The fate of the vain and unhappy officer does not in the least concern me. I am not even disposed to blame him for his weakness. For this we can only pity a man. One is bound to pity also those who met death at his hands. But for some reason or other I cannot help remembering the wounded little girl. There she lay, dying from loss of blood; there at the turning of the footpath, near the two little birch trees. MY EXPERIENCES IN THE WAR HOSPITALS OF RUMANIA _The Horrors of the Little Balkan Kingdom_ _Told by Queen Marie of Rumania_ Driven into exile with her many subjects, who had to retreat before the Hun just as the Belgians and Serbians were forced out of their peaceful homes in the debacle of war, Queen Marie of Rumania turned to the pen, and with it pictured the horrors that have engulfed the pretty little Balkan kingdom. Queen Marie was married to King Ferdinand in 1893, and was then the Princess Marie of Edinburgh, the daughter of Alfred I, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Prince of Great Britain and Ireland. Noted for her beauty, idolized by her people, she has devoted herself to Red Cross work and the care of her stricken people ever since the entry of Rumania into the war. In devoting her pen to the cause of her adopted country, Queen Marie has followed the example of her husband's aunt, the late Queen Elizabeth (Carmen Sylva), whose charming books of poetry and prose deal almost entirely with the customs and folklore of Rumania. In this article in the _Philadelphia Public Ledger_ Queen Marie gives a graphic picture of war-torn Rumania. I--"I WATCH MY RUMANIANS GO TO WAR" The trains are passing ... passing ... and the cargo they are hurrying thither is the youth of our country and the hope of our homes.... By thousands they are massed together; they sit on the roofs of the wagons, they hang on to their sides, they balance themselves in perilous positions, but all of them are gay, ... they shout, they sing, they laugh.... And the trains pass, pass ... all day the trains pass.... With hands full of flowers we hurry to the stations; our hearts are heavy; we long to say words they will remember, to tell them what we feel, but their voices raised in chorus drown all we would say. One cry is on every lip when they see me, "We are going! Going gladly, going to victory, so that you may become Empress--Empress of all the Rumanians!" There is hardly a voice that does not say it; it is the cry of every heart; they hope it, they believe it, they mean it to me, and I smile back at them offering them my flowers, which they clutch at with eager hands. And thus the trains pass ... pass.... II--"THE SOLDIERS SHOWERED ME WITH FLOWERS" One evening the sun was going down in glowing glory, turning all it shone over into glittering gold. I was late, other duties having kept me back; the train I had come to greet was already moving away.