Dearest Mother and Daddy:—

It is eleven o’clock in the morning, and by all rights I should be working in the Vestiaire, but here I am at home writing you. I’ll tell you why. First place, it is the 4th of July, and I am away from home for the first time; second place, it is Wednesday, and I want to get this letter off today, so that you will surely get it.

Everything is most delightfully upset at the Vestiaire. Rootie and I turned up for work as usual this A.M., and found that the balcony of the Arts DÉcoratifs building—on rue Rivoli—had been offered to the workers at the Vestiaire this morning, to watch the parade of our soldiers! We just all tumbled into the two cars as fast as we could,—Dr. Shurtleff coming in ours,—and with Rootie driving, we followed Miss Curtis as fast as we could over to the Louvre. When we arrived at the entrance to the garden, under those old gray stone arches, there were many policemen guarding the way, and they all pointed down the street, saying that we must follow the Quai, but Mrs. Shurtleff leaned out of the car and said that we were an American oeuvre, and that we were going to see our soldiers from special seats, so they let us through. We put the cars in one corner of the garden and then went through to the Arts DÉcoratifs building. The balcony was one flight up, and almost on the corner of rue des Pyramides, where the statue of Jeanne d’Arc is. We could see the procession as it rounded the corner at the Place de la Concorde, and watch it out of sight down the rue Rivoli. The sidewalks were already lined with people, and the balconies all along were full of people. Just as we could hear the drums faintly, and could just make out the Garde de Paris on their horses, with their white belts and shining brass helmets, we heard an ah-h—run through the crowd. A flying machine—one of the smaller French ones, with the tricolor painted on each wing—was making circles and diving down low, and soaring up again over the soldiers as they crossed the Concorde. The pilot was magnificent to watch, but very reckless, for he flew so low and turned such tremendously quick curves that if anything went wrong, he would have hurt many people, and, of course, not had a chance himself. However, it was wonderful to watch, and got the crowd thoroughly excited. It made me think of the performance the first man gave who went up to show us—when we were at Chaudon, seeing the American Escadrille. When he came down, he got fits from the captain for taking such chances! After a short wait, they came, and the crowd just went mad: first, the Garde RÉpublicaine, on wonderful-looking horses; then a French band, all in uniform, of course, and much to our joy they struck up a tune just at our corner. They were such a fine-looking lot of men—short, thick-set, hardy, jovial chaps, each one with a rose either pinned to his coat or stuck in his helmet strap. The few soldiers who formed sort of a guard for the band had their roses stuck in the end of their rifles!

After these came the Americans!! Oh, it was great! A score of mounted officers leading, with one French capitaine in the middle, and then the band, with a drum major and all! It was too thrilling to ever put down on paper. The crowd just howled and shouted and jumped up and down, threw flowers, and we on the balcony yelled as loud as we could. Then another very fine-looking officer, and right behind him the soldiers. Not so very many, only one battalion,—the Sixteenth Infantry, the flag said,—but a fine-looking lot of soldiers. They were noticeably taller than the French, were very thin, and all much tanned. I think they must have been in Mexico. The crowd let the first half march past, but the last division, which for some reason did not have their rifles, were surrounded by the mob, which just carried them along, all good-naturedly shouting and pushing, so that the ranks were broken badly in some places. This did not add to the looks of the parade from a military point of view, but it was so typically French. They simply had to join in, and the police were powerless, so that the end of the parade was a seething mass of soldiers, Boy Scouts, men and women, with a few police trying vainly to keep the people back. I shall never forget it. It was magnificent. I hate to think that our country has come into it finally, and I couldn’t help thinking all the time that these men, who are walking down the street so gayly now, will probably go to the front and be killed soon; what for? It does seem so wicked, but the French need something to put new enthusiasm into them, for even that undying thing, French courage, is showing signs of wearing out after these three years, and now the American soldiers actually getting here does thrill them. It was so thrilling to see a French crowd get so excited. You know how it just carries you away to hear thousands yelling and clapping. It was mighty interesting. I imagine it is about the first time that “The Fourth” has been celebrated in Paris. After it was over, we came back to the Vestiaire, and settled down to a morning’s work. I told Dr. S. that we ought to have a holiday this afternoon, and he agreed; so he talked to Mrs. S. and we are to have the whole P.M. free! I had left my typewriter at home, so I brought my cards and things home, and am going to do them after lunch and to-night. They can wait a little, and I do want to get this off so.

I will take a chance on the censor reading this, and tell you the little that we know over here. In many ways we are as much out of touch with things as you are. France does seem to be really feeling the war more than she has admitted hithertofore. It is evident in the way the people talk in the Metro and at the restaurant and everywhere. It is shown in the constant strikes—the women too. This last strike of the taxis is in some ways a good thing—the Metro now runs all night, or rather until midnight, which is much more convenient. Russia, from all one hears, is out of the game, for the present, at any rate. She is not to be reckoned with either way. Dr. G. feels that the Allies are lucky if she does not make a separate peace. Mr. A. feels that if the Allies with our help, mostly moral help, can give Germany a big scare in the next few weeks, maybe there will be an upheaval there, and that the Kaiser will abdicate, and then every one will be ready to talk peace. If not, and if the Germans get a good harvest,—and there is every prospect of their doing so,—he feels that she has won; that she can go on forever. Every one now admits, even French officers, that the spring offensive was a failure, and the loss of life was something terrible, worse than Verdun; also that the Germans have the upper hand now in a military way. The submarine question you can get little news about. England runs that news, and so one can tell nothing. Certainly there are a great many more losses than they will acknowledge. For instance, Dr. Gibbons told me that several times he will see in the German lists certain boats sunk many days before the British publish it. There is no doubt about it, the French are lacking many things, principally flour and sugar. The bread over here is very bad now, very dark, coarse, and often sour. We buy bread baked in loaves from a pain de santÉ store, which is conveniently located on rue Ernest Cresson. Inasmuch as London, at any rate, was much more poorly off than Paris when I was there in January, it is reasonable to suppose that they are still worse off, particularly as the Germans have sunk more English ships than any other nation’s. It seems to be hard to get any definite reports as to the conditions in England; no one comes to France via England any more!

It is pretty late now, so I will stop. Lots and lots of love from your daughter,