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About The Sunday Oregonian. (Portland, Ore.) 1881-current | View Entire Issue (Sept. 23, 1917)
THE STJXPAT OEEGOXIAX, POKTXAJTjD, SEPTE3IBER 23, 1917. 0 'Bucharest! One Day Thy Arms TJVill Be Open Wide to Receive Queen Marie of Rumania Pours Out Her Soul to Capital Abandoned at Approach of Enemy Armies Us! O, Bucharest, I left thee without a word of farewell, I who so of ted have been acclaimed in thy streets! Like a traitor did I feel to leave thee thus to thy fate!" Thriven Into exile with her many subjects, who had to retreat before the Hun Jul as Che "Belgians and Serbians were forced out f their peaceful homes in the debacle of ar, Queen Marie of Roumania has turned to the pen and with It la picturing the hor rors that have engulfed the pretty little .Balkan kingdom. Queen Marie was married to Kins Ferdi nand In 113. and was then the Princess tarl of Edinburgh, the daughter of Alfred I. Duke of Sax Coburg and Gotha. Prince of Great Britain and Ireland. Noted for her (eauty, idolized by her people, she has de voted herself to Red Cross work, and the care of ner stricken people ever since the entry of Rumania into the war. In devoting her pen to the cause of her Adopted country. Queen Marie has followed the example of her husband's aunt, the late Queen Elizabeth (Carmen fiylva , whose charming books of poetry and prose deal Imost entirely with the customs and folk lore of Rumania. In this article Queen .Marie gives a, graphic picture of war-torn Rumania. "BY THE QTTEEX OF ROUMAXIA. THERE is an hour of which I have never spoken an hour of dark ness and sorrow that I could share 'ith no one, an hour when I had to carry nay head very high, so that none should see the tears in my eyes, an hour when naught else remained to me but to look beyond the things of this earth toward shadowy futures that fce loner only to God. I had to be strong- at that hour, not o rry out. not to complain, but to ilead the way Into exile very simply. very quietly, so as to avoid all panic, so that no one should be afraid. . Others depended upon me. all eyes were turned toward me to see how I would bear that which was unbearable, so I was silent: at that hour silence alone could help. Three months have passed since then, three long months months that could be years so full are they of anguish and pain and grief. Months that I have lived close to the heart of my people, months when I have heard their cries, and hoped their hopes and feared their fears. Months in which I have struggled with them and wept with them, doing all that was in my power to ease their burden and to dry their tears. . . . But if there are hours when silence alone can render bearable the duty one has to perform, there are others when one has a right to lift up one's voice and to cry out one's longing and one's regret. It is three months since Bucharest was taken from us, since the enemy struck at the heart of our land! Three months ... and today X want all those who love and all those who weep and all those who regret to turn their faces with mine toward that far-off distance and to remember that which we have lost . . It Is to me as though T must climb some very high mountain, up, up, till I reach its summit, so that from there 1 might perceive at least the smoke ris ing from that town which once was our loved and cherished center and that now lies chained and silent 'neath he enemy's relentless sway. Yes, indeed, heart of our land? Puls ing center that held us together, fed our energies and filled us with pride who of us will ever forget those lost days of anguish, when hope became al ways less, when from all sides the voice of the cannon called out its fearful message, called out its warnings, telling us that danger was coming ever nearer that soon it would be flight and exile and sorrow and darkness. Difficult it is to speak of one's own sorrow when the suffering of all was so great, yet if today I speak of mine it Is because I know that it is my coun try's sorrow, that a thousand thousand voices are echo to mine when I talk of that for which we are mourning; of that which lies beyond the line of fire, that like a. wound upon a mother's breast cuts our dear country in two! It Is I, your Queen, who am speaking to you, and I wish my voice to reach every heart, to penetrate into every home, to go toward the most miserable, to search out the hero on his bed of snow, I want ye all to know that I have wept with you, that there is none of your griefs that I have not shared, none of your despairs that I have not understood, none of your sacrifices that I have not appreciated : but th is men- safe 'Would. I bring to you: Hearts are bound more closely together in days of sorrow than in days of joy, in days of war than in days of peace. . . . - I cannot know for which special sor row each man is m ou rn in g I know not what house, what spot, what face he sees in his dreams; I know not to what hope he clings, to what Joy he desires to go back; there is a national sorrow and there is a personal sorrow, that last one, each man carries alone In his heart. Bucharest! Thy name conjures up pictures without end in the minds of these who have been obliged to sur render thee to the hated foe. "We re member thee with all thy faces, in sun shine, in rain and In snow; we remem ber thee busy yet smiling, within thy streets all seemed happy, it is to us, now that we are torn from thee, as though we had known naught but joy within thy embrace. What is thy face of today, oh. Bu charest Hast thou veiled thyself in mourning because so many of thy chil dren have fled? Or dost thou wear a smile of false acquiescence, so as not to draw down upon thy trembling in habitants the wrath of those who now call themselves masters and who per chance keep thee in better order than thine own children ever did? Have thy proudest buildings been desecraetd with flags that are not dyed in the three holy colors before which each Rumanian uncovers his head? Have the blinds of thy windows been drawn down so that those who have remained should not see men In polnt ed'helmets marching to and fro before the house of thy King? Are the hos pitals we prepared so tenderly for our wounded filled with foreigners who speak not our language, that mock at our sorrow, rejoicing over the misery they have strewn over our land? Oh, Bucharest, I left thee without a word of farewell, I who so often have been acclaimed in thy streets! I was told that-I must steal away from thee in silence, show no sorrow, say no good-bye. betraying no emotion, so as to awaken no panic in the hearts of those who were to stay! Like a traitor did I feel, likV a cow ard, to leave thee thus to thy fate! To go away, to know naught of thy sorrow, to leave thee unprotected to those who soon would suck thy heart's blood! And Cotroceni! House that X love, house that little by little I have mod eled to my taste, house that knows the voices of my children, in whose garden their baby-feet have toddled about. Cotroceni! I left thee, taking no leave of those who were to remain to pro tect thee, casting hardly a look upon the rooms that once had been Iny pride I had the courage to smile into the face of " the old family servants, who looked at me anxiously as though di vining that my silence hid some awful truth. Yes. T left thee and from one, one only did I take leave! But that one was so small and so silent that never will he relate what his mother said to him in that hour before her flight! It was evening the shadows were already stealing Into the church, and with them I slipped into the sanctuary, where a heap of white flowers spread a mystic light. And there beside that grave hut so recently closed I tore from me the mask that all day I had worn, and cried out my pain to the lit tle one lying beneath the stones. I confessed to him that I was going going not knowing when I would come back. I asked him to forgive me for forsaking him, to forgive his moth er for taking the five others with her, while she left him lonely, he who was smallest of them all! Left him to the mercy of those who soon would take possession of the places we had loved! As I wept in solitary despair. It seemed to me that I heard the tread of the approaching armies, and shudder ingly I realized that it was the breasts of our soldiers that were forming a rampart around our threatened home! I thought of all those who still must fall before the enemy could reach this sacred door! And with anguish I real ized that I would no more be there to bind up their wounds, to console their defeat. Perhaps it was so that some vital part of my being should remain in our capital even after our retreat, that I was destined to leave my youngest there beneath the cold slabs of the church. Did perchance God tear him from us as a sign that all this sorrow, all this sacrifice, is but a passing hor ror, that because Mircea lies there awaiting my return, that surely, surely I must come back? When he died the popular belief was that the heavens had claimed from me a sacrifice, that God had taken my child from me that in his perfect inno cence he should plead for the country he was destined to quit so soon! So let it be! For I believe in the day of return, I believe in the hour of victory, I believe that the blood of our heroes has not been shed in vain! One day thy arms will be opened wide to receive us, O Mother-town! Flags will fly from thy windows, thy streets will be strewn with branches, and those who return to thy embrace will not know if their hearts are break ing with sorrow or joy! It lies in God's hand if I. your Queen, am to share that solemn hour with you. But this one boon do I ask of my people that if my feet should not en ter the dear city with you. carry all the flowers that you would have given me to the church where my little one lies, carry them there to his grave, heap them in masses above him, fill the whole church with flowers, so that he who so long was lonely should have share in your songs of praise! MARIE. February 23. 1917. FOR THE. "YOUNG PEOPL ROBERTS COMPANY WHEN Robert Sone and his mother and little sister went to the country for the Summer his mother promised him that he should Invite some of his city friends out to e him, so that he would have com pany to play with. But they had not been there more than a week before little sister was taken sick, and com pany was then out of the question for jl while. And Robert, deprived of even the company of his sister, was oh, so Very lonesome! One day he wandered off into the voods near the house and sat down to have a complaining party all by him self. I think it's horrid to play by my- elf all the time, that's what I think!" lie began. I ''Too bad! Too bad!" giggled a soft! little voice. "Why don't you play with ! the woods people?" Robert started. He didn't know any body was near enough to hear what he eald. But he couldn't see a soul, so he decided he must be dreaming. 1 wanted some boys to play pirate cave with me," he continued. "I wanted to play hunting treasure, mo there!" 'Well, why don't you?" asked the olce. There's a hidden treasure in that very tree!" Robert rubbed his eyes and looked at the tree; looked so hard that he quite failed to eee the funny little elf who peered out at him from behind the sheltering trunk; looked straight at the mysterious darkness of the hollow at the base of the tree. "Funny 1 should imagine such a thing as that." he said thoughtfully (and how the little elf did chuckle!), "but since I have, I think I'll look in that hollow Just for fun." He tiptoed up to the tree, reached his iand into the shadow and felt some thing soft and warm and moving. He dropped down to his knees and looked hard, and there, in a snug little nest, were five of the tiniest, cutest little baby mice he had ever seen. They had tiny little gray bodies, fminy little short legs and pink toes, and they were so little and helpless that they didn't even try to run away when Robert touched them: they Just crouched lower in their soft nest and squeaked faintly. "I believe something has happened to your mother, and that you're hungry," aid Robert, "and I'm going to get you something to eat this very minute. He ran back to the house, hunted up some crackers and hurried back to his tree, lie didn't waste a minute: be was so afraid they would go away. But they didn't; they were just as he had left them, and still too frightened to move. Robert crumbled up the crackers and scattered the bits around the mice, then he sat down and watched them till his mother called him to dinner. That evening Robert's father made him a little box to keep the mice In so i mm Brother Crowed With Della-ht. they would be safe from hawks and other dangers, and Robert cared for them until they were big enough to look after themselves. And such fun did he find It that he wasn't lonesome any more. The Lame Gull. BILLY didn't keep back the big tears very successfully when he said goodby to his mother. "Father Will take good care of you. dear. she smiled, and her own eyes were misty. "When will we get back. Daddy?" Billy asked as they walked hand In band up the gangplank. His father laughed. "In a couple of weeks. Here, son. we'll stand here and wave good by to mother." Billy waved and waved, and then waved goodby a second time. Ions after they had left shore. Put there was nothing but the seagulls to notice him. They had followed the big steamer from shore. "See the birds. Daddy!" called Billy. "They're gulls, Billy. They always follow ships." As his father spoke one lit on the ship's railing some little dis tance from Billy. "That one is lame!" exclaimed Billy, pointing to It. "So it Is." answered Billy's father, watching it limp a step or two. "Do they go far, DaddyT "They'll fol'ow us all dpy. v-'. t T then come back with the steamer to morrow." "I don't think the lame one will. Daddy." said Billy thoughtfully, after a moment or two. "Why? It has & good pair of wings, lad." argued Billy's father. "But, Daddy, it seems tired. It rests more than the others do. "He does seem rather fagged," agreed Billy's father, after they had watched them intently for a few min utes. After that Billy's father strolled off toward the smoking-room, but Billy re mained to watch the gulls. Suddenly he -saw the lame gull circling around and around, flying low. then high. One by one the others followed him, or so it seemed to Billy: and he decided that they were playing banter leader. He had heard his father say that gulls were stupid, but surely this lame one was a smart leader. He did not seem to be tired at all now. Billy had an idea! He wanted to bet with his father. He found him talking to a man in the smoking-room, and climbed upon his knee. "Daddy," he began a bit breathlessly, "I'll bet you that the lame gull will go all the way." His father smiled lazily, and puffed slowly on his big cigar. "All right. Billy: I'll bet he won't." And they shook hands on It. A bet like that always makes watch ing gulls exciting. But Billy had to stop long enough to have his lunch. After that Billy's father tucked him all "comfy" Into a chair beside his own and read him a story, and Billy wa. beaten In a game with the Sandman. When he woke up the sun was going down behind the ocean like a great flaming ball. Billy looked hastily for the lame gull. "There it is, son," smiled his father, pointing overhead: and, sure enough, there it was, walking along the edge of the cabin right back of Billy. "You win. Billy boy. I believe you told that gull about our bet," chuckled Billy's father. Billy laughed happily. . GUESS THESE. Two letters often tempt mankind. And those who yield will surely mind. Answer XS. My first does affliction denote. Which my second is destined to feel; My whole is God's antidote: That affliction to soothe and to heaL Answer Woman. A NATURAL -BORN TRAPPER i i mi i i in Ml i l - . -1 .''7V..v .. - " 'v.v &- HE MANAGES TO FORM A REGULAR LITTLE Fl'KJiEL 1ST THE SAND. THE BOOKS all call him an Ant lion, but to generations and gen erations of children, be always has been and always will be just a plain "doodle." He is a funnv-looking little fellow, flattened out and gray, reminding one more of a milldewed pumpkin seed than anything else. His six legs are short and squatty, and he has a . pair of jaws shaped something like ice-tongs, that can grip like a steel trap. He marks out a perfect round I' 'n wh'te !:ii:J in the front walk, and then by throwing out the grains from the center, he manages to form a regular little funnel In the sand. He then goes down and buries him self, all but his head and jaws at the bottom, and patiently waits for some blundering ant to fall In. He Is al ways hungry, but if nothing happens to come his way. he can fast for a month or longer, and keep bright and spry all the time. But no matter how long he may have to wait he never relaxes his viirilance. but is always on the jv '. . . . liii,; and waiting. Ants are his favorite dish, ana as they have so much curiosity, many of them fall victims to the trapper down In the little white funnel. An ant comes trot ting along, and his curiosity Is ex cited by this curious depression in the ground, and so he clambers up on the rim and peeps over. Before he knows it, the sand is giving way under his feet, and he goes slipping and sliding down the bank to the bottom. While he is rubbing his eyes and wondering what has happened, he feels the vice like jaws of the doodle closing around him, with a grip of steel, and he is pulled down under the sand and all the juices in his body sucked out, until nothing but a dry husk is left. The ant-lion then gets the useless shell on his head and by a sudden flip tosses it clear out of the pit. and two or three inches away. He does not in tend to allow any telltale carcass to lie around his premises as a warning to the next ant that peeps over the edge. Sometimes an insect bigger than the owner of the trap falls in, and then he resorts to other tactics; as the vic tim tries to escape up the sloping sides, the doodle throws up a regular shower of sand, which falling forces the frightened insect to the .bottom and promptly buries it. It is then an easy matter for the ant-lion to drag it deeper and suck out its stored-up juices. After an insect has been caught, the ant-lion carefully repairs any damage that may have been done to the trap, and again retires under the sand to await the next victim. Now when a doodle has been Just a doodle for some months, a very queer thing happens; he loses all Interest in eat ing, and In his spare time,, spins a neat little silk bag that covers, him, head jaws, body and all. As this silky substance is damp and sticky, a lot of sand clings to It as he rolls about, until at last he Is in the center of a little round ball of sand. In this small stucco home the ant-lion lives, or rather sleeps, for about two months, when it wakes up and bites its way out, and instead of being a little drab doodle, its long, transparent wings unfold, and we. see a beautiful dragon fly. with red eyes, a slender brown body and long. Bpiderlike lega The Spy Hnntcra. With ready gun and sounding drum. Behold, the brave spy hunters come; Determination on each face. They march about from place to place. They look behind each door and chair. Search every closet through with care; The hanging curtains pull aside And peer in nooks where spies might hide. . And all the while the drum they play To scare the lurking foe away. And If the noise won't make him run. They know he'll fear their trusty gun. DO XT CRY. There is nothing to be had By crying; And if you get mad. There is no use of trying. BROTHER FINDS NEW PLAYTHING FLOSSIE was very interested In watching her mother knit sweaters and mufflers and socks for the soldiers. "Can't I make - some too?" asked Flossie. - "We'll see," smiled Flossie's mother. "Oh, mother! And can I have some knitting needles all my own, and some of that?" queried the little girl eagerly, pointing a finger toward a large ball of gray . yarn. "Yes, dear. I believe I have an extra pair of needles in my work basket," and Mrs. Stockton looked into the depths of her basket and brought forth a pair of shining needles. "You must be careful, Flossie, and not let brother get the needles. He is so little he might stick one in his eye," warned Flossie's mother. "Now bring me the cretonne bag on the table, yes that's it. . We'll see if there isn't some gray yarn left from the last sweater I made." "There it is! I see some," cried Flossie, with shining eyes as she peeped Into the bag. 1 . "How would you like to make some wristlets for one of our brave soldiers, dear? They won't take quite so long as a sweater, and are quite as neces sary. You see they'll keep his wrists warm and snug." explained Mrs. Stock ton to her little girL "Oh, I want to do that!" exclaimed Flossie. "Teach me how, mother! Teach me how!" The next afternoon Flossie was sit ting on a high stool in the dining room -knitting. Brother sat on the floor trying vainly to reach the ball of gray yarn, which had fallen from Flossie's lap. He squirmed and he twisted and he wriggled, and at last he was able to give the ball a little push with one small fat foot. As it rolled across the room brother crowed with delight. - and . promptly started after it. ' Now knitting wristlets Is not an easy matter for a little girl who is doing her first knitting. Flossie was study ing so deeply over the wristlets that she was paying no attention to brother whatever. Brother, with a persever ance worthy a better aim, finally laid both baby hands over that ball of yarn and sent it spinning. "Don't, brother," said Flossie, ab sently, without looking up. Brother gurgled reassuringly, and at that mo ment in came the cat. Puss was little more than a kitten herself, so she walked up to the ball of yarn and thrust forth an experimental paw. The ball rolled aimlessly around a table leg. Fuss followed it up and gave it another push. It rolled back to brother. who promptly kicked it around another table leg. All this time Flossie failed to notice what was going on, because she had Robert Rubbed His Kyes and Looked at the Tree. made a mistake in her stitches and sh. was trying to find it all by herself. So brother and puss had things all their own way. Puss had the ball of tener than brother, for sue could move about more quickly. She knocked it about merrily. Flapped at it coquettislily, pounced at it slyly, turned over on her side and kicked at it playfully with all four feet, while brother delightedly cooeU and crowed his appreciation. A hen at last V lossie looked up the ball was almost unwound. It was ter ribly tangled, and trailed its length again and again about table and chair legs, across the floor and back again, under the buffet and around casters of the sewing machine. Flossie didn t cry, but she yelled "Scat!" at puss so vigorously that puss didn't wait for a second hint to flea. Flossie scrambled down oft her high perch and went to find her mother, who was reading in the study. "Mother." began Flossie, with dig nity, "will you please come and see what brother and the cat have done?" Mrs. Stockton smiled, rose and fol lowed the indignant little girl back into the dining-room. "Brother, brother! What a little mischief you are!" and Mrs. Stockton gathered him up into her arms. "I'm sorry, little daughter. Never mind the yarn now. I'll help you with it after while." Brother kicked and screamed his pro tests. He didn't want to be taken up stairs, but his mother was determined. Flossie wanted to continue her knit tings so she dropped on her knees and began busily to disentangle the yarp.