lay was the shortest of the lot. Some mounds were fifty or sixty feet
in length. I presume there were distinguishing marks on the filled-up
trenches where the German dead lay, but from the automobile we could
make out none.

As we started on again, after giving the little Hanoverian the last
treasured copy of a paper we had managed to keep that long against
continual importunity, a big Belgian dog, with a dragging tail and a
sharp jackal nose, loped round from behind an undamaged cow barn which
stood back of the riven shell of a house where the soldiers were
quartered. He had the air about him of looking for somebody or
something.

He stopped short, sniffing and whining, at sight of the gray coats
bunched in the doorway; and then, running back a few yards, with his
head all the time turned to watch the strangers, he sat on his haunches,
stuck his pointed muzzle upward toward the sky and fetched a long,
homesick howl from the bottom of his disconsolate canine soul. When we
turned a bend in the road, to enter the first recognizable street of
Liege, he was still hunkered down there in the rain. He finished the
picture; he keynoted it. The composition of it--for me--was perfect
now.

I mean no levity when I say that Liege was well shaken before taken; but
merely that the phrase is the apt one for use, because it better
expresses the truth than any other I can think of. Yet, considering
what it went through, last month, Liege seemed to have emerged in better
shape than one would have expected.

Driving into the town I saw more houses with white flags--the emblem of