The majority of these tales, sketches and fantasies have a war atmosphere that is stirring, although handled with much restraint.
could not, I dared not. I let go of the boat. I cried "Good-by," and turned to wade ashore.
I was compelled to go back to the doomed city. I must know what would come of the parting of Man from God!
The tide was running out more swiftly. The water swirled around my knees. I awoke.
But the dream remained with me, just as I have told it to you.
Along the straight, glistening road, through a dim arcade of drooping trees, a tunnel of faded green and gold, dripping with the misty rain of a late October afternoon, a human tide was flowing, not swiftly, but slowly, with the patient, pathetic slowness of weary feet, and numb brains, and heavy hearts.
Yet they were in haste, all of these old men and women, fathers and mothers, and little children; they were flying as fast as they could; either away from something that they feared, or toward something that they desired.
That was the strange thing--the tide on the road flowed
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