In the gloomy, wet Sunday street two bands of boys were
playing at being soldiers. Being soldiers is the game all the children
in Northern Europe have played since the first of last August.
From doorways and window sills their lounging elders watched these Liege
urchins as they waged their mimic fight with wooden guns and wooden
swords; but, while we looked on, one boy of an inventive turn of mind
was possessed of a great idea. He proceeded to organize an execution
against a handy wall, with one small person to enact the role of the
condemned culprit and half a dozen others to make up the firing squad.
As the older spectators realized what was afoot a growl of dissent
rolled up and down the street; and a stout, red-faced matron, shrilly
protesting, ran out into the road and cuffed the boys until they broke
and scattered. There was one game in Liege the boys might not play.
The last I saw of Belgium was when I skirted her northern frontier,
making for the seacoast. The guns were silent now, for Antwerp had
surrendered; and over all the roads leading up into Holland refugees
were pouring in winding streams.
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