not in our family that the lightning strikes. The "Paths of Glory lead
but to the grave," so what matters it, really, out by what door one
goes?

This will reach you soon after you arrive in the great city of tall
buildings. More will follow, and I expect they will be so gay that you
will rejoice to have even a postal tie with La Belle France, to which,
if you are a real good American, you will come back when you die--if you
do not before.




IV



July 16, 1914.

Your Fourth of July letter came this morning. It was lively reading,
especially coming so soon after my first quatorze de juillet in the
country. The day was a great contrast to the many remembrances I have
of Bastille Day in Paris. How I remember my first experience of that
fete, when my bedroom window overlooked one of the squares where the
band played for the three nights of dancing. That was a fierce
experience after the novelty of the first night had worn off, when hour
after hour the dance music droned on, and hour after hour the dancing
feet on the pavement nearly drove me frantic. To offset it I have
memories of the Champs-Elysees and the Place de l'Hotel de Ville turned
into a fairyland. I am glad I saw all that. The memory hangs in my