Che Belgian Refugee
To Albert—King of the Belgians.

Personal.
Dear AL,

You sure missed out this trip, my boy; I’m scratching you off a line to tell
you about the dates I’ve had since you ran away from me; and I’ve had, as they
say, a screaming time. To-day I flivvered out from Philly to visit Bryn Mawr,
which the people there tell me is one of the seven wonders of the world, and which
is the neatest little bunch of architecture I’ve seen. They keep a great many
girls in seclusion there for four years. I want to tell you about my get-up, because
I think it was my duds that gave me such a hot-dog welcome. They all wore
black gowns and ratty black hats. I put on my nobby toque, which you say looks
like a whatnot, and my sky-blue cape with the silver fox collar, and I made quite a
snappy model in this academic crowd. , They greeted me with a Greek chorus,
which ended with a cry of ‘Queen of the Belgians’’—this of course was the only
part I understood—you know me, Al.

As I stood on the steps of their library, a girlie who seemed to represent them
all came forward and slipped me a bouquet of flowers, and another queen said a
mouthful in a shy way with a dimple in her chin.

They took me down to what they called the hockey field where a lot of flappers
were fighting for a ball. Whenever one of them got it they wouldn’t let her keep
it, but tore at her to take it away again. I didn’t get the big idea, but they seemed
to lap it up. I said to a short little person who stood beside me, “Do you play this
game?” She answered me brightly, standing on tip-toe, “Oh, yes, but I’m not
playing now.” I saw my line wasn’t getting by because I couldn’t make myself
heard above the click of the cameras. Everybody was Kodaking as they went.
I must hit the hay now.

NAS aks
Lizzie.
SERENA Hanp.

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