lly have been the breath of
the wasted place, just as the distant, never-ending boom of the guns
might have been the lamenting voice of the war-smitten land itself.

I remember Liege best at this present distance by reason of a small
thing that occurred as we rode, just before dusk, through a byway near
the river. In the gloomy, wet Sunday street two bands of boys were
playing at being soldiers. Being soldiers is the game all the children
in Northern Europe have played since the first of last August.

From doorways and window sills their lounging elders watched these Liege
urchins as they waged their mimic fight with wooden guns and wooden
swords; but, while we looked on, one boy of an inventive turn of mind
was possessed of a great idea. He proceeded to organize an execution
against a handy wall, with one small person to enact the role of the
condemned culprit and half a dozen others to make up the firing squad.

As the older spectators realized what was afoot a growl of dissent
rolled up and down the street; and a stout, red-faced matron, shrilly
protesting, ran out into the road and cuffed the boys until they broke
and scattered. There was one game in Liege the boys might not play.

The last I saw of Belgium was when I skirted her northern frontier,
making for the seacoast. The guns were silent now, for Antwerp had
surrendered; and over all the roads leading up into Holland refugees
were pouring in winding streams. They were such refugees as I had seen
a score of times before, only now there were infinitely more of them
than ever before: men, women and children, all afoot; all burdened with
bags and bundles; all dressed in their best clothes--they did well to
save their best, since they could save so little else--all or nearly all
bearing their inevitable black umbrellas.

They must have come long distances; but I marked that none of them
moaned or complained, or gave up in weariness and despair. They went on
and on, with their weary backs bent to their burdens and their weary
legs trembling under them; and we did not know where they were going--
and they did not know. They just went. What they must face before them
could not equal what they left behind them; so they went on.

That poor little rag doll, with its head crushed in the wheel tracks,
does not after all furnish such a good comparison for Belgium, I think,
as I finish this tale; for it had sawdust insides--and Belgium's vitals
are the vitals of