On the verandas of funny little gray roadhouses with dripping red roofs officers sat over their breakfast coffee.

A string of wagons passed us, bound inward, full of big, white, clean-looking German pigs.

A road builder, repairing the ruts made by the guns and baggage trains, stood aside for us to pass and pulled off his hat to us.

This was Europe as it used to be--Europe as most American tourists knew it.
We came to a tall barber pole which a careless painter had striped with black on white instead of with red on white, and we knew by that we had arrived at the frontier.

Also, there stood alongside the pole a royal forest ranger in green, with a queer cockaded hat on his head, doing sentry duty.