ed with the
sulphur fumes of fog, through which the lamps of the taxis and buses
shone as yellow blots reflected on glistening streets; or, for some
reason a still greater contrast, a blue, blue November Sunday afternoon
in parts, the Esplanade of the Invalides black with people--sad
people--and the Invalides itself all etched in blue as seen through the
wide vista from the Seine.

A few days later, with some children, I went to the Hippodrome. And it
remained for the Hippodrome, of all places, to give me the thrill I had
not achieved abroad, the thrill I had not experienced since the first
months of the war. Mr. George Cohan accomplished it. The transport with
steam up, is ready to leave the wharf, the khaki-clad regiment of erect
and vigorous young Americans marches across the great stage, and the
audience strains forward and begins to sing, under its breath, the words
that proclaim, as nothing else perhaps proclaims, how America feels.

"Send the word, send the word over there...
We'll be o-ver, we're coming o-ver,
And we won't come back till it's o-ver, over there!"

Is it the prelude of a tragedy? We have always been so successful, we
Americans. Are we to fail now? I am an American, and I do not believe we
are to fail. But I am soberer, somehow a different American than he who
sailed away in August. Shall we learn other things than those that have
hitherto been contained in our philosophy?

Of one thing I am convinced. It is the first war of the world that is
not a miltary war, although miltary genius is demanded, although it is
the bloodiest war in history. But other qualities are required; men and
women who are not professional soldiers are fighting in it and will aid
in victory. The pomp and circumstance of other wars are lacking in this,
the greatest of all. We had the thrills, even in America, three years
ago, when Britain and France and Canada went in. We tingled when we
read of the mobilizing of the huge armies, of the leave-takings of
the soldiers. We bought every extra for news of those first battles
on Belgian soil. And I remember my sensations when in the province
of Quebec in the autumn of 1914, looking out of the car-window at the
troops gathering on the platforms who were to go across the seas
to fight for the empire and liberty. They were singing "Tipperary!"
"Tipperary!" One seldoms hears it now, and the way has proved
long--longer than we reckoned. An