It takes a New England farmer to note and interpret the signs of coming storm on abeautiful and sunny day. Perhaps his power is due in part to natural sharpness, and in partto the innate pessimism of the Yankee mind, which considers the fact that the hay is cut butnot yet in the barn a sufficient reason for believing that "it'll prob'ly rain t'morrow."I must confess that I had not enough of either of these qualities to be observant and fearfulof the presages of the oncoming tempest which lurked in the beautiful autumn and winterof 1913-14 in Europe. Looking back at them now, I can see that the signs were ominous.But anybody can be wise after the event, and the role of a reminiscent prophet is too easyto be worth playing.Certainly all was bright and tranquil when we rolled through the pleasant land of Franceand the rich cities of Belgium, and came by ship-thronged Rotterdam to The Hague in thefirst week of October, 1913. Holland was at her autumnal best. Wide pastures wonderfullygreen were full of drowsy, contented cattle. The level brown fields and gardens weresmoothly ploughed and harrowed for next year's harvest, and the vast tulip-beds wereready to receive the little gray bulbs which would overflow April with a flood-tide offlowers. On the broad canals innumerable barges and sloops and motor-boats wereleisurely passing, and on the little side-canals and ditches which drained the fields theduckweed spread its pale-emerald carpet undisturbed. In the woods-the tall woods ofHolland-the elms and the lindens were putting on frosted gold, and the massy beechesglowed with ruddy bronze in the sunlight. The quaint towns and villages looked atthemselves in the waters at their feet and were content. Slowly the long arms of thewindmills turned in the suave and shimmering air. Everybody, in city and country, seemedto be busy without haste. And overhead, the luminous cloud mountains-the poor man'sAlps-marched placidly with the wind from horizon to horizon.The Hague-that "largest village in Europe," that city of three hundred thousandinhabitants set in the midst of a park, that seat of government which does not dare to callitself the capital because Amsterdam is jealous-was in especially good form and humor, looking forward to a winter of unhurried gayety and feasting such as the Hollanders love.The new Palace of Peace, given by Mr. Andrew Carnegie for the use of the Permanent Courtof Arbitration and its auxiliary bodies, had been opened with much ceremony inSeptember