The Cordova daily times., 1920-11-24

tate. " nat small l choose Ill his bouquet, over rich in it's mingling of brilliant cOlOrS and tender hues? Shall it be pearls of sacred mistletoe 'allen beneath the Druid'S knife; lilies grown in the shadow of convents and nonasteries roses reddened with the blood of journeys and the carnage of battle; or, perchance, pale daisies of he fields sprung up unheeded amid he COW pasture? All equally are precious writes Louis LngaSsc de LOcht in the London Times. Daugh- tel.5 of a fertile land scared in the course of ages by storms let loose from the four corners of the earth, are they not the expression, the poet ". the sap of love and hate, the very soul, in a word, of a people fashioned oy martial blows and bathed in the sunshine of idealiSm?
 Every Belgian is thrilled by the past It is his staff and bread of life Hence his love of cavaicadeS, joyous entries and processions, the ever recurring delightIof most of our lllttStN. VI Itl tdSl' lo pll'l tiNIi"N rd in the ordering of these parades, in the building of the trumph-to which RubenS and .Iordatns did not scorn to devote their talent. And it is as if the figures of legend and history which pass through our streets had stepped down from the canvas of old master pieces to be closer to the caresses of the crowds.
 Sometimes the ceremony represents but an episode, a scene of chivalry or of mystery from the middle ages. In Bruges, suddenly awakened from it's melancholy miracle of the holy blood, the triumphal escort of prince con- secrated to the conquest of the holy land moves in d rolling stream of gliStening steel amid the glamor of rich silks and precious broideries, the clashing of arms and the embraZen peal of trumpets.
 Supreme Drama of All Time.
 At Furnes, on the last Sunday in July, the procession of 'penitentS' re- enacts the supreme drama of all time. Y oI NtSho tllS titS piSptti % loi u. The actors parts are. more coveted than public honors some are jealous ly guarded as hereditary rights. Through the dense crowd, pressing ever closer and closer, the reVered fig ureS pass in profession. And the Christ appears, weighted down by his cross, a living and staggering Christ, scourged till the blood runs from him. A shiver of religious fervor passes over the faithfui. "Mercy." a penitent cries aloud in pain. Every window is a garden of taperS, candles and lights whose flames flicker in the wind blow ing from the sea. Sacred chants min gle with the piping of reeds. the noise of rattles and the winding of horns. The crowd SobS aud sWayS and Wrings ifs hands and falls into prayer as, following the Cruciied one, the peni- tents pass. The men in sackcioth and the women closely yelled dc penan"e, and their naked. torn feet bleed on the Sl0nes of the road. pprchance beneath their cloAks of burlap noble ladies, whose tlaXen hair and white bodies are the love treasures of this senSu- ous and mystic Flanders. are paying the ransom of a kiss.
 Mons, the home of the guardian saint of the British army, is the the ater every year of the famous Lume- con display which ends the procession of Ste Waudru. At midday to the toliing of the great bell, otherwise heard only as war alarm, St. George gives battle to the dragon. After a deadly combat, the dragon, according to rite, crashes down in the dust, shot through the nostrils, and the devils are chastised by the brave followers of the victorious knight. Before en- tering the lists the fabled "beast" fiays the crowd with mighty blows of hfs tail. The people of Mons believe
 that blow from the .ail brings