Little Philippe of Belgium. Brandeis Madeline

      Here sat the little boy, Philippe, and helped sell his mother's vegetables. He often glanced at the clock and hoped his father would not be late. He wanted to know what Papa Pomme was planning for the afternoon.

      Papa Pomme was on time. He took his son by the hand. They made their way to a restaurant, where little tables were placed out on the sidewalk.

      Here people sat in leisurely style, eating hearty dinners. The jolly-faced chef and his little son settled themselves at a corner table. The menu before them was indeed tempting.

      Although Philippe was anxious to know his father's surprise, he could not allow it to stand in the way of his appetite. How could any boy do that?

      Belgian food is tempting to everyone. It is as dainty as the French food. It is as wholesome as the Dutch. And it has something about it that is neither French nor Dutch, but purely Belgian.

      Perhaps the reason lies in the fact that Belgium is so small. It is a matter of only a few hours for vegetables and fruits to travel from a distant farm to a Brussels table. Therefore, all food is fresh.

      Papa Pomme ordered "potage," the famous thick soup, dear to all the French and Belgians. Then they had a roast, and for dessert, strawberries and a huge plate of gingerbread. Belgian strawberries and gingerbread are very famous and are said to be the best in the world.

      While they ate, they did not talk. Eating was a serious matter with Papa Pomme and Philippe.

      So absorbed did Philippe become that he forgot his manners. He reached across the table and pulled toward him the long loaf of French bread.

      "Ho, ho!" cried Papa Pomme. "Not so fast! Come! Do you not use your tongue when you want something which is beyond your reach?"

      Philippe blushed. Then he replied stoutly, "Yes, Papa Pomme; but my arm is much longer than my tongue!"

      Papa Pomme laughed and gained another pound. Philippe went on eating happily.

      When they left the restaurant they walked down the street together.

      "Papa Pomme, where are you taking me?" asked Philippe, puzzled.

      For Papa Pomme was acting in a very mysterious way.

      "Do not ask yet!" he said. "Soon you shall see."

      Soon Philippe did see. For they stopped in front of a big theater. In Europe a motion picture theater is called a cinema.

      "Now, little Philippe," laughed Papa Pomme, "you know my surprise!"

      Philippe threw his cap in the air and shouted, "Hooray! The cinema!"

      It was a special treat to the little boy to be taken to the cinema! He had been to one only once before in his life.

      GRANDE PLACE, BRUSSELS

      They were to see a great film today. It was the story of the World War and the part that little Belgium had played. It showed how the enemy had started to march through Belgium in order to reach Paris. It showed how the loyal Belgians and their brave King Albert had helped the Allies to win their victory by stopping that march.

      Long ago a treaty had been made which said that no nation should take an army through Belgium to attack another nation. If ever such a thing happened, it was Belgium's duty to stop them. In the year 1914, an enemy did try to go through her land. Belgium might have neglected her duty. She might have remained quiet and allowed the enemy to pass. Had she done this, she would never have been destroyed as she was. The enemy would have marched quietly through and left Belgium to its peaceful life.

      The film showed how the Belgians fought. Still Belgium could not hold out against so powerful an enemy. At last she was conquered. But when that time came, the French were ready, and so were the English. So Paris was saved.

      The audience shouted and clapped. But after that came sighs. The film showed how pitiful and sad was this poor little Belgium after the war.

      That film left in the heart of Philippe a new dream. It was that film which was really the cause of the little boy's later adventures.

      Chapter III

      A NEIGHBOR

      Five years passed. Philippe was now a tall boy of eleven. He was still called Sprout, and he was still full of wishing dreams and dreaming wishes.

      But those dreams and wishes had changed since the time when he had longed for a baby sister. Of course, he never stopped being glad about Rose. She was the dearest little sister that a boy could have.

      LITTLE ROSE

      Philippe's desire to be a cook had disappeared. He had changed since that day when Papa Pomme had taken him to the cinema. For Philippe never forgot the film he had seen.

      Philippe never forgot those terrible battle scenes. Often his eyes would fill with tears at the thought of the sad struggle and the bravery of his little country.

      The boy who had once dreamed of vegetables now had other dreams. The little boy, who had wanted some day to be a chef, now longed to become a great hero like his own country's king. He longed to do a great deed himself and to have adventures. But all he could do was to sell vegetables.

      No, that was not all. Now he could read about his country. And he did. Philippe read and read. Every book he could find he devoured. Stories of Belgium's cities and people Philippe learned and loved. Tales of wonder kept him interested for hours.

      PHILIPPE READ AND READ

      "If only I might travel and have adventures!" sighed the little vegetable boy.

      He was now old enough to drive the dog-cart to market alone. He went each day, with Baby Rose perched on top of the vegetables, laughing and gurgling with joy.

      All the way to town Philippe sang with his little sister. When they reached the Grande Place, he set the baby upon the counter. Then the little girl, with her golden curls and her sunny smile, and the tall, handsome boy, with his wavy hair and his dreamy eyes, sang and attracted many people to the booth. It did not take them long to sell their vegetables.

      Now as Philippe unloaded his produce, he did not know that today something unusual was going to happen. Rose fluttered about and filled the dogs' drinking bowl. All dog-carts in Belgium carry drinking bowls, and a bit of carpet for the animals to lie down upon. Rose filled the bowl, and the huge beasts licked her hands with gratitude.

      There was a new member of the dog family who had come to town with them today. It was Trompke (trŏmp'-ky). Trompke was a puppy. He did not work. He was Philippe's own puppy.

      "Trompke" means "tambourine" in Brussels French. The puppy was thus named because he had such a fat little round tummy.

      TROMPKE

      Trompke loved Philippe. Today was the first time he had been allowed to follow the cart to town. He was wild with excitement.

      "Stop barking, Trompke!" commanded Philippe, as he arranged the vegetables on the stand.

      "Lie down, Tum-Tum," cried Baby Rose.

      And Trompke lay at the baby's feet.

      Just then Philippe noticed some one in the booth next to their

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