It is the eleventh of November, a date future generations will look back to as the greatest in modern history; a date which marks the end of the most brutal and aggressive war. The horrible nightmare is over, and the "superman" vanquished, pray God, for all time.

We who have lived through these long tragic years, who have seen with what fortitude and patience the darkest hours have been borne, when storm-clouds blackened the skies and hope hid her face—we tremble with longing for Peace, can scarcely believe it can be true. The hope has dwelt so long in our hearts, the realization has seemed so impossible.

All the morning the town was alive with rumors—a word, a suggestion, a guess, all light as a zephir, but gaining stability as they spread—until people crowding in the streets with radiant faces and happy eyes, became aware of the certitude of Victory as yet unannounced:

"Is it true the boches are beaten?"

"Have we the victory?"

"Foch has signed today."

"The Kaiser has fled."

"The Crown Prince is killed."

A hundred such-like reports were tossed about, nothing definite but a happy expectancy on all the grinning faces. I met the mayor at 11 o'clock.

"Ah, Ah, Monsieur le Maire, voici la Victoire; What? (There is Victory?)"

"But non, Madame, not yet, it is not official."

"But at least we can pavoise (beflag)?"

"Non, non, Madame, pas encore, but—" with a twinkling eye, "you can have your flags ready."

All along the streets are little groups of people chattering excitedly, joined constantly by new-comers; itinerant newsmongers, each with his own special brand of rumor. At the Place de l'Eglise, a large crowd has gathered, waiting for the bells, so long silent, now perhaps to ring in a new era for humanity. The postmaster, a functionary of importance in our little town, is gesticulating and laughing with the commandant de place. Peasants, shopkeepers, doughboys, Red Cross nurses, Poilus and Belgian wounded, priests, children, old and young, are all crowding, jostling, each with perfect good humor.

Flags spring forth on house-fronts, little fluttering lines of bunting stretch across from window to window, flowers appear in buttonholes, out of church-tower windows lean the bell ringers; a little French flag has been hoisted high on the tower, the first in four years.

"Will the great news never come?"

Presently a loud clattering of sabots; the schools are out, 'round the corner they stream at full speed, twenty abreast, little chaps from eight to twelve, their pink faces aglow, their capes streaming in the wind, a tricolor grasped in red fists, bobbing in front line. Dear little chaps, each has lost someone—a brother or a father—one's eyes fill with tears of relief of what they have escaped, these little citizens of the future, they at least can grow to the fulness of manhood without a dreadful menace hanging over them. The world is safe for them.

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The clock points to 3. Suddenly a great peal of bells rings out on the sunny November air; louder and louder the sound reverberates over the autumn trees and far out to sea, loud and clear and joyous, carrying the glorious news over land and water to the hearts of the waiting people.

Ah! ring, bells of France! Ring out over all this beautiful martyred land, over towns and villages, over country, river, sea. Messengers of God, bringing joy and hope. Ring in long, swelling notes, full of harmony and Peace. Bring to all who listen the certitude of victory; the knowledge that the vast sacrifices have not been in vain; that Peace soon will spread her healing breath over this sore-tried nation. As the carillons ring, a shout bursts out, people weep, laugh, embrace each other. They sob and cheer in the same breath, all hearts united in one over-whelming wave of gratitude and thanksgiving.

Then a slow booming from the cannon at Saint-Malo sounds across the water—only a few days ago what fears it would have caused—but today, thrice blessed guns!

The doughboys raise a terrific shouting; some whistle, shriek, cat-call; tin pans are banged as cymbals; a procession is formed, French and Belgians with their flags in front, singing the "Marseillaise," then the Yanks, cheering and dancing arm in arm, thirty abreast, zigzaging down the boulevard. I ran out with some thirty small national flags, and in a second they were whipped out of my arms and went careering away over the heads of the shouting men.

The procession swept on, catching up bystanders; infirmiÈres had flags thrust at them, and joined the ranks, their white veils and dresses gleaming ahead; some of the Americans picked up the tiny children, carrying them shoulder high, the kiddies clutching them in a stranglehold, their necks craning to see their mothers and sisters running along the sidewalk near them.

The crowd swings on to visit the hospitals, to salute their wounded comrades, to the mairie, to the commandant de place, singing "Over There," the "Star-Spangled Banner," the "Marseillaise," and "la BrabanÇonne." There was no bed that day for the wounded, operation or no operation they hung out of the windows and balconies, to the horror of their nurses, waving handkerchiefs, towels, pillow-slips, slippers—anything that came to hand. One boy, with the Croix de Guerre and four other medals, hobbled out on the terrace, waved a crutch, sang the first verse of the "Marseillaise," and then fainted dead away. Another hung over a balcony cheering himself hoarse, when remonstrated with and told to remember his operation of two days ago, declared he didn't care if he had to spend six more weeks in bed, he had been wounded five times for his country's good, and now he would have one for his own pleasure.

All the afternoon, little bands marched up and down, a group of Belgians with an accordion, the player with an arm in a sling clutching it somehow, playing the "BrabanÇonne." Yanks decked out in paper caps and tricolor ribbons, arm in arm with singing girls, sky-larking about the town. All the week, festivities have been in full swing, in the cafes, the hotels, the American Y.M.C.A.—entertainments, flags, cheering, songs, music, games—the world is alive again, and fear, death, horror banished.

So it is all over France. Paris is delirious with joy. I quote from a letter from a French officer:

"The enthusiasm is indescribable! Sammies, Tommies, Poilus, Midinettes, dance the farandele in the streets, singing. More serious people content themselves with round dances on the sidewalks; the girls have their hair tied with tricolor ribbons, the men wear colored paper caps. Actresses are singing on the street corners, waving flags. Add to this the firing of cannon and bombs as if we were back in the evil days of avions last spring. Your compatriots, colder and more phlegmatic, content themselves with firing their revolvers in the air. I hope they withdrew the bullets. In every street are corteges with flags, drums, trumpets. 'Marseillaise' sang, shouted, whistled. Some drag the German cannons surmounted by poilus, from the Place de la Concorde; on all sides a sea of heads; impossible to cross the Avenue de la Opera, but every one is 'bon-enfant,' and there have been no fights.

"On the boulevards are great 'Transparents' with Foch, Wilson and Clemenceau's portraits. The crowd stands all day and all night acclaiming them. Clemenceau himself ventured out on the boulevards, and only escaped suffocation from his too ardent admirers, by rushing into the Grand Hotel and having the portes cocheres closed."

As soon as the news of the signing of the armistice was known in official circles yesterday morning, the Paris Municipal Council sent out, to be posted all over the city, a stirring appeal to the population to celebrate the greatest victory ever won. The poster read as follows:

"Inhabitants of Paris"

"Victory! Triumphant Victory! On all fronts the defeated enemy has laid down his arms! Blood will cease to flow!

"Let Paris throw off the noble reserve for which she has been admired by the whole world.

"Let us give free course to our joy and enthusiasm and hold back our tears.

"To show our infinite gratitude to our magnificent soldiers and their incomparable leaders, let us decorate all our houses with the French colors and those of our dear allies.

"Our dead may rest in peace. The sublime sacrifice they have made of their lives to the future of the race and the salvation of France will not be in vain.

"For them, as for us 'the day of glory has arrived.'

"Vive la Republique!

"Vive la France immortelle!

"For the Municipal Council,

"Adrien Mithouard, President.

"Chausse, Chassaigne-Goyon, Adolphe ChÉrioux, Henri Rouselle, Vice-Presidents;

"Georges Pointel, Le Corbeiller, Lemarchand, Fiancette, Secretaries;

"Andre Gent, Syndic."

News Flashed Throughout France

While this appeal was being drawn up, the magnificent news was flashed by telephone to the Prefects throughout France by M. Pams, Minister of the Interior, with the following orders:

"Put out flags immediately. Illuminate all public buildings this evening. Have all bells ring out in full peal, and arrange with the military authorities to have guns fired, in order that the people may know of the signing of the armistice.

"Dinard, November 11th, 1918"

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