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                   _TALES FROM A FAMISHED LAND_




                           _TALES FROM A
                          FAMISHED LAND_

                            _INCLUDING_

                       _The White Island--A
                     Story of the Dardanelles_


                                _BY_
                         _EDWARD EYRE HUNT_

                   _Author of “War Bread,” Etc._


                          [Illustration]


                     _GARDEN CITY_ _NEW YORK_
                    _DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY_
                              _1918_




                       _Copyright, 1918, by_
                     DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

              _All rights reserved, including that of
                translation into foreign languages,
                    including the Scandinavian_


  COPYRIGHT, 1916, 1917, BY THE REPUBLIC PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC.
         COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
        COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE AMERICAN RED CROSS SOCIETY
              COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE OUTLOOK COMPANY
             COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY P. F. COLLIER’S SONS




                              TO THE
                          MEMORY OF E. O.




_Collier’s Weekly_, _The Outlook_, _The New Republic_, _The
Atlantic Monthly_, and _The Red Cross Magazine_ have published
certain of these tales in serial form, and to them my thanks are
due for permission to republish in book form.




FOREWORD


Herbert Clark Hoover, chairman of the Commission for Relief in
Belgium, once called that amazing organization, “the door in the
wall of steel.” Between November, 1914, and March, 1917, when
America entered the world war, there had passed through that door
millions of dollars in money, thousands of tons of foodstuffs and
clothing, and four or five dozen young Americans, most of them
just out of their ’teens, who played a part in Belgian history
which they are still trying to explain in words of one syllable to
admiring relatives and friends!

Theirs is a story of sweet romance, gallant adventure, grotesque
comedy, and grim tragedy. The tales which are here set down are a
part of their story. These tales are not strictly truth, but they
are not fiction. They are both. They try to describe the state of
mind, the atmosphere in which History--both truth and fiction--is
made; the atmosphere behind long lines of barbed-wire and bayonets,
behind waves of poisoned gas, in a famished land where ten million
heroic people, both French and Belgians, have silently and steadily
fought to keep their self-respect, their sanity, and their courage.

These tales have been written in a spirit of gratitude and love;
with gratitude and love first of all to Herbert Clark Hoover, then
to the other officers and members of the Commission for Relief
in Belgium, and then, and perhaps most of all, to those unnamed
French, Walloon, and Flemish millions with whom we Americans stood
shoulder to shoulder on the inside of the “door in the wall of
steel.”

                                                         E. E. H.

  _4 Place de la Concorde, Paris_
    _New Year’s Day, 1918._




CONTENTS


                                        PAGE

  FOREWORD                                ix

     I. SAINT DYMPNA’S MIRACLE             3

    II. LOVE IN A BARGE                   19

   III. THE ODYSSEY OF MR. SOLSLOG        29

    IV. FIGURES OF THE DANCE              46

     V. THE SAVIOUR OF MONT CÉSAR         61

    VI. GHOSTS                            86

   VII. THE DESERTER                      96

  VIII. THE GLORY OF TINARLOO            114

    IX. A FLEMISH FANCY                  122

     X. THE SWALLOWS OF DIEST            135

    XI. PENSIONERS                       148

   XII. DOÑA QUIXOTE                     160

  XIII. IN THE STREET OF THE SPY         167

   XIV. THE WHITE ISLAND--A STORY
          OF THE DARDANELLES             176




_TALES FROM A FAMISHED LAND_




_Tales From a Famished Land_




I

SAINT DYMPNA’S MIRACLE


Pierre, the chauffeur, launched a savage kick at the newly
punctured tire and swore into the night. “Three quarters of an
hour, monsieur, to repair it,” he said reluctantly, switching off
the motor. “Do you wish----”

Into the sudden silence stole the slow, incessant roar of the
Yser cannon. The level stretches of the Campine, alternating
black vistas of scrub evergreens with little fields, peat bogs,
and kitchen gardens, lay fragrant and silent in the moonlight.
Heather was in bloom, nightingales were nesting and so were no
longer singing, and the narrow Flemish road before and behind the
automobile lay like