entire transport of the Servian Army is being effected.
Westward come trains packed with food, fodder, munitions, and troops;
eastward go long convoys crowded with maimed humanity. At Mladinovatz
all this mass of commissariat and suffering must needs be transferred
from or to the broad-gauge line. In this situation lies not the least of
the problems which beset the Servians in their struggle with the
Austrian invaders.

Valievo itself is a picturesque little town which in peace time is
famous as the centre of the Servian prune trade. Its cobbled streets
are, in the main, spacious and well planned. There still remain a few
relics of the Turkish occupation--overhanging eaves, trellised windows,
and the like--but these one must needs seek in the by-ways. I picture
Valievo under normal conditions as one of the most attractive of Balkan
townships.

Nor has the tableau lost anything in the framing, for it is encircled by
a molding of verdant hills which run off into a sweep of seeming endless
woods. The vista from my hotel window is almost aggravatingly English.
Across the red-tiled roofs of intervening cottages rises the hillside--a
checkerboard of grassy slopes and patches of woodland intersected by a
brown road which runs upward until the summit, surmounted by a
whitewashed shrine, amid a cluster of walnut trees, touches the gray
sky.

But Valievo is not now to be seen under normal conditions. From the
street below rises the sound of clatter and creak as the rude oxen
wagons bump over the cobblestones. Morning, noon, and night they rumble
along unceasingly, and whenever I look down I see martial figures clad
in tattered, muddy, and blood-stained uniforms, with rudely bandaged
body or head or foot. Every now and then a woman breaks from the crowd
of waiting loiterers and rushes up to a maimed acquaintance. They
exchange but a few sentences, and then she turns, buries her head in her
apron, and stumbles along the street wailing a bitter lament for some
husband, brother, or son who shall return no more. A friend supports and
leads her home; but the onlooking soldiers regard the scene with
indifference and snap out a rude advice "not to make a fuss." They brook
no wailing for Serbs who have died for Servia.

The town itself has been transformed into one huge camp of wounded. All
adaptable buildings--halls, cafes, school-rooms--have been rapidly
commandeered for hospitals. Sometimes there are beds, more often rudely
made s