and transportation. We are indeed a prodigal people, prospering for a time by methods which would end European civilization within a generation.

In England, which is already far ahead of us in the economical utilization of coal-values, plans are now under consideration for the establishment of super-power-plants at the mines and at centres favorably placed for the receipt of coal, the distribution of gas, and the transmission of electrical energy. It is to similar immense plants, coupled with the common-carrier system of transmission lines for power, that we must look for any adequate utilization of our own coal-values and a broader basis for our industry.

Surpassingly rich as our estate is known to be in iron, copper, sulphur, clays, and other major raw materials for a vast and varied industry, we may for present purposes conclude our appraisal of its assets with a brief reference to our stores of petroleum and natural gas. In 1918 we produced 345,000,000 barrels of petroleum; our consumption of natural gas was something like 750,000,000,000 cubic feet. We have, since its discovery, wasted more gas than we have used, and with it some billions of gallons of gasoline. We recovered at the casing-head in 1917, 217,000,000 gallons, of gravity so light as to permit its expansion to 500,000,000 gallons by blending with heavier distillates of petroleum not otherwise available for motor-fuel. Thousands of wells remain to be connected with recovery plants.

The wastes in our petroleum industry, under which term refining is not here included, have been shocking and stupendous. Fields are abandoned with from thirty to ninety per cent of the oil still underground; vast areas have been ruined by admitting water into the oil sands; fires take heavy toll. In all not more than twenty-five per cent

of the oil underground reaches the pipeline, and less than half of that is utilized to the best advantage.

IV

We have surveyed our estate hurriedly, and from a height, as in an aeroplane, and the prospect has been one that should fire the dullest imagination with the vision of the coming greatness of America, provided only that we rise to the measure of our opportunity. The record of our development of our resources is, indeed, in mere achievement, in figures of production, a shining one; but its lustre is dimmed to shadow by the portentous brilliance of the handwriting on the wall. We have been prodigal wasters, reckless destroyers, mere skimmers of cream. Unrestricted individualism must now give way to controlled coöperation, guided by a constructive economic policy which is nation-wide in scope. We must bring to the solution of our peaceproblems the unity and cohesive power developed by the war. The plans of Europe for reconstruction are already far advanced, while out of Washington has come no adequate directive impulse.

Not only is the ultimate purpose of all production the satisfaction of human wants, but the human element in production is the most important, and often the limiting, factor. All plans for reconstruction must therefore fail, as indeed they should, unless they bring reasonable satisfaction to the workers upon whom their material realization depends. With Bolshevism, destructive alike to intelligence and property, spreading in Europe, and many signs of unrest and discontent patent to observers here, it is evident that the first concern and effort of those to whom our reconstruction problems may be intrusted should be to reach, if possible,

to Congress recommendations for the required legislation, and apprise the country of the need and reason for its demands. To it should be assigned ultimate responsibility to Congress, through the President, for the execution of its duly authorized proposals.

The war has developed amongst us a new Bushido, another Samurai class pledged to service. Its membership includes those who have toiled with brain or hand for the common good in a supreme emergency; devoted women; our

youth who on land and sea and in the air have dared the impossible and achieved it. Shall we permit this unity of purpose, this capacity for coöperative effort, to become quickly dissipated in the perpetuation of past mistakes, or shall we, by judicious planning, direct these new and potent forces to the development of our estate, to the end that it may furnish the material basis. for a higher civilization?

'It is well to be wise in a great moment.'

You feel the pulse of Brussels at her Place de Ville. Since Sunday, November 10, I have wanted to be there day and night. Again and again in the four terrible years, we tried to picture the Place de Ville on the Day of Liberation. The reality of Sunday, November 17, makes all our imaginings pale.

Just one week before, Sunday afternoon the tenth, the two thousand German Reds had gathered at the Gare du Nord, then separated into squads of about fifty, and with red flags flying had set about their work. They opened the doors of Saint-Gilles and other prisons, and tattered, vermin-covered English and Italian and Russian prisoners staggered into the streets, where Belgians hastened to offer them baths and clothes and food.

Other squads went to the house of the arch-brute Rupprecht of Bavaria, fired on it, and compelled him to renounce his command.

The word oftenest used by the Belgians this week is pitoyable - contemptible. They almost forget their hate in their unutterable contempt. They would have been glad, for the sake of human dignity, to recognize in their slave-drivers at least some single fearless gesture. You should hear them describe the flight of the cowardly Rupprecht to the Spanish Legation, where he begged for a bed.

The Marquis de Villalobar, ever fearless, went promptly to the Reds (council of soldiers and sailors) to announce that since, as protecting minister, it was his duty to shelter those in danger, he proposed to keep Prince Rupprecht at the Legation until he could send him in the Spanish car to Holland - which he accomplished on Tuesday. Governor-General von Falkenhausen fled to Germany.

The Reds then took over the Kommandantur, or German police head

quarters and place of infamy. In Paris, on the Tuesday before, we had read that German Reds in Brussels had thrown Imperial officers from windows. They had not, because it was not necessary. Officers tamely lowered their shoulders and bowed their heads to facilitate the stripping off of their military emblems.

Some soldiers near the Gare du Nord were too drunk to resign, so the Reds turned machine-guns on their headquarters, with the result that one hundred persons, including Belgian civilians, were killed that Sunday night.

The following day one white and trembling Imperial ran into the office of the Commission for Relief in Belgium, to beg for civilian clothes. It was a supreme moment for Mr. Baetens, the Belgian Director of that office.

Von der Lanken and Rieth, despised members of the Political Department, slipped quickly into civilian clothes, and got out to Holland Thursday.

So the Revolution progressed, very quietly on the whole. On Monday, the 11th, the Reds were in control; the submissive Imperials wore white bands on their arms. To avoid difficulty, however, the German officer who later conducted Mr. Jacqmain to the frontier, to search for Burgomaster Max, wore a Red band on one arm and white on the other.

Tuesday the work of freeing prisoners continued; they were coming into Brussels from all directions. At the same time the Germans were gathering what they could, and getting ready to evacuate. And daily King Albert and the Belgian army were pressing toward Brussels.

I had left Paris the Wednesday before, by night train to Calais, and from there fought my way by special military train, American Army motor, broken-down hack, Belgian military car, General Headquarters car, and finally

by a blessed C.R.B. car already working in Ghent (under Robinson Smith, who was arranging for the distribution of flour-sacks to cover thousands of windows recently smashed in East Flanders), through the Belgian lines and into Brussels by eleven Saturday morning.

In Alost, just free, ablaze with flags, and tearful and smiling, we passed Burgomaster Max, who had reached Brussels at nine the night before after four years in German prisons, and was on his way to his King, who was at G.H.Q. at Ghent.

Nearer Brussels, in Assche, there were no flags; people were trying to carry off the heaps of tile and brick and glass in front of their wrecked houses. In the street were many large guns and wagons which the Germans had had to leave, though they had taken time to remove the breech from each gun. Little Belgian boys and girls, despite the cold, were climbing over the war-monsters, and with especial delight were whirling the wheels of a great anti-aircraft gun.

A little farther on we began to run into Germans, and despite their sodden. appearance, I breathed more freely when my little open car slipped finally inside the city and I saw a few Belgian police. There were crowds, quiet crowds, near the Bourse, where English prisoners had arrived.

I read, later, the posters on all the city walls, exhorting the people to preserve their calm and dignity till the last instant. But despite the calm, things were happening fast. Saturday afternoon we were told that we might expect Brussels to be clean of the enemy by half-past two o'clock Sunday. I say 'clean' because that is the word that passes. A dirty, contemptible lot; only let them get out, so we may disinfect - pray for rain to help cleanse the city.' That is the word on the street.

Early Sunday morning they began

to move - Hindenburg directing from Headquarters. I was awakened about seven by the rumble of their wagons under my window, Boulevard du Regent. They were going trains of wagons 'pulled by fine Belgian horses, I had passed human horses all the way from Bruges to Brussels, pulling their pitiful refugee carts, and piled high with sacks and bundles, gray army coats thrown over the top. There were two or three men riding on each wagon, and four or five walking beside, their coats bulging over their heavy packs. There were little carts with stoves and pails, closed hacks and open carriages, smart little Roumanian horses, groups of five and six cows the cows of Belgian's children. I hear they have not left one in Theilt, where tuberculosis is rampant. Between the wagons, companies of about fifty, marching four abreast, cyclists or cavalry running the linesome of these groups were trying to sing, but it was a sickly kind of singing.

Rumble and tramp, they were going, going! I kept behind a curtain, so that I might not spoil by even so little as letting them know I was looking, the superb attitude of the city. There were many Belgians on the boulevards, on their way to church; but, for them, this retreating army was invisible. They did not turn their heads to look.

When I reached Brussels in July, 1916, the thing that impressed me first and most was the Belgian's capacity to obliterate his enemy. His hatred and contempt set up a wall and put the Boche on the other side of it. He never saw him.

And again, in November, 1918, this is the thing that first strikes me. All tense with unutterable emotion inside, on the outside no sign. The German may stay or go: on the street, to the Belgian, he is invisible. This is the supreme expression of his hatred and contempt.

About ten Sunday morning some workmen told me that the last Boche had left the Gare du Nord, and that they were already washing the station. All along the streets windows were opening, flags were flung out - Belgian, the Stars and Stripes, French, English, and a few Italian ones; while down at the Place, from a balcony of the Hôtel de Ville, the Liberation of the city was being proclaimed by Burgomaster Lemonnier, who so bravely carried on Max's work, and who has himself a year's prison record behind him.

In the marvelous way that things happen in Brussels, almost immediately a great procession formed: the city trustees, schools, the people, made their way to the Place des Martyrs, which commemorates Belgium's independence. I had seen this square on their Independence Day, July, 1916, flanked by bayoneted Boches-no Belgian permitted to approach it, or drop a flower near it. And now, after four years, they marched again to the Place des Martyrs, solemnly singing the 'Brabançonne' as they laid their wreaths at the foot of the statue.

Things were moving so rapidly that it was impossible to keep in touch with them. Belgian soldiers were slipping in by twos and threes ahead of the army; there were a few French officers, and always more released prisoners. People wanted to be at the Place, or on the boulevards; yet those who for four years had been cut off from loved ones sat anxiously, tremblingly at home. Many have not left the house for a few minutes in over a week at any minute he may return!

Max was again in the city, and would be received at the Hôtel de Ville at halfpast two. The acting mayor, Lemonnier, and the échevins would welcome him, and he would take once more his place at the head of the Bruxellois. By rare good luck, I received an invitation

to his historic reception and Échevin Anspach called for me at half-past one. Inside the Hôtel de Ville we were met by other échevins, who helped guide me into the already densely crowded Gothic Hall - the most beautiful in that whole beautiful building. There were a few chairs on the platform for the échevins: a row just in front of it for the burgomasters of the suburbs; two rows of red-upholstered benches for women principals of the schools; but everywhere else people were standing I should say, men were standing, for there were no women except the few on the red benches. On the platform, at the left, was a group of British and American and French officers, and at the right other guests fortunate enough to squeeze in.

There was a little table toward the rear of the platform - there Max would stand; and behind it, against the exquisitely carved oak wall, hung two handsome flags - the flag of Belgium, and the brilliant red-and-green one of the city. Above them the gilded SaintMichel triumphed over the dragon, and all along the carved oak walls were ancient flags of the provinces, and historic statues.

Soon the échevins began to take their places on the platform. Lemonnier, the acting mayor, stood behind the table, with the Dutch minister, Von Vollenhoven, at his left. I know many were wishing, as I was, that Brand Whitlock might have been there. The Marquis de Villalobar was absent, too, having been summoned by the King, to G.H.Q. Next to the Dutch minister stood M. Jacqmain, the Director of Education and Beaux-Arts, one of the most conspicuous defenders of Belgium's liberty, as his prison record testifies. All were cheered, but the great cheer was being reserved for the slight little man, with brown hair and French beard, nervous, intense, and keen

eyed, - who now slipped to the side of Lemonnier. As Max, in brown business suit, stepped toward the table, the few who had been seated leaped to their feet, and all joined in one delirious cry of welcome, which ended only when he raised his hand. Despite his control, the drawn lines about his eyes and forehead, his pallor, above all, the look in his eyes, suggested something of the torture of the four years. He stood against the red and green of the Brussels flag, his thin hands gripping the table as if to steady himself.

In dramatic and solemn language M. Lemonnier reviewed Belgium's four years and two months of slavery, and the four years of personal humiliation and suffering for Max. As he followed him from prison to prison, and to dark cell for nine months, there were hissings and execrations. And when he said, 'N'oublierons jamais' (We will never forget), his listeners answered with a shout. And just then, from the seething square below, we heard an echoing cry, as if the whole city were joining in that pledge 'We will never forget!' As the cry died away, Lemonnier continued, 'And now, we feel there is no more fitting gift that we can offer to you on your return than And two gold-braided officials, who had been almost hidden behind the tapestried chairs, held high the framed originals of the two famous proclamations that had helped to send Max to prison. The first was to the people of Liége, declaring that the Germans lied when they said France had announced that she would not fight; the second called on the people of Brussels to take down their Belgian flags, as the Germans had commanded, - although Von der Goltz had promised that no such order would be given, to martyrize themselves individually for the good of all secure in their faith in their day of Liberation. The applause finally ended, and a