"What I fear is that England-" came a sentence floating upon the stream of talk in a popular eating place. So unexpected, so much by chance, and so many were the expressions like these that inquiry was suggested. And this confirmed these strange and grotesque sentiments.

"It is historic," said a highly educated Dutchman ; "you know our people are very slow, especially at forgetting. Suppose you read up on Dutch history again. The Boer War for instance."

Still more amazing is the lack of terror of Germany. One does not care to write what has been heard of acquiescence in even German absorption-and this, too, from the masses themselves.

The principal fear of Germany appears to be that of commercial rivalry in case she wins. "Rotterdam is our great port; far the best on the North Sea; better than Antwerp if controlled by Belgium. But suppose Germany keeps Antwerp? With her greater resources, her system and energy, Antwerp as a German port, though naturally inferior to Rotterdam, would, we think, take from us the bulk of trade." This was an expression from one of the commercial class engaged in shipping.

So it is that Dutch public opinion, carefully balanced and self-contained, yet inclines slightly toward her mighty eastern neighbors in the closing days of 1914. Events will determine it in the future. The only thing that can be safely said is that the Dutchman is not pro-German nor yet pro-English, but decidedly proDutch. And Holland's vigorous and, if necessary,

menacing little army, highly trained, is sleeping on its arms-no, not sleeping, but standing at attention.

That army would instantly resist any appearance upon Dutch soil of any force coming for the purposes of the present war, whether that force were German, English, or of any other belligerent power. One must admire the Dutch. Their cool-headedness, their readiness for action and their self-contained wariness of overt act, their undoubted yet quiet courage, their solid cautious sense,-all these qualities compel respect and esteem.

O

II

GERMAN TRENCH AND BATTERY*

VER the city of Lille, in northern France, thick clouds lowered weightily. An occasional drop of rain spat vengefully from the heavens. Evening was falling. "There will be a storm to-night," remarked the wanderer among strange scenes.

"Oh, no-just one of these everlasting rains," replied a German officer, standing in the group. "It is always like this."

"But," persisted the stranger, "listen to that low heavy thunder, so full of body. That means a storm.' "Why, my dear sir," laughed the military one, "that is not thunder-that is artillery."

"Artillery! How far away?"

"Oh, I should say that firing is near Comines, about ten miles off."

A little bit abrupt this, with a trace of gentle thrill, to one fresh from Berlin not thirty hours distant by railway peaceful, busy, casual, matter-of-fact, yet serious Berlin. For this capital of a mighty nation at war shows few signs of being the center of the greatest of all epochal conflicts of history. Shops and

*Written at the German Western Front, January 9th and 10th, 1915.

stores all open; prices normal, even the usual first-ofJanuary sales at reduced figures going on; streets thronged with men and women, thousands of the men of military age; theaters, amusement halls, movingpicture shows crowded with patrons; cafés and Bierstuben filled with quiet, pleasant German folk-apparently almost the Berlin of peace time, except for occasional companies of troops in Feldgrau, and now and then a bandaged soldier on the streets. Indeed, to one expecting marching thousands, closed windows, dour faces, hurrying ambulances, black days and nights, with streets and houses darkened, Berlin surprises the visitor much more than does the fardistant battlefield.

And Lille itself, captured city of France, held by the conquerors! At first sight you wonder that this can be so. For here, too, the sidewalks are full of people-men, women, children; here, too, stores and shops are open, purchasers passing in and out; here, too, the street-cars rumble over the complaining rails.

But for the great number of soldiers thickly clustering everywhere, but for the largest of Lille's cafés monopolized by powerful-looking men wearing the uniform of the German officer, and but for that growling menace which you have learned is the sound of cannon instead of the voice of the impatient heavens—but for these war tokens, the newly arrived observer in his first moments of astonishment would never think Lille the victim of conquest.

To be sure, war's reddest advertisement has flared in your face as you enter the Lille station; for there, on adjoining tracks, two long hospital trains filled with

wounded are ready for departure to the permanent hospitals. Also, tall helmeted officers greet you; and rising above the front of the military automobile which you enter, a long edged hook, slanting backward, lifts itself higher than your head. It is to break the wires that sometimes are stretched across roads to cut the throats of those in these military cars, who drive like the wind in darkness as well as light.

Then, too, here and there, what once were great buildings, are now only masses of brick, stone, mortar and twisted iron. But demolished structures, uniformed officers, plunging autos, mangled men-all of these you had expected. And you had not expected evidences of peaceful, orderly and ordinary civil life.

Indeed, it is a long time from your departure from Berlin station that the work of war's strong, rough and efficient hand strikes your eye; a still longer time before even your expectant senses detect war's pungent atmosphere. You are many miles into France when the gaunt walls of shell-destroyed houses first flash past you. A space farther on and you stop for a moment at a good-sized town; three wagons, burdened with great loads of straw, drawn by six powerful horses driven by soldiers; other wagons loaded with provisions; a long train on the siding bearing munitions of war covered with canvas; two coffins resting on the station platform, and one more borne by four stalwart soldiers; along the central street houses smashed and crumpled; in an open space some two hundred sturdy, bearded, middle-aged, gravefaced men in long black uniform overcoats, with black leather caps bearing gold crosses above the peaks-all