understand all about commercial "rings." But a benevolent, yet firm. Gowrnmcnt Here steps in. an~i everywhere is seen tne Avis. fi\insj the Prix dcs Demrees, backed by the presence of the jrendarme, a kindly, courteous fellow in blue uniform, tin bat and revolver complete. Marketday is a great occasion for him. tuat his official intervention is ever demanded. Disputes, if any. are generally friendly: but it is a chance for him to "spread himself a bat. THE ANSWER TO EVERYTHING. And look at this charming old lady, wait ins so patiently behind her piles of in her neat dress and spotless apron. An exquisite old face under its clean mob cap; a trifle weather-beaten. perhaps, and care worn; but kindliness and good humour in every feature, though a shade tired and sad. One enters into conversation. "Madame est fatiguee?" "Eh bien, monsieur . . ." And one gathers that once there was Pierre to push the barrow from the little village somt> seven miles away. "Et Pierre . . . ".?" Pierre, we gather, was killed defending Verdun. And there were two others, Louis and Francois; but they went very early in the war. One stands rather stupefied in the presence of sorrows such as these. "(Test triste, m'dame. , . , Jβ regrette. " "'Mais que voulez wus que je vous disc. Cest la guerre. . . . But, monsieur, desires he not of the potatoes, which are excellent?" That is it, that is just it. The guerre is such to the French that it is the answer to everything. The guerre needs this, the guerre demands that—bien —it is sufficient. Long before dark, slowly and methodically, the whole thing disappears. Back to the farms steal the cart and wagons; home to the tiniest holdings and allotments go the hand-pushed barrows, somewhat wearily, but always happily. But not until-—and this is the extraordinary thing to a Briton —not until the whole of, the refuse and waste in the Place and elsewhere is very carefully swept into methodical heaps for subsequent removal, a duty taken in turn and never shirkedThere are no dustmen here; and if there were, they would be a-u front. A truly marvellous people.