Allons enfants de la patrie
Lejour de gloire est arrive
It’s the wrong way to tickle Mary
It’s the wrong place to go
“We’ve been at war with the devil and it was worth all the suffering it entailed,” said William Howard Taft at a victory celebration here last night
Kahakatee, beautiful Katee
She’s the only gugugirl that I adore
And when the moon shines
Unipress, N. Y.
Paris urgent Brest Admiral Wilson who announced 16:00 (4 P.M.) Brest newspaper armistice been signed later notified unconfirmable meanwhile Brest riotously celebrating
TWO TROLLIES HELD UP BY GUNMEN
IN QUEENS
Over the cowshed
I’ll be waiting at the kakakitchen door
SPECIAL GRAND JURY ASKED TO
INDICT BOLSHEVISTS
the soldiers and sailors gave the only touch of color to the celebration. They went in wholeheartedly for having a good time, getting plenty to drink despite the fact that they were in uniform. Some of these returned fighters nearly caused a riot when they took an armful of stones and attempted to break an electric sign at Broadway and Forty-second Street reading:
WELCOME HOME TO OUR HEROES
Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming
When the rocket’s red glare the bombs bursting in air
Was proof to our eyes that the flag was still there
The Camera Eye (36)
when we emptied the rosies to leeward over the side every night after the last inspection we’d stop for a moment’s gulp of the November gale the lash of spray in back of your ears for a look at the spume splintered off the leaping waves shipwreckers drowners of men (in their great purple floating mines rose and fell gently submarines travelled under them on an even keel) to glance at the sky veiled with scud to take our hands off the greasy handles of the cans full of slum they couldnt eat (nine meals nine dumpings of the leftover grub nine cussingmatches with the cockney steward who tried to hold out on the stewed apricots inspections AttenSHUN click clack At Ease shoot the flashlight in everycorner of the tin pans nine lineups along the leaving airless corridor of seasick seascared doughboys with their messkits in their hands)
Hay sojer tell me they’ve signed an armistice tell me the wars over they’re takin us home latrine talk the hell you say now I’ll tell one we were already leading the empty rosies down three flights of iron ladders into the heaving retching hold starting up with the full whenever the ship rolled a little slum would trickle out the side
Meester Veelson
The year that Buchanan was elected president Thomas Woodrow Wilson
was born to a presbyterian minister’s daughter
in the manse at Staunton in the valley of Virginia; it was the old Scotch-Irish stock; the father was a presbyterian minister too and teacher of rhetoric in theological seminaries; the Wilsons lived in a universe of words linked into an incontrovertible firmament by two centuries of calvinist divines,
God was the Word
and the Word was God.
Dr. Wilson was a man of standing who loved his home and his children and good books and his wife and correct syntax and talked to God every day at family prayers;
he brought his sons up
between the bible and the dictionary.
The years of the Civil War
the years of fife and drum and platoonfire and proclamations
the Wilsons lived in Augusta, Georgia; Tommy was a backward child, didn’t learn his letters till he was nine, but when he learned to read his favorite reading was Parson Weems’
Life of Washington.
In 1870 Dr. Wilson was called to the Theological Seminary at Columbia, South Carolina; Tommy attended Davidson college,
where he developed a good tenor voice;
then he went to Princeton and became a debater and editor of the Princetonian. His first published article in the Nassau Literary Magazine was an appreciation of Bismarck.
Afterwards he studied law at the University of Virginia; young Wilson wanted to be a Great Man, like Gladstone and the eighteenth century English parliamentarians; he wanted to hold the packed benches spellbound in the cause of Truth; but lawpractice irked him; he was more at home in the booky air of libraries, lecturerooms, college chapel, it was a relief to leave his lawpractice at Atlanta and take a Historical Fellowship at Johns Hopkins; there he wrote Congressional Government.
At twentynine he married a girl with a taste for painting (while he was courting her he coached her in how to use the broad “a”) and got a job at Bryn Mawr teaching the girls History and Political Economy. When he got his Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins he moved to a professorship at Wesleyan, wrote article, started a History of the United States,
spoke out for Truth Reform Responsible Government Democracy from the lecture platform, climbed all the steps of a brilliant university career; in 1901 the trustees of Princeton offered him the presidency;
he plunged into reforming the university, made violent friends and enemies, set the campus by the ears,
and the American people began to find on the front pages
the name of Woodrow Wilson.
In 1909 he made addresses on Lincoln and Robert E. Lee
and in 1910
the democratic bosses of New Jersey, hardpressed by muckrakers and reformers, got the bright idea of offering the nomination for governor to the stainless college president who attracted such large audiences
by publicly championing Right.
When Mr. Wilson addressed the Trenton convention that nominated him for governor he confessed his belief in the common man, (the smalltown bosses and the wardheelers looked at each other and scratched their heads); he went on, his voice growing firmer:
that is the man by whose judgment I for one wish to be guided, so that as the tasks multiply, and as the days come when all will feel confusion and dismay, we may lift up our eyes to the hills out of these dark valleys where the crags of special privilege overshadow and darken our path, to where the sun gleams through the great passage in the broken cliffs, the sun of God,
the sun meant to regenerate men,
the sun meant to liberate them from their passion and despair and lift us to those uplands which are the promised land of every man who desires liberty and achievement.
The smalltown bosses and the wardheelers looked at each other and scratched their heads; then they cheered; Wilson fooled the wiseacres and doublecrossed the bosses, was elected by a huge plurality;
so he left Princeton only half reformed to be Governor of New Jersey,
and became reconciled with Bryan
at the Jackson Day dinner: when Bryan remarked, “I of course knew that you were not with me in my position on the currency,” Mr. Wilson replied, “All I can say, Mr. Bryan, is that you are a great big man.”
He was introduced to Colonel House,
that amateur Merlin of politics who was spinning his webs at the Hotel Gotham
and at the convention in Baltimore the next July the upshot of the puppetshow staged for sweating delegates by Hearst and House behind the scenes, and Bryan booming in the corridors with a handkerchief over his wilted collar, was that Woodrow Wilson was nominated for the presidency.