n into
cloudy lace, into snowy linen, into fabrics of filmy lightness for my
lady's wear, La Lys, name significant and fraught with poetry for
us--giving life to the germ of the flax which it conserves through all
its life better than any art of the chemist in the secret chambers of
his laboratory.

"Thanks to this gracious river, our lovely town excels in napery and is
known throughout all the world. In harvest time the banks of the Lys are
thronged with movement, the harvesters in quaint costumes, their bodies
moving rhythmically to the words of the songs they sing, swinging the
heavy bundles of flax from the banks to the level platforms, where it is
allowed to sleep in the water, and later the heavy wagons are loaded to
the cadence of other songs appropriate to the work. Large picturesque
colored windmills wave their brown velvety hued sails against the piled
up masses of cloud, and over all is intense color, life and movement.

"The river plays then a most important part in the life on the Flemish
plains about Courtrai, giving their daily bread to the peasants, and
lending poetry to their existence. So, O Lys, our beautiful benefactor,
we love you."

At this writing (March, 1916) Courtrai is still occupied by the troops
of the German Kaiser, and with the exception of the destruction of the
Broel towers, the church of St. Martin, and the Old Belfry in the market
place, the town is said to be "intact."

Whenever possible we traveled through the Flemish littoral on the small
steam trams, "chemins-de-fer-vicinaux," as they are called in French, in
the Flemish tongue "Stoomtram," passing through fertile green meadows
dotted with fat, sleek, black and white cows, and embossed with shining
silvery waterways connecting the towns and villages. We noticed Englishy
cottages of white stucco and red tiled roofs, amid well kept fields and
market gardens in which both men and women seemed to toil from dawn to
dewy evening. Flanders before the war was simply covered with these
light railways. The little trains of black carriages drawn by puffing
covered motors, discharging heavy black clouds of evil-smelling smoke
and oily soot, rushed over the country from morning until night, and the
clanging of the motorman's bell seemed never ending.

[Illustration: The Broel Towers: Courtrai]

To see the country thus was a privilege, and was most interesting, for
one had to wait in the squares of the small towns, or at other central
pla