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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



Photograph by Melville Chater 



ARMENIAN REFUGEES CARDING WOOE IN TlFUS 



It is not necessary to carry work to the refugees. They flock to the place where some 

 honest task can win them food. The demoralization of Russian industry and transportation 

 has made homespun the only available cloth in the Caucasus, and American charity serves 

 the well-to-do while it saves the starving. 



Out went the Black Sea's raw wind, 

 like an extinguished candle, and over us 

 crept a soft, warm land-breath, heavy 

 with springtide, from the base of snow- 

 capped mountains. And hardly were we 

 trudging off over Batum's waterside 

 ways — cobbled in high relief like Spotless 

 Town, in the Country of Advertismen- 

 tia — when the dingy scene burst into bril- 

 liant patches of blue and yellow, where 

 February's violets were hawked for sale 

 and mimosa trees drooped, heavy with 

 bloom and scent — a sight to stun sea- 

 wearied eyes, and to make one believe 

 again in long-lost miracles. 



I visited the British base-commander 

 and mentioned Tiflis and a first-class car- 

 riage. 



"Good Lord!" ejaculated the B. C. 

 "Wish I could wave a wand and produce 

 such a thing! Try the American flour- 

 train that's moving out tonight. And 

 here's an order for three days' rations. 

 One never knows, you know." 



And so T climbed aboard a stumpy little 



living-car, hitched midway on a long 

 freight train, to be welcomed by a genial- 

 faced American doctor, who was en route 

 to gather data for one of the various re- 

 lief commissions at home. 



The B. C.'s warning that "one never 

 knows" was well founded. As we lounged 

 lethargically over the distance that re- 

 quired but sixteen hours from Batum to 

 Tiflis in peace time, days passed un- 

 counted, and the engineer held us up 

 while he dropped off at various towns to 

 spend the night with friends ; and dogs 

 snoozed and cats kittened under our car 

 between the rails during lengthy waits on 

 sidings. 



Though we had American flour aboard, 

 a British guard, Russian-built cars, an 

 Armenian cook, and a Georgian engineer, 

 we were not sufficiently polyglot to read 

 the station signs, all of which had been 

 changed from Russian lettering to that 

 of Georgia's own peculiar alphabet. Yet 

 the red flags which presently sprouted all 

 along the line apprised us that we were 



