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.”

Well—­

“God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world.”—­and—­we are no longer in the war zone.  As soon as a few formalities are filled, and I can get a carte d’identite, I shall be once more free to circulate.  After sixteen months of a situation but one step removed from being interned, it will be good to be able to move about—­even if I don’t want to.

To give you some idea how the men at the front welcome the news, here is a letter which has just come,—­written before Congress had voted, but when everyone was sure of the final decision.

At the Front, April 4, 1917
Dear Madame: 

It has been a long time since I sent you my news.  The neglect has not been my fault, but due to the exceptional circumstances of the war.

At last we have advanced, and this time as real cavalry.  We have had the satisfaction of pursuing the Boches—­keeping on their flying heels until we drove them into St. Quentin.  From the 18th to the 28th of March the war became once more a battle in the open, which was a great relief to the soldiers and permitted them to once more demonstrate their real military qualities.  I lived through a dozen days filled to overflowing with emotions—­sorrow, joy, enthusiasm.  At last I have really known what war is—­with