The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute their wounded comrades, to the mairie, to the commandant de place, singing "Over There," the "Star-Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la Brabançonne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, operation or no operation they hung out of the windows and balconies, to the horror of their nurses, waving handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips, slippers—anything that came to hand. One boy, with the Croix de Guerre and four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved a crutch, sang the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and then fainted dead away. Another hung over a balcony cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated with and told to remember his operation of two days ago, declared he didn't care if he had to spend six more weeks in bed, he had been wounded five times for his country's good, and now he would have one for his own pleasure. All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, a group of Belgians with an accordion, the player with an arm in a sling clutching it somehow, playing the "Brabançonne." Yanks decked out in paper caps and tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking about the town. All the week, festivities have been in full swing, in the cafes, the hotels, the American Y.M.C.A.—entertainments, flags, cheering, songs, music, games—the world is alive again, and fear, death, horror banished. So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. I quote from a letter from a French officer: "The enthusiasm is indescribable! Sammies, Tommies, Poilus, Midinettes, dance the farandele in the streets, singing. More serious people content themselves with round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have their hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper caps. Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving flags. Add to this the firing of cannon and bombs as if we were back in the evil days of avions last spring. Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic, content themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope they withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges with flags, drums, trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, whistled. Some drag the German cannons surmounted by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all sides a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la Opera, but every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have been no fights. "On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, Wilson and Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands all day and all night acclaiming them. Clemenceau himself ventured out on the boulevards, and only escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by rushing into the Grand Hotel and having the portes cocheres closed."