A canal bisects one corner of the place, and spanning the river there
are--or were--three bridges, one for the railroad and two for foot and
vehicular travel. There is a mill which overhangs the river--the
biggest building in the town--and an ancient gray convent, not quite so
large as the mill; and, of course, a church. In most of the houses
there are tiny shops on the lower floors, and upstairs are the homes of
the people. On the northern side of the stream every tillable foot of
soil is under cultivation. There are flower beds, and plum and pear
trees in the tiny grass plots alongside the more pretentious houses, and
the farm lands extend to where the town begins.
This, briefly, is La Buissiere as it looked before the war began--a
little, drowsy settlement of dull, frugal, hard-working, kindly
Belgians, minding their own affairs, prospering in their own small way,
and having no quarrel with the outside world. They lived in the only
corner of Europe that I know of where serving people decline to accept
tips for rendering small services; and in a simple, homely fashion are,
I think, the politest, the most courteous, the most accommodating human
beings on the face of the earth.
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