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THE BELGIAN FARMER 369 
kept down. Like the poppies on the field of 
Waterloo, which renew the blood-red strife each 
year, the Belgian peasant-farmer springs new- 
born from the soil, which is the only mother he 
knows. 
After two weeks in Holland, two in Belgium, 
and two in London, we were ready to turn our 
faces toward home. 
We took the train to Southampton, and a small 
side-wheel steamer carried us outside Southamp- 
ton waters, where we tossed about for thirty min- 
utes before the Vormania came to anchor. The 
wind was blowing half a gale from the north, 
and we were glad to get under the lee of the great 
vessel to board her. 
The transfer was quickly made, and we were 
off for New York. The wind gained strength as 
the day grew old, but while we were in the So- 
lent the bluff coast of Devon and Cornwall broke 
its force sufficiently to permit us to be comfort- 
able on the port side of the ship. 
As night came on, great clouds rolled up from 
the northwest and the wind increased. Darkness, 
as of Egypt, fell upon us before we passed the 
Lizard, and the only things that showed above 
the raging waters were the beacon lights, and 
these looked dim and far away. Occasionally a 
flash of lightning threw the waters into relief, 
and then made the darkness more impenetrable. 
As we steamed beyond the Lizard and the pro- 
tecting Cornish coast, the full force of the gale, 
28 
