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war cry was,"On to France." But here, there is no such cry.As I look into your faces,I divine your thoughts.Your cry is,"On to Berlin."(Thunderous applause rent the air).

When I had finished my little speech,a young colored couple made their way through that vast throng to the speaker's stand.The young man was dressed in the uniform of his country.He spoke to me:"My name is John Ross and this is Mrs.Ross,my wife.I understand you are from Tulsa.My home is there,although I have not spent very much time there for the past three years or more."

"I am very glad to meet both of you",I said.Continuing,"May I ask you,Mr.Ross,where you have been?.I know your mother quite well".

"I left home in the early spring of 1914 and by mid-summer of that year,I was in Europe.I had the wanderlust,I was adventerous and wanted action.I succeeded in joining the British army.I got plenty of action and adventure--then.I quit the army in August 1916 and returned to this country.I again enlisted for service in New York last January and have been stationed there ever since.I secured a leave of absence a few days ago to visit mother.Within thirty days,we are to sail for Europe.I mean my company.Mrs.Ross will live with mother until the war is over."


And so young Ross returned to Europe and fought for his country until the armistice was signed.Over there he,like hundreds of his buddies,was simply a cog in the great machinery of war.He did his bit in comparative obscurity--he was known only to a few.Providence was kind to him and he,like a few others--just a few others--returned home sound in mind and in body.

Life--sordid at times--is made up of many changes and vicissitudes,and so the scene shifts back to Tulsa.

It is now May 31st,1921. The day is just beginning.Sweet-throated birds warble their songs of joy in the tree-tops,fanned by the refreshing zephyr,and the dew sparkles upon the grass like countless little diamonds,as old Sol rises above the eastern horizon and,shinning in all his resplendent glory,thrusts his myriad rays upon the busy world below.An unbroken stream of pedestrians--male and female--passes down Greenwood Avenue.It is made up of laborers,some empty-handed and others with dinner pails,on their way to work.They hurry along as if they are late.A few of the more pretentious ones pass in their own cars,or in jitneys,or upon busses.Then comes a lull--a lull before the storm.