ry stole forth,
binding the imagination. It needed but a touch to materialize the dream
as the boy crossed the white roadway, shadowed by the white statuary,
and with an odd appropriateness the touch was given.

One moment his mind was a sea of shifting visions, the next it was
caught and held by an inevitably thrilling sound--the sound of feet
tramping to a martial tune. The touch had been given: the vague visions
of tradition and history crystallized into a picture, and his heart
leaped to the pulsing, steady tramp, to the clash of fife and drum
ringing out upon the fine cold air.

All humanity is drawn by the sight of soldiers. There is a primitive
exhilaration in the idea of marching men that will last while the
nations live. Stung by the same impulse that affected every man and
woman in the Place de la Concorde, the boy paused--his head up, his
pulses quickened, his eyes and ears strained toward the sound.

It was a regiment of infantry marching down the Cours la Reine and
defiling out upon the Place de la Concorde toward the rue de Rivoli. By
a common impulse he paused, and by an equally common desire to be close
to the object of interest, he ran forward to where a little crowd had
gathered in the soldiers' route.

The French soldier is not individually interesting, and this body of men
looked insignificant enough upon close inspection. Yet it was a
regiment; it stirred the fancy; and the boy gazed with keen interest at
the small figures in the ill-fitting uniforms and at the faces, many as
young as his own, that denied past him in confusing numbers. On and on
the regiment wound, a coiling line of dull red and bluish-gray against
the frosty background, the feet tramping steadily, the fifes and drums
beating out with an incessant clamor.

Then, without warning, a new interest touched the knot of watchers, a
thrill passed from one member of the crowd to another, and hats were
raised. The colors were being borne by: Frenchmen were saluting their
flag.

The knowledge sprang to the boy's mind with the swiftness and poignancy
of an inspiration. This body of men might be insignificant, but it
represented the army of France--a thing of infinite tradition, of
infinite romance. The blood mounted to his face, his heart beat faster,
and with a strange, half-shy sense of participating in some fine moment,
his hand went up to his hat.

Unconsciously he made a picture as he stood there, his dark hair stirred
by the ligh