Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1918-03-08

mystery of its long voyage loomed
| in the rain across the misty reaches
| of the Scheldt The ship came up
to her wharf and the happy passen-
gers came ashore, ready to scatter
over Europe on their summer holl-
| day-and there were the mothers!
Brussels was calm at the begin
ming of that week and we were all
more or less unconscious, or more or
| less insensible; we spoke of war, &C
custOmed ourselves to the word, at
least, but when we thought or spoke
of it, it was in the sense of security,
of that inveterate human engine,
which leads one to think that an evil
will not come, or if it does, that it
will pass by and leave him I'M
touched.
The newspapers of Tuesday pub
| lished Austria's declaration of war
against Servia, England and France
and Russia were sounding the cab
met at Vienna, seeking some means
Pof satisfying her demands without
hostiIities. On Wednesday, Presi-
dent Poincare, overtaken by wire
! less message on the sea, returned in
! haste to Paris from his visit to Scan
dinavia, and, a return that had for
US a more special interest, Aunt Sa-
rah came back, arriving with the
| breathless air of one who has raced
home just before a storm. She had
motored in haste back from the
| Vosges. We had just received the
news of Austria's declaration of war
against Servia and the Austrian
cannon had bombarded Belgrade.
But that was general, remote, like
! President Poincare's return to the
Elysee. Aunt Sarah had something
personal to relate, far more moving
tales to tell of her experiences at
Nancy; no one would change her
money for her; everywhere she had
been jostled by moving troops.
think we were somewhat sceptical
Of that; there had been no mobiliza-
ton, we insisted.
| And she had a grievance, one OF
| the most personal woman can
know, since it had to do with doua-
mes (the customs). She had bought
quantity of the famous linen of the
| Vosges, and her rigid Puritan con-
science had moved her to have the
linen shipped to her, instead OF
packing it in her trunks. But at the
| frontier there was such commotlon,
such confusion, that the inspectors
chalked her trunks hastily without
so much as opening them; they
vouchsafed only a cursory glance in
to the motor. And there their eyes
| lighted on two golden melons, hasu-
| " bought at Nancy, whose pictures
que market was not to be resisted,
and rolled into the car. And upon
these the inspector seized and made
her pay a heavy duty, that Belgian
melons might be protected, | sup
pose, and that the ironic spirits might
| laugh at her conscientiousness in
the matter of the linen, that might
as we'll have been in those unopened
| trunks. Aunt Sarah insisted that
universal war was imminent, but we
we're not yet convinced; at any rate
was not Belgium's neutrality guaran-
! teed in solemn treaties? -,
Waiting on Berlin
All that she knew, as she admitted
! frankly, was that she was glad TO
get home-but we must start of
soon again and motor down to Din
ant, that gem that crowned the
Meuse. And we began to plan the
| Journey to Dinant, until | took up
the papers to read Maitre Laborle's
plaidoirie in defense of Madame
Caillaux. The newspapers indeed
gave more columns to that cause
celebre than to the efforts that we're
being made in the larger court. Slr
Edward Grey was making another
effort to do what he had done two
years before, confine the war to the
Balkan States by a conference at
London. Sir Edward had sent dis
patch to Sir Edward Goschen, the
British ambassador at Berlin, to
propose to Germany that Austria
be influenced to occupy Belgrade
professionally while the powers
sought the terms of an accord. The
proposal was welcomed by France
and Russia.
What would Germany do? The
decision rested with her. We walt
ed for news from Berlin.
It was now no longer a question
of DAYS but of hours; and then even
of minutes, that throbbed by in an
atmosphere that was charged with
dreadful potentialities. One was
sensible of it in all the faces, usually
so preoccupied, that fitted by one
in the street; almost in the hard
glitter of the splendid sun that shone
on those fateful days.
And yet there was a strange for
mality, a persistent, almost inappro-
pirate, usualness in ordinary things;
life went on quite the same. The
legation was quiet, deserted, dull.
Gibson and 1 strolled down to the
Caveau de Paris, the little restaur-
ant in the rue de Marche aux Herbes,
where diplomats were always to be-
found at noon, and where one could
always pick up the gossip of our
world. But there, everything was
as it had been; Count van der Strae-I
ton Ponthos, of the Belgian Foreign
Office, was sitting in his place in the