Market days on Saturdays were great events, and little booths filled up
the whole _place_, and what bargains one could make! We bought all the
available flowers to make the wards as bright as possible. In the
afternoons when there was not much to do except cut dressings, I often
sat quietly at my table and listened to the discussions which went on in
the ward. The Belgian soldier loves an argument.

One day half in French, and half in Flemish, they were discussing what
course they would pursue if they found a wounded German on the
battlefield. "_Tuez-le comme un lapin_," cried one. "_Faut les
zigouiller tous_," cried another (almost untranslatable slang, but
meaning more or less "choke the lot"). "_Ba, non, sauvez-le p'is qu'il
est blessé_," cried a third to which several agreed. This discussion
waxed furious till finally I was called on to arbitrate. One boy was
rapidly working himself into a fever over the question. He was out to
kill any Boche under any conditions, and I don't blame him. This was his
story:

In the little village where he came from, the Germans on entering had
treated the inhabitants most brutally. He was with his old father and
mother and young brother of eight--(It was August 1914 and his class had
not yet been called up). Some Germans marched into the little cottage
and shaking the old woman roughly by the arm demanded something to
drink. His mother was very deaf and slow in her movements and took some
time to understand. "Ha," cried one brute, "we will teach you to walk
more quickly," and without more ado he ran his sword through her poor
old body. The old man sprang forward, too late to save her, and met with
the same fate. The little brother had been hastily hidden in an empty
cistern as they came in. "Thus, Mademoiselle," the boy ended, "I have
seen killed before my eyes my own father and mother; my little brother