Somewhere I heard a trumpet blown. The brazen spikes on the helmets
of a little troop of German soldiers flashed for an instant, far
down the sloppy road. Through the humid dusk came the dull, distant
booming of the unseen guns of conquest in Flanders.

That was the only answer.






A CITY OF REFUGE




In the dark autumn of 1914 the City sprang up almost in a night,
as if by enchantment.

It was white magic that called it into being--the deep, quiet,
strong impulse of compassion and protection that moved the motherly
heart of Holland when she saw the hundreds of thousands of Belgian
fugitives pouring out of their bleeding, ravaged land, and running,
stumbling, creeping on hands and knees, blindly, instinctively
turning to her for safety and help.

"Come to me," she said, like a good woman who holds out her arms and
spreads her knees to make a lap for tired and frightened children,
"come to me. I will take care of you. You shall be safe with me."