Now all was changed. The square had become a village filled with
canvas houses, the striped red-and-white booths of the market people.
War had given way to peace. For the clattering of accoutrements were
substituted high pitched haggling, the cackling of geese in crates,
the squawks of chickens tied by the leg. Little boys in pink-checked
gingham aprons ran about or stood, feet apart, staring with frank
curiosity at tall East Indians.
There were small and carefully cherished baskets of eggs and bundles
of dead Belgian hares hung by the ears, but no other fresh meats.
There was no fruit, no fancy bread. The vegetable sellers had only
Brussels sprouts, turnips, beets and the small round potatoes of the
country. For war has shorn the market of its gaiety. Food is scarce
and high. The flower booths are offering country laces and finding no
buyers. The fruit sellers have only shrivelled apples to sell.
Now, at a little after midday, the market is over. The canvas booths
have been taken down, packed on small handcarts and trundled away;
unsold merchandise is on its way back to the farm to wait for another
week and another market. Already the market square has taken on its
former martial appearance, and Dunkirk is at its midday meal of rabbit
and Brussels sprouts.
CHAPTER XXI
TEA WITH THE AIR-FIGHTERS
Later: Roland Garros, the French aviator, has just driven off a German
_Taube_.
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