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Gaspar, a refugee baby ordered to evacuate the town, and it was a lonely job that this youngster of twenty-seven years carried on through that day.

Our corps has seen the Belgians every day for several months. We have seen several skirmishes and battles and many days of shell-fire, and the impression of watching perhaps twenty thousand Belgians in action is that of excellent fighting qualities, starred with bits of sheer daring as astonishing as that of any other races. With no country left to fight for, homes either in ruin or soon to be shelled, relatives under an alien rule, the home Government on a foreign soil, still this second army, the first having been killed, fights on in good spirit. Every morning of the summer I have watched those of them that have been resting in La Panne, boys between eighteen and twenty-five, clad in fresh khaki, go riding down the poplar lane from La Panne to the trenches, the first twenty with bright silver bugles, their cheeks puffed and red with the blowing. Twelve months of wounds and wastage, wet trenches and tinned food, and still they go out with hope.

And the helpers of the army have shown good heart. Breaking the silence of Rome, the splendid priesthood of Bel

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gium, from the cardinal to the humblest curé, has played the man. On the front line near Pervyse, where my wife lived for three months, a priest has remained through the daily shell-fire to administer last rites to his dying soldiers and to comfort the fighting men. Just before leaving Flanders, I called on the sisters in the convent school of Furnes. They were still cheery and busy in their care of sick and wounded civilians. Every few days the Germans shell the town from seven miles away, but the sisters will continue there through the coming months as through the last year. The spirit of the best of the race is spoken in what King Albert said recently in an unpublished conversation to the gentlemen of the English mission:

"The English will cease fighting before the Belgians. If there is talk of yielding,

Dr. Van der Ghinst, a Belgian surgeon. He was decorated by the French for bravery in the Dixmude bombardment

it will come from the English, not from us."

That was a playful way of saying that

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there will be no yielding by any of the Western Allies. The truth is still as true as it was at Liège that the Belgians held up the enemy till France was ready to receive them. And the price Belgium paid for that resistance was the massacre of women and children and the house-to-house burning of homes.

Since rendering that service for all time to France and England, through sixteen months of such a life as exiles know the Belgians have fought on doggedly, recovering from the misery of the Antwerp retreat, and showing a resilience of spirit equaled only by the Fusiliers Marins of France. One afternoon in late June my friend Robert Toms, who came four thousand miles to lend a hand with the wounded, was sitting on the beach at La Panne, watching the soldiers swimming in the channel. Suddenly he called to me, and aimed his camera. There on the sand in the sunlight the Belgian army was changing its clothes. The faithful suits of blue, rained on and trench-worn, were being tossed into great heaps on the beach, and brand-new yellow khaki, clothes and cap, was buckled on. It was a transformation. We had learned to know that army, and their uniform had grown familiar and pleasant to us. The dirt, ground in till it

became part of the texture; the worn cloth, shapeless, but yet molded to the man by long association-all was an expression of the stocky little soldier inside. The new khaki hung slack. The caps were too large for Flemish heads. To us, watching the change, it was the loss of the last possession that connected them with their past; with homes and country gone, now the very clothing that had covered them through famous fights was shuffled off. It was as if the Belgian army had been swallowed up in the sea at our feet, like Pharaoh's phalanx, and up from the beach to the barracks scuffled an imitation English corps, spattering their ill-fitting garments with jest, writing and singing a poem in praise. This is the chorus which a Belgian soldier, clad in his fresh yellow, sang to us as we grouped around him on a sand-dune:

"Regardez nos p'tits soldats,
Ils ont l'air d'être un peu là,
Habiller.

D'la tête jusquaux pieds
En khaki, en khaki,
Ils sont contents de servir,
Mais non pas de mourir,
Et cela c'est parce que on leur a mis,
En quelque sorte, la t'nue khaki."

By DOROTHY PAUL

come

GAIN the Spring shall come across the date-groves of El-Jerid, With slender feet a-tinkle with her anklet-bells

Of hillside rain,

With lips that laugh beneath a veil of mist, and eyes above it

Deep with pain;

And all the wild, sweet gladness of her coming,

That thrills the brooks of Jordan into flood,

And sends along the twisted olive branches

The old glad pain of sap and leaf and bud,
Is mine. And, lo!

The ecstasy of pomegranates aglow,
The secret the wild-almond boughs have kept,
My heart shall know;

And I shall go across the hills to greet
The woman Spring

Not with veiled eyes, nor forehead bared
To touch her feet,

But heart to heart, as women who have shared
Some wondrous thing,

And lip to lip, as sisters meet.

Again the night shall come across the wilderness of Paran,
The desert night, as purple as a lotus-bud,

And dusky-fair

As an Egyptian dancing-girl, with languorous, wooing arms

And jeweled hair.

And I shall see the firelight leap and redden
Against the dusk before the old black tent

Where Sarai sits among her serving-maidens,
Dumb and bitter-eyed and uncontent,

While I, the bond-maid, know

Why women cannot sing before the glow Of evening fires, with empty arms, the runes

That women know:

For I have shared with Earth the common pain

That makes me part

Of her great womanhood,- akin to Spring

And to the Sun,

Upon my lips the songs that women sing,
And on my heart

The kiss of Life; for we are one.

THE

The Lost Phoebe

By THEODORE DREISER Author of "Jennie Gerhardt,' ""A Traveler at Forty," etc.

Illustrations by Walter J. Enright

HEY lived together in a part of the country which was not so prosperous as it had once been, about three miles from one of those small towns that, instead of increasing in population, are steadily decreasing. The territory was not very thickly settled; perhaps a house every other mile or so, with large areas of corn- and wheat-land and fallow fields that at odd seasons had been sown to timothy and clover. Their particular house was part log and part frame, the log portion being the old original home of Henry's grandfather. The new portion, of now rain-beaten, time-worn slabs, through which the wind squeaked in the chinks at times and which several overshadowing elms and a butternut-tree made picturesque and reminiscently pathetic, but a little damp, was erected by Henry when he was twenty-one and just married.

That was forty-eight years before. The furniture inside, like the house outside, was old and mildewy and reminiscent of an earlier day. You have seen the whatnot of cherry wood, perhaps, with spiral legs and fluted top. It was there. The old-fashioned heavy-posted bed, with balllike protuberances and deep curving incisions, was there also, a sadly alienated descendant of an early Jacobean ancestor. The bureau was of cherry also, high and wide and solidly built, but faded-looking, and with a musty odor. The rag carpet that underlay all these sturdy examples of enduring furniture was a weak, faded, lead-and-pink-colored affair woven by Phoebe Ann's own hands when she was fifteen years younger than she was when she died. The creaky wooden loom on which

it had been done now stood like a dusty, bony skeleton, along with a broken rocking-chair, a worm-eaten clothes-press, Heaven knows how old,-a lime-stained bench that had once been used to keep flowers on outside the door, and other decrepit factors of household utility, in an east room that was a lean-to against this so-called main portion. All sorts of broken-down furniture were about this place: an antiquated clothes-horse, cracked in two of its ribs; a broken mirror in an old cherry frame, which had fallen from a nail and cracked itself three days before their youngest son, Jerry, died; an extension hat-rack, which once had had porcelain knobs on the ends of its pegs; and a sewing-machine, long since outdone in its clumsy mechanism by rivals of a newer generation.

The orchard to the east of the house was full of gnarled old apple-trees, wormeaten as to trunks and branches, and fully ornamented with green and white lichens, so that it had a sad, greenish-white, silvery effect in moonlight. The low outhouses, which had once housed chickens, a horse or two, a cow, and several pigs, were covered with patches of moss as to their roof, and the sides had been free of paint for so long that they were blackish gray as to color, and a little spongy. The picketfence in front, with its gate squeaky and askew, and the side fences of the stakeand-rider type were in an equally rundown condition. As a matter of fact, they had aged synchronously with the persons who lived here, old Henry Reifsneider and his wife Phoebe Ann.

They had lived here, these two, ever

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