by one great cry of astonishment. As far as the eye could reach, the
vast public square was black with the crowd, and brilliant with waving
flags. A band up on the terrace of the Tuileries, stationed between
the captured German airplanes, flashed in the air the yellow sheen of
their innumerable brass instruments, evidently playing with all their
souls, but not a sound of their music reached our ears, so deafening
was the burst of shouting and singing as the crowd saw its goal, the
high statue of the lost city, buried in heaped-up flowers and palms, a
triumphant wreath of gold shadowing the eyes which so long had looked
back to France from exile.
Ah, what an ovation we gave her! Then we shouted as we had not done
before, the great primitive, inarticulate cry of rejoicing that bursts
from the heart too full. We shook out our flags high over our heads, as
we passed, we cast our flowers up on the pedestal, we were swept along
by the current--we were the current ourselves!
At the base of the statue a group of white-haired Alsatians stood, men
and women, with quivering lips and trembling hands. Theirs was the
honor to arrange the flowers which, tossed too hastily by the eager
bearers, fell to the ground.
As they stooped for them, and reached high to find yet one more corner
not covered with blooms, a splendid, fair-haired lad, sturdy and tall,
with the field outfit of the French soldier heavy on his back, pushed
his way through the crowd.
He had in his hand a little bouquet--white and red roses, and
forget-me-nots. His eyes were fixed on the statue. He did not see the
old men and women there to receive the flowers. He pressed past them
and with his own young hands laid his humble offering at the feet of
the recovered city. He looked up at the statue and his lips moved. He
could not have been more unconscious if he had been entirely alone in
an Alsatian forest. The expression of his beautiful young face was
such that a hush of awe fell on those who saw him.
An old woman in black took his hand in hers and said: “You are from
Alsace?”
“I escaped from Strasbourg to join the French army,” he said, “and all
my family are there.” His eyes brimmed, his chin quivered.
The old woman had a noble gesture of self-forgetting humanity. She took
him in her arms and kissed him on both cheeks. “You are my son,” she
said.
They all crowded around him, taking his hand. “And my brother!” “And
mine!” “And mine!”
The tears ran down their cheeks.
BY DOROTHY CANFIELD
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Day of Glory, by Dorothy Canfield Fisher