Children are born in the hugger mugger of such conditions, but the good
Holland citizens see that the children are cared for and that the babies
have milk. Devoted priests teach the children, and the value of military
organization illuminates the whole panoply of misery. Yet the best of
the refugee camps would seem to American citizens like the dark and
dreadful life of an underworld, in which is neither work, purpose, nor
opportunity. It is a sight repugnant to civilization.
The saddest, most heartrending thing I have ever seen has been the
patience of every Belgian, whatever his state, I have met. Among the
thousands of refugees I have seen in Holland, in the long stream that
crossed the frontier at Maastricht and besieged the doors of the
Belgian Consul while I was there, no man, no woman railed or declaimed
against the horror of their situation. The pathos of lonely, staring,
apathetic endurance is tragic beyond words. So grateful, so simply
grateful, are they, every one, for whatever is done for them.
None of the Refugees Begs.
None begs, none asks for money, and yet on the faces of these frontier
refugees I saw stark hunger, the weakness come of long weeks of famine.
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