The sun shines, and my heart is high. This is a great day. The Stars
and Stripes ace flying at my gate, and they are flying over all France.
What is more they will soon be flying--if they are not already--over
Westminster, for the first time in history. The mighty, unruly child, who
never could quite forgive the parent it defied, and never has been
wholly pardoned, is to come back to the family table, if only long
enough to settle the future manners of the nations about the board,
put in, I suppose, a few "don'ts," like "don't grab"; "don't take a bigger
mouthful than you can becomingly chew"; "don't jab your knife into
your neighbor--it is not for that purpose"; "don't eat out of your
neighbor's plate--you have one of your own,"--in fact "Thou shalt not--
even though thou art a Kaiser--take the name of the Lord thy God in
vain"; "thou shalt not steal"; "thou shalt not kill"; "thou shalt not
covet," and so on. Trite, I know, but in thousands of years we
have not improved on it.
So the Stars and Stripes are flying over France to greet the long
delayed and ardently awaited, long ago inevitable declaration which
puts the States shoulder to shoulder with the other great nations in
the Defence of the Rights of Man, the Sacredness of Property, the
Honor of Humanity, and the news has been received with such
enthusiasm as has not been seen in France since war broke over it.
Judging by the cables the same enthusiasm which has set the air
throbbing here is mounting to the skies on your side of the ocean. We
are a strangely lucky nation--we are the first to go into the great fight
to the shouts of the populace; to be received like a star performer,
with "thunders of applause."