The Belgian Twins | Page 4

friends of Belgian Children --
PREFACE
In this sad hour of the world's history, when so many homes have been broken up, and so many hearts burdened with heavy sorrows, it is comforting to think of the many heroic souls who, throughout the struggle, have gone about their daily tasks with unfailing courage and cheerfulness, and by so doing have helped to carry the burdens of the world, and to sustain other hearts as heavy as their own.
It is comforting, also, to know that there are many instances of happy reunions after long and unspeakable anxieties, adventures, and trials.
This story of two little Belgian refugees is based upon the actual experience of two Belgian children, and the incident of the locket is quite true.
The characters of the eel-woman and the mother of the Twins have also their living originals, from whose courage and devotion the author has received much inspiration.
CONTENTS
I. THE HARVEST-FIELD
II. THE RUMORS
III. THE ALARM
IV. "FOR KING, FOR LAW AND LIBERTY"
V. DOING A MAN'S WORK
VI. AT THE CHURCH
VII. THE TIDAL WAVE OF GERMANS
VIII. GRANNY AND THE EELS
IX. OFF FOR ANTWERP
X. ON THE TOW-PATH
XI. THE ATTACK
XII. THE ZEPPELIN RAID
XIII. REFUGEES
XIV. THE MOST WONDERFUL PART
THE BELGIAN TWINS
I
THE HARVEST-FIELD
THE HARVEST-FIELD
It was late in the afternoon of a long summer's day in Belgium. Father Van Hove was still at work in the harvest-field, though the sun hung so low in the west that his shadow, stretching far across the level, green plain, reached almost to the little red- roofed house on the edge of the village which was its home. Another shadow, not so long, and quite a little broader, stretched itself beside his, for Mother Van Hove was also in the field, helping her husband to load the golden sheaves upon an old blue farm-cart which stood near by.
Them were also two short, fat shadows which bobbed briskly about over the green meadow as their owners danced among the wheat- sheaves or carried handfuls of fresh grass to Pier, the, patient white farm-horse, hitched to the cart. These gay shadows belonged to Jan and Marie, sometimes called by their parents Janke and Mie, for short. Jan and Marie were the twin son and daughter of Father and Mother Van Hove, and though they were but eight years old, they were already quite used to helping their father and mother with the work of their little farm.
They knew how to feed the chickens and hunt the eggs and lead Pier to water and pull weeds in the garden. In the spring they had even helped sow the wheat and barley, and now in the late summer they were helping to harvest the grain.
The children had been in the field since sunrise, but not all of the long bright day had been given to labor. Early in the morning their father's pitchfork had uncovered a nest of field mice, and the Twins had made another nest, as much like the first as possible, to put the homeless field babies in, hoping that their mother would find them again and resume her interrupted housekeeping.
Then they had played for a long time in the tiny canal which separated the wheat-field from the meadow, where Bel, their black and white cow, was pastured. There was also Fidel, the dog, their faithful companion and friend. The children had followed him on many an excursion among the willows along the river-bank, for Fidel might at any moment come upon the rabbit or water rat which he was always seeking, and what a pity it would be for Jan and Marie to miss a sight like that!
When the sun was high overhead, the whole family, and Fidel also, had rested under a tree by the little river, and Jan and Marie had shared with their father and mother the bread and cheese which had been brought from home for their noon meal. Then they had taken a nap in the shade, for it is a long day that begins and ends with the midsummer sun. The bees hummed so drowsily in the clover that Mother Van Hove also took forty winks, while Father Van Hove led Pier to the river for a drink; and tied him where he could enjoy the rich meadow grass for a while.
And now the long day was nearly over. The last level rays of the disappearing sun glistened on the red roofs of the village, and the windows of the little houses gave back an answering flash of light. On the steeple of the tiny church the gilded cross shone like fire against the gray of the eastern sky.
The village clock struck seven and was answered faintly by the sound of distant chimes from the Cathedral of Malines, miles away across the plain.
For some time Father Van Hove had been standing on top of the load, catching