"Why the H—— should I work
When there is no work to do?"
I told you I was an unregenerate soul. I see that I'm not alone, there are others here like myself. I want a volunteer to sing my part with me and volunteeresses, equally unregenerate, for the pointed question of the I. W. W.'s wife.
"The gentleman there with the eagles on his shoulders—I have for you a fellow feeling, you are disreputable like me. Come! And the little girl in the pink dress that only looks innocent. Come you here. And others of like character join us as quickly as you can push your way through the admiring audience."
The surgeon from New York, who is as military as any regular army man, was a good sport. So was the editor's wife. As he reached both hands to the recruits, Bill did a simple dance step, the contagious step of the Virginia Reel when other couples are doing the figures. Soon the chorus was a line that reached the hall. At this moment there were shouts of laughter at the front door. A parade of alternating khaki and nurse's blue invaded the salon. Each had a flag or horn. The chorus and parade joined forces, with Bill as leader, and soon
"Hallelujah! I'm a bum!"
was being sung in every room of the apartment at the same time. Crutches were no deterrent to joining the serpentine march from room to room. The chorus grew and the dining-room was deserted. Strong arms picked up babies in nighties and we were all in the parade.
I did not know half of my guests and never will. Some of them are sure to read this and will remember that night in Paris when C. O.'s and journalists tired of the grind, nurses weary of watching, wounded and homesick who had not expected to laugh that Christmas Eve, and soldiers fresh from chilly camps and remote and dirty villages caught the spirit of Christmas. When people forget their cares and woes, they always behave like children. The national anthem of California made my party, where Christmas carols had proved too tear impelling. After "Hallelujah! I'm a bum!" wore itself out, nobody needed to be introduced to anybody else and everything disappeared from the dining-room table.
While the party was still raging, Herbert and I slipped for a moment out on the balcony. Merrymakers with lighted lanterns passed along the Boulevard du Montparnasse, singing and shouting. Before us lay Paris, not the Paris dark and fearful to which we had become accustomed when we stood there after the warning of the sirens and listened for the tir de barrage to tell us whether the time had come to take the children downstairs, but Paris alight and alive, Paris enjoying the reward of having kept faith with France and with the civilized world.