Then sing this song, my comrades,
O we'll sing this song today,
That wherever we may roam, we'll sing a song of home
For the maidens fair back home in U. S. A.
A trench mirror four inches by six hung on the wall of my billet. There was a mad scramble for a last facial and tonsorial inspection; for each fellow boldly made his boast, "Just watch me, Bo, make the hit of the evening with Ma chere Miss Frenchy."
Down the village street in column of twos we made our way.
"All gentle in peace and all valiant in war,
There never was Knight like the young Lochinvar."
As we went singing carefree, secretly my heart was sad. As a Staff Officer I knew, although the boys did not, that this was to be their last evening party; that on the morrow they were to leave for the front line trenches; that many weary days, weeks and months of stern, bitter, deadly realities lay just before them; and I wanted them to at least enjoy this one last evening of home-spun, joyful valedictory.
The Moidrey residence stood back a little from the road, protected by a tall iron fence of artistic design. As we drew near, my Minstrel Boys prudently "soft pedaled" their singing, so as not to over-alarm our kind host. Responsive to our sounding the huge brass, lion-headed knocker on the massive gate, the house door opened. Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle Annette came down the winding garden path to admit and welcome us.
Introductions followed, formal, gracious and charming. Quite true it was that our kindly hosts could not speak a word of English, nor the Buddies of French, at least of French fit to grace the occasion. There is a language, however, that is not of the tongue, but of the heart. It is expressed in the flash of a love-lit eye; it is felt in the pressure of a kindly hand. It is spoken and understood the world over and needs no interpreter. This language my boys spoke very fluently; and our charming hosts did them the honor to understand.
In the parlor was the wonderful piano, brought all the way from Paris. Obligingly, charmingly, Mademoiselle Annette responded to our profuse, overwhelming invitations to play first. Sweet and innocent she looked sitting there; her cheeks fair as the roses in her garden, her eyes modestly aglow with star light, her raven hair in a single braid of ample length, neatly adorned with a red ribbon and bewitchingly tossed over her shoulder. Never was a young lady better guarded at a piano; five stalwart doughboys on either side, jealously turning the pages of a sheet of music that was upside down. Artistically she played and the loud applause that greeted her would have made envious our own Fanny Bloomfield Zeisler.