Belgium lies bleeding.

Across her level, lush meadows the harsh-shod hosts of war have marched. Beside her peaceful waters the sons of God have spilled each other’s blood. Beneath her noble trees have raged the fires of human hate.

Her king and his brave warriors have fought to save that which was their own and, driven back, have left their smiling land to suffer the desolation which has ever been the conqueror’s boast. Her ancient cities smoke. The inspired craftsmanship of an elder day has been destroyed forever.

Belgium lies moaning.

Across the winter sea we have heard the wailing of men and women among their ruined homes—honest townsfolk, simple Walloon and Flemish peasants, who had borne no malice and had done no wrong. And amid the cries of anguish and despair there have come to me the weeping of a little girl named Lisa and the voice of a faithful dog whining for his master.

W. A. D.

PIERROT, DOG OF BELGIUM