"Look! How the grass grows in Germany!"

"Ah, it doesn't grow like that in the valley of the Meuse--"

Every cottage in every village was different; many wore hats instead of
roofs, wooden things like steeples, with deep eaves and carved fringes,
in which were shadowy windows like old eyes. Some were pink and some
were yellow.

Soon they left the woods and came out upon an open plateau surrounded by
wavy hills with castles on them. In the middle of the plateau was a
Zeppelin shed which looked like the work of bigger men than the crawling
peasants in the roads. One side of the shed was open, and the strange
predatory bird within, insensible to the peering eye of an enemy, seemed
lost in thought in this green valley. The camp of huts beside it was
deserted, and there seemed to exist no hand to close the house door.
They rose again on to a hillside, and on every horizon shone a far blue
forest faint like sea or cloud.

Nearer Treves the villages were filled with Americans--Americans mending
the already perfect roads, and playing with the children.

"This is a topsy-turvy country, as it would be in Hans Andersen,"
thought Fanny. "I thought the Germans had to mend the broken roads
in France!"

They stayed that night in the Porta-Nigra hotel, which had been turned
into an Allied hostel. The mess downstairs was chiefly filled with
American officers, though a few Frenchmen sat together in one corner.
The food was American--corn cakes, syrup, and white, flaky bread.