gourd. After a while it made off toward the weSt. One day last week
three of them passed, all bound presumably for Paris or Antwerp, or even
London. That time the people grew a bit excited; but now they take a
Zeppelin much as a matter of course, and only wonder mildly where it
came from and whither it is going.

As for to-morrow, I imagine to-morrow will be another to-day; but
yesterday was different. I had a streak of luck. It is forbidden to
civilians, and more particularly to correspondents, to go prowling about
eastern Belgium just now; but I found a friend in a naturalized German-
American, formerly of Chicago, but living now in Germany, though he
still retains his citizenship in the United States.

Like every one else in Aachen, he is doing something for the government,
though I can only guess at the precise nature of his services. At any
rate he had an automobile, a scarce thing to find in private hands in
these times; and, what was more, he had a military pass authorizing him
to go to Liege and to take two passengers along. He invited me to go
with him for a day's ride through the country where the very first blows
were swapped in the western theater of hostilities.

We started off in the middle of a fickle-minded shower, which first blew
puffs of wetness in our faces, like spray on a flawy day at sea, and
then broke off to let the sun shine through for a minute or two. For
two or three kilometers after clearing the town we ran through a
district that smiled with peace and groaned with plenty. On the
verandas of funny little gray roadhouses with dripping red roofs
officers sat over their breakfast coffee. A string of wagons passed us,
bound inward, full of big, white, clean-looking German pigs. A road
builder, repairing the ruts made by the guns and baggage trains, stood