Plattsburgh, Same Day, May 3, 1912, 5:30 o’clock.
The train, since leaving Port Henry, has traversed the left bank of Lake Champlain. As we pass I notice shores of golden sand, hills thickly shaded by foliage, pines, whose brilliant verdure glows on the azure of the blue water. Here is the island of Valcour. * * * What a pity not to be able to stop at all the stations on that railroad, with its many villages with French names.
Plattsburgh is nearly the last American town before reaching the Canadian frontier. It is full of remembrances of the War of Independence. The Federal Government of the United States has established a strong garrison there. Here again swift automobiles await us. The owner of one of these brilliant vehicles literally carries me to the threshold of the station, at a lively pace, and on the way said to me, in a calm, jolly voice:
“I am French, Monsieur; this is my son Raymond. We have only half an hour to see our countrymen. And, well, we want to make the best of it.”
All this was said with a pleasing country accent. It is the accent we use in our country. * * * The auto stops at the entrance to a training field, where the Fifth Regiment of Infantry of the Regular Army of the United States is ranged in order of battle. The American Government wishes, at that last station in her territory, to do us great honor, due, no doubt, to the presence as a member of our delegation of General Lebon, former Commander-in-Chief of our First Army Corps.
The General takes his place on a platform in front of the public stand. The regiment band plays the Marseillaise, which is followed by the solemn notes of the American hymn, the Star Spangled Banner. The Mayor of Plattsburgh addresses us in French, bidding us welcome. The procession starts immediately. A very excellent showing of troops, by a young colonel (Calvin D. Cowles), who manages a fiery horse most excellently, and who is surrounded by a body-guard of officers dressed in uniforms heavily adorned with gold braid and shoulder pieces of blue silk. A faultless procession; the sections well in line, the pace lively, the carriage very military. When the starry flag passed, everybody stood up and removed their hats. This scene is framed in a background of mountains and the blue line of the lake, now lighted by the slanting rays of the setting sun. After the military carriages had passed the colonel, accompanied by his staff, came and stood before the stand, and with a sweeping gesture saluted us with his sword. The American nation could not bid a more magnificent farewell to a delegation in which figure the descendants of Rochambeau and Lafayette, and who belong to a nation faithful to the traditions of a memorable fraternity in arms.
Saint Jean, Same Day, May 3, 1912, 7 o’clock.
We have crossed the frontier. The evening falls over the Canadian fields. From a clock exactly like those in the French parishes there comes the aerial call of the Angelus. * * * Instantly, in the station of Saint Jean there is heard a great clamor. “Vive la France!” Imagine an immense crowd, packed around the train, preventing it from starting; waving three-colored banners; singing at the top of their lungs the songs of this land and of the home land; the songs which, among us, are sung to welcome parents and friends. Hands are extended; eyes seek other eyes. One might call it the reunion of a family a long time separated. We are happy to meet again. We detain each other. * * * There are so many things to say to each other. * * * Everyone who has been present at this Canadian welcome will treasure in the depths of his heart the remembrance of that moment never to be forgotten.
This journey has been fertile in rapid and diverse impressions, carried away, alas! too quickly by the flight of time. It was at times like artificial fire; too quickly vanished. * * * But this here—and I purposely make use of a familiar phrase, which will be well understood by the French on both shores of the Atlantic—this, is in truth the bouquet! ( Ceci, c’est véritablement le bouquet).
Gaston Deschamps.