PAUL BUNYAN

When Wesley Everest came home from overseas
and got his discharge from the army he went back to
his old job of logging. His folks were of the old
Kentucky and Tennessee stock of woodsmen and squir-
relhunters who followed the trail blazed by Lewis and
Clark into the rainy giant forests of the Pacific slope.
In the army Everest was a sharpshooter, won a medal
for a crack shot.

(Since the days of the homesteaders the western
promoters and the politicians and lobbyists in Wash-
ington had been busy with the rainy giant forests of the
Pacific slope, with the result that:

ten monopoly groups aggregating only one thou-
sand eight hundred and two holders, monopolized one
thousand two hundred and eight billion, eight hundred
million,

[1,208,800,000,000]
square feet of standing timber, . . . enough stand-
ing timber . . . to yield the planks necessary [over
and above the manufacturing wastage] to make a float-
ing bridge more than two feet thick and more than five
miles wide from New York to Liverpool; --

wood for scaffolding, wood for jerrybuilding resi-
dential suburbs, billboards, wood for shacks and ships
and shantytowns, pulp for tabloids, yellow journals,
editorial pages, advertizing copy, mailorder catalogues,
filingcards, army paperwork, handbills, flimsy.)

Wesley Everest was a logger like Paul Bunyan.

The lumberjacks, loggers, shingleweavers, saw-
mill workers were the helots of the timber empire; the
I.W.W. put the idea of industrial democracy in Paul Bunyan's

-456-

Bunyan's head; wobbly organizers said the forests
ought to belong to the whole people, said Paul Bunyan
ought to be paid in real money instead of in company
scrip, ought to have a decent place to dry his clothes,
wet from the sweat of a day's work in zero weather and
snow, an eight hour day, clean bunkhouses, wholesome
grub; when Paul Bunyan came back from making
Europe safe for the democracy of the Big Four, he
joined the lumberjack's local to help make the Pacific
slope safe for the workingstiffs. The wobblies were
reds. Not a thing in this world Paul Bunyan's ascared
of.

(To be a red in the summer of 1919 was worse
than being a hun or a pacifist in the summer of 1917.)

The timber owners, the sawmill and shinglekings
were patriots; they'd won the war (in the course of
which the price of lumber had gone up from $16 a
thousand feet to $116; there are even cases where the
government paid as high as $1200 a thousand for
spruce); they set out to clean the reds out of the log-
ging camps;

free American institutions must be preserved at
any cost;

so they formed the Employers Association and the
Legion of Loyal Loggers, they made it worth their
while for bunches of ex-soldiers to raid I.W.W. halls,
lynch and beat up organizers, burn subversive literature.

On Memorial Day 1918 the boys of the American
Legion in Centralia led by a group from the Chamber
of Commerce wrecked the I.W.W. hall, beat up every-
body they found in it, jailed some and piled the rest of
the boys in a truck and dumped them over the county
line, burned the papers and pamphlets and auctioned

-457-

off the fittings for the Red Cross; the wobblies' desk
still stands in the Chamber of Commerce.

The loggers hired a new hall and the union kept
on growing. Not a thing in this world Paul Bunyan's
ascared of.

Before Armistice Day, 1919, the town was full of
rumors that on that day the hall would be raided for
keeps. A young man of good family and pleasant man-
ners, Warren O. Grimm, had been an officer with the
American force in Siberia; that made him an authority
on labor and Bolsheviks, so he was chosen by the busi-
ness men to lead the 100% forces in the Citizens Pro-
tective League to put the fear of God into Paul Bunyan.

The first thing the brave patriots did was pick up
a blind newsdealer and thrash him and drop him in a
ditch across the county line.

The loggers consulted counsel and decided they
had a right to defend their hall and themselves in case
of a raid. Not a thing in this world Paul Bunyan's
ascared of.

Wesley Everest was a crack shot; Armistice Day
he put on his uniform and filled his pockets with car-
tridges. Wesley Everest was not much of a talker; at
a meeting in the Union Hall the Sunday before the
raid, there'd been talk of the chance of a lynching bee;
Wesley Everest had been walking up and down the aisle
with his O.D. coat on over a suit of overalls, distribut-
ing literature and pamphlets; when the boys said they
wouldn't stand for another raid, he stopped in his tracks
with the papers under his arm, rolled himself a brown-
paper cigarette and smiled a funny quiet smile.

Armistice Day was raw and cold; the mist rolled in
from Puget Sound and dripped from the dark boughs

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of the spruces and the shiny storefronts of the town.
Warren O. Grimm commanded the Centralia section of
the parade. The exsoldiers were in their uniforms.
When the parade passed by the union hall without halt-
ing, the loggers inside breathed easier, but on the way
back the parade halted in front of the hall. Somebody
whistled through his fingers. Somebody yelled, "Let's
go. . . at 'em, boys." They ran towards the wobbly
hall. Three men crashed through the door. A rifle
spoke. Rifles crackled on the hills back of the town,
roared in the back of the hall.

Grimm and an exsoldier were hit.

The parade broke in disorder but the men with
rifles formed again and rushed the hall. They found
a few unarmed men hiding in an old icebox, a boy in
uniform at the head of the stairs with his arms over his
head.

Wesley Everest shot the magazine of his rifle out,
dropped it and ran for the woods. As he ran he broke
through the crowd in the back of the hall, held them
off with a blue automatic, scaled a fence, doubled down
an alley and through the back street. The mob fol-
lowed. They dropped the coils of rope they had with
them to lynch Britt Smith the I.W.W. secretary. It was
Wesley Everest's drawing them off that kept them
from lynching Britt Smith right there.

Stopping once or twice to hold the mob off with
some scattered shots, Wesley Everest ran for the river,
started to wade across. Up to his waist in water he
stopped and turned.

Wesley Everest turned to face the mob with a
funny quiet smile on his face. He'd lost his hat and
his hair dripped with water and sweat. They started
to rush him.

"Stand back," he shouted, "if there's bulls in the
crowd I'll submit to arrest."

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The mob was at him. He shot from the hip four
times, then his gun jammed. He tugged at the trigger,
and taking cool aim shot the foremost of them dead.
It was Dale Hubbard, another exsoldier, nephew of
one of the big lumber men of Centralia.

Then he threw his empty gun away and fought
with his fists. The mob had him. A man bashed his
teeth in with the butt of a shotgun. Somebody brought
a rope and they started to hang him. A woman el-
bowed through the crowd and pulled the rope off his
neck.

"You haven't the guts to hang a man in the day-
time," was what Wesley Everest said.

They took him to the jail and threw him on the
floor of a cell. Meanwhile they were putting the other
loggers through the third degree.

That night the city lights were turned off. A
mob smashed in the outer door of the jail. "Don't
shoot, boys, here's your man," said the guard. Wesley
Everest met them on his feet, "Tell the boys I did my
best," he whispered to the men in the other cells.

They took him off in a limousine to the Chehalis
River bridge. As Wesley Everest lay stunned in the
bottom of the car a Centralia business man cut his penis
and testicles off with a razor. Wesley Everest gave a
great scream of pain. Somebody has remembered that
after a while he whispered, "For God's sake, men, shoot
me. . . don't let me suffer like this." Then they
hanged him from the bridge in the glare of the head-
lights.

The coroner at his inquest thought it was a great
joke.

He reported that Wesley Everest had broken out
of jail and run to the Chehalis River bridge and tied a
rope around his neck and jumped off, finding the rope

-460-

too short he'd climbed back and fastened on a longer
one, had jumped off again, broke his neck and shot
himself full of holes.

They jammed the mangled wreckage into a pack-
ing box and buried it.

Nobody knows where they buried the body of
Wesley Everest, but the six loggers they caught they
buried in the Walla Walla Penitentiary.

RICHARD ELLSWORTH SAVAGE

The pinnacles and buttresses of the apse of Nôtre Dâme
looked crumbly as cigarash in the late afternoon sunshine.
"But you've got to stay, Richard," Eleanor was saying as
she went about the room collecting the teathings on a tray
for the maid to take out. "I had to do something about
Eveline and her husband before they sailed. . . after
all, she's one of my oldest friends. . . and I've invited
all her wildeyed hangerson to come in afterwards." A fleet
of big drays loaded with winebarrels rumbled along the
quay outside. Dick was staring out into the grey ash of
the afternoon. "Do close that window, Richard, the dust
is pouring in. . . . Of course, I realize that you'll have to
leave early to go to J.W.'s meeting with the press. . . .
If it hadn't been for that he'd have had to come, poor
dear, but you know how busy he is." "Well, I don't exactly
find the time hanging on my hands. . . but I'll stay and
greet the happy pair. In the army I'd forgotten about
work." He got to his feet and walked back into the room
to light a cigarette.

"Well, you needn't be so mournful about it."

"I don't see you dancing in the streets yourself."

"I think Eveline's made a very grave mistake. . .

-461-

Americans are just too incredibly frivolous about marriage."

Dick's throat got tight. He found himself noticing how
stiffly he put the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled the smoke
and blew it out. Eleanor's eyes were on his face, cool and
searching. Dick didn't say anything, he tried to keep his
face stiff.

"Were you in love with that poor girl, Richard?"

Dick blushed and shook his head.

"Well, you needn't pretend to be so hard about it. . .
it's just young to pretend to be hard about things."

"Jilted by army officer, Texas belle killed in plane
wreck. . . but most of the correspondents know me and
did their best to kill that story. . . . What did you expect
me to do, jump into the grave like Hamlet? The Hon.
Mr. Barrow did all of that that was necessary. It was a
frightfully tough break. . ." He let himself drop into
a chair. "I wish I was hard enough so that I didn't give
a damn about anything. When history's walking on all
our faces is no time for pretty sentiments." He made a
funny face and started talking out of the corner of his
mouth. "All I ask sister is to see de woild with Uncle
Woodrow. . . le beau monde sans blague tu sais."
Eleanor was laughing her little shrill laugh when they
heard Eveline's and Paul Johnson's voices outside on the
landing.

Eleanor had bought them a pair of little blue parakeets
in a cage. They drank Montracher and ate roast duck
cooked with oranges. In the middle of the meal Dick had
to go up to the Crillon. It was a relief to be out in the
air, sitting in an open taxi, running past the Louvre made
enormous by the late twilight under which the Paris streets
seemed empty and very long ago like the Roman forum.
All the way up past the Tuileries he played with an im-
pulse to tell the taxidriver to take him to the opera, to the
circus, to the fortifications, anywhere to hell and gone.

-462-

He set his pokerface as he walked past the doorman at the
Crillon.

Miss Williams gave him a relieved smile when he
appeared in the door. "Oh, I was afraid you'd be late,
Captain Savage." Dick shook his head and grinned. "Any-
body come?" "Oh, they're coming in swarms. It'll make
the front pages," she whispered. Then she had to answer
the phone.

The big room was already filling up with newspaper
men. Jerry Burnham whispered as he shook hands, "Say,
Dick, if it's a typewritten statement you won't leave the
room alive.""Don't worry," said Dick with a grin. "Say,
where's Robbins?""He's out of the picture," said Dick
dryly, "I think he's in Nice drinking up the last of his
liver."

J.W. had come in by the other door and was moving
around the room shaking hands with men he knew, being
introduced to others. A young fellow with untidy hair and
his necktie crooked put a paper in Dick's hand. "Say, ask
him if he'd answer some of these questions." "Is he going
home to campaign for the League of Nations?" somebody
asked in his other ear.

Everybody was settled in chairs; J.W. leaned over the
back of his and said that this was going to be an informal
chat, after all, he was an old newspaper man himself. There
was a pause. Dick glanced around at J.W.'s pale slightly
jowly face just in time to catch a flash of his blue eyes
around the faces of the correspondents. An elderly man
asked in a grave voice if Mr. Moorehouse cared to say
anything about the differences of opinion between the
President and Colonel House. Dick settled himself back
to be bored. J.W. answered with a cool smile that they'd
better ask Colonel House himself about that. When some-
body spoke the word oil everybody sat up in their chairs.
Yes, he could say definitely an accord, a working agree-
ment had been reached between certain American oil

-463-

producers and perhaps the Royal Dutch-Shell, oh, no, of
course not to set prices but a proof of a new era of inter-
national cooperation that was dawning in which great
aggregations of capital would work together for peace and
democracy, against reactionaries and militarists on the one
hand and against the bloody forces of bolshevism on the
other. And what about the League of Nations? "A new
era," went on J.W. in a confidential tone, "is dawning."

Chairs scraped and squeaked, pencils scratched on pads,
everybody was very attentive. Everybody got it down that
J.W. was sailing for New York on the Rochambeau in
two weeks. After the newspapermen had gone off to make
their cable deadline, J.W. yawned and asked Dick to
make his excuses to Eleanor, that he was really too tired
to get down to her place tonight. When Dick got out on
the streets again there was still a little of the violet of
dusk in the sky. He hailed a taxi; goddam it, he could take
a taxi whenever he wanted to now.

It was pretty stiff at Eleanor's, people were sitting
around in the parlor and in one bedroom that had been
fitted up as a sort of boudoir with a tall mirror draped
with lace, talking uncomfortably and intermittently. The
bridegroom looked as if he had ants under his collar.
Eveline and Eleanor were standing in the window talking
with a gauntfaced man who turned out to be Don Stevens
who'd been arrested in Germany by the Army of Occupa-
tion and for whom Eveline had made everybody scamper
around so. "And any time I get in a jam," he was saying,
"I always find a little Jew who helps get me out. . . this
time he was a tailor."

"Well, Eveline isn't a little Jew or a tailor," said
Eleanor icily, "but I can tell you she did a great deal."

Stevens walked across the room to Dick and asked him
what sort of a man Moorehouse was. Dick found himself
blushing. He wished Stevens wouldn't talk so loud. "Why,
he's a man of extraordinary ability," he stammered.

-464-

"I thought he was a stuffed shirt. . . I didn't see what
those damn fools of the bourgeois press thought they were
getting for a story. . . I was there for the D.H."

"Yes, I saw you," said Dick.

"I thought maybe, from what Steve Warner said, you
were the sort of guy who'd be boring from within."

"Boring in another sense, I guess, boring and bored."

Stevens stood over him glaring at him as if he was going
to hit him. "Well, we'll know soon enough which side a
man's on. We'll all have to show our faces, as they say in
Russia, before long."

Eleanor interrupted with a fresh smoking bottle of
champagne. Stevens went back to talk to Eveline in the
window. "Why, I'd as soon have a Baptist preacher in the
house," Eleanor tittered.

"Damn it, I hate people who get their pleasure by
making other people feel uncomfortable," grumbled Dick
under his breath. Eleanor smiled a quick V-shaped smile
and gave his arm a pat with her thin white hand, that
was tipped by long nails pointed and pink and marked
with halfmoons. "So do I, Dick, so do I."

When Dick whispered that he had a headache and
thought he'd go home and turn in, she gripped his arm
and pulled him into the hall. "Don't you dare go home
and leave me alone with this frost." Dick made a face and
followed her back into the salon. She poured him a glass
of champagne from the bottle she still held in her hand:
"Cheer up Eveline," she whispered squeakily. "She's about
ready to go down for the third time."

Dick stood around for hours talking to Mrs. Johnson
about books, plays, the opera. Neither of them seemed
to be able to keep track of what the other was saying.
Eveline couldn't keep her eyes off her husband. He had
a young cubbish look Dick couldn't help liking; he was
standing by the sideboard getting tight with Stevens, who
kept making ugly audible remarks about parasites and the

-465-

lahdedah boys of the bourgeoisie. It went on for a long
time. Paul Johnson got sick and Dick had to help him find
the bathroom. When he came back into the salon he almost
had a fight with Stevens, who, after an argument about
the Peace Conference, suddenly hauled off with his fists
clenched and called him a goddam fairy. The Johnsons
hustled Stevens out. Eleanor came up to Dick and put her
arm around his neck and said he'd been magnificent.

Paul Johnson came back upstairs after they'd gone to
get the parakeets. He looked pale as a sheet. One of the
birds had died and was lying on its back stiff with his claws
in the air at the bottom of the cage.

At about three o'clock Dick rode home to his hotel in
a taxi.

NEWSREEL XLIII

the placards borne by the radicals were taken away from
them, their clothing torn and eyes blackened before the service
and ex-service men had finished with them

34 Die After Drinking Wood Alcohol Trains in France
May Soon Stop

Gerard Throws His Hat into the Ring

SUPREME COURT DASHES LAST HOPE OF
MOIST MOUTH

LIFE BOAT CALLED BY ROCKET SIGNALS SEARCHES IN
VAIN FOR SIXTEEN HOURS

America I love you
You're like a sweetheart of mine

LES GENS SAGES FUIENT LES REUNIONS POLITIQUES

WALLSTREET CLOSES WEAK: FEARS
TIGHT MONEY

-466-

From ocean to ocean
For you my devotion
Is touching each boundary line

LITTLE CARUSO EXPECTED

his mother, Mrs. W. D. McGillicudy said: "My first
husband was killed while crossing tracks in front of a train,
my second husband was killed in the same way and now it is
my son

Just like a little baby
Climbing its mother's knee

MACHINEGUNS MOW DOWN MOBS IN
KNOXVILLE

America I love you

Aviators Lived for Six Days on Shellfish
the police compelled the demonstrators to lower these
flags and ordered the convention not to exhibit any red em-
blems save the red in the starry banner of the United States;
it may not be indiscreet to state, however, in any case it cannot
dim his glory, that General Pershing was confined to his state-
room through seasickness when the message arrived. Old
Fellow of 89 Treasures Chewinggum as Precious Souvenir
Couldn't Maintain His Serenity In Closing League Debates

And there's a hundred million others like me

THE BODY OF AN AMERICAN

Whereas the Congress of the united states by a concurrent reso-
lution adoptedon the 4th day of march last authorized the Secretary-
of war to cause to be brought to the united states the body of an
American who was a member of the american expeditionary forces in-
europe who lost his life during the world war and whose identity has-

-467-

not been established for burial in the memorial amphi theatre ofthe
national cemeteryatarlington virginia

In the tarpaper morgue at Chalons-sur-Marne in
the reek of chloride of lime and the dead, they picked
out the pine box that held all that was left of

enie menie minle moe plenty other pine boxes
stacked up there containing what they'd scraped up of
Richard Roe

and other person or persons unknown. Only one
can go. How did they pick John Doe?

Make sure he aint a dinge, boys,
make sure he aint a guinea or a kike,

how can you tell a guy's a hunredpercent when all
you've got's a gunnysack full of bones, bronze buttons
stamped with the screaming eagle and a pair of roll
puttees?

. . . and the gagging chloride and the puky dirt-
stench of the yearold dead. . .

The day withal was too meaningful and tragic for ap-
plause. Silence, tears, songs and prayer, muffled drums and
soft music were the instrumentalities today of national approba-
tion.

John Doe was born (thudding din of blood in love
into the shuddering soar of a man and a woman alone
indeed together lurching into

and ninemonths sick drowse waking into scared
agony and the pain and blood and mess of birth). John
Doe was born

and raised in Brooklyn, in Memphis, near the lake-
front in Cleveland, Ohio, in the stench of the stock-
yards in Chi, on Beacon Hill, in an old brick house in
Alexandria Virginia, on Telegraph Hill, in a halftim-
bered Tudor cottage in Portland the city of roses,

-468-

in the Lying-In Hospital old Morgan endowed on
Stuyvesant Square,

across the railroad tracks, out near the country
club, in a shack cabin tenement apartmenthouse ex-
clusive residential suburb;

scion of one of the best families in the social reg-
ister, won first prize in the baby parade at Coronado
Beach, was marbles champion of the Little Rock gram-
marschools, crack basketballplayer at the Booneville
High, quarterback at the State Reformatory, having
saved the sheriff's kid from drowning in the Little
Missouri River was invited to Washington to be photo-
graphed shaking hands with the President on the White
House steps; --

though this was a time of mourning, such an assemblage
necessarily has about it a touch of color. In the boxes are
seen the court uniforms of foreign diplomats, the gold braid
of our own and foreign fleets and armies, the black of the con-
ventional morning dress of American statesmen, the varicol-
ored furs and outdoor wrapping garments of mothers and.
sisters come to mourn, the drab and blue of soldiers and sailors,
the glitter of musical instruments and the white and black of
a vested choir

-- busboy harveststiff hogcaller boyscout champeen
cornshucker of Western Kansas bellhop at the United
States Hotel at Saratoga Springs office boy callboy
fruiter telephone lineman longshoreman lumberjack
plumber's helper,

worked for an exterminating company in Union
City, filled pipes in an opium joint in Trenton, N. J.

Y.M.C.A. secretary, express agent, truckdriver,
fordmechanic, sold books in Denver Colorado: Madam
would you be willing to help a young man work his way
through college?

-469-

President Harding, with a reverence seemingly more sig-
nificant because of his high temporal station, concluded his.
speech:

We are met today to pay the impersonal tribute;
the name of him whose body lies before us took flight with
his imperishable soul. . .

as a typical soldier of this representative democracy he
fought and died believing in the, indisputable justice of his
country's cause. . .

by raising his right hand and asking the thousands within
the sound of his voice to join in the prayer:

Our Father which art in heaven hallowed be thy
name. . .

Naked he went into the army;

they weighed you, measured you, looked for flat
feet, squeezed your penis to see if you had clap, looked
up your anus to see if you had piles, counted your teeth,
made you cough, listened to your heart and lungs, made
you read the letters on the card, charted your urine and
your intelligence,

gave you a service record for a future (imperish-
able soul)

and an identification tag stamped with your serial
number to hang around your neck, issued O D regula-
tion equipment, a condiment can and a copy of the
articles of war.

Atten'SHUN suck in your gut you c ----- r wipe
that smile off your face eyes right wattja tink dis is a
choirch-social? For-war-D'ARCH.

Jolhn Doe

and Richard Roe and other person or persons un-
known

drilled hiked, manual of arms, ate slum, learned

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to salute, to soldier, to loaf in the latrines, forbidden to
smoke on deck, overseas guard duty, forty men and
eight horses, shortarm inspection and the ping of shrap-
nel and the shrill bullets combing the air and the sore-
head woodpeckers the machineguns mud cooties gas-
masks and the itch.

Say feller tell me how I can get back to my outfit.

John Doe had a head

for twentyodd years intensely the nerves of the
eyes the ears the palate the tongue the fingers the toes
the armpits, the nerves warmfeeling under the skin
charged the coiled brain with hurt sweet warm cold
mine must dont sayings print headlines:

Thou shalt not the multiplication table long di-
vision, Now is the time for all good men knocks but
once at a young man's door, It's a great life if Ish
gebibbel, The first five years'll be the Safety First,
Suppose a hun tried to rape your my country right or
wrong, Catch 'em young, What he dont know wont
treat 'em rough, Tell 'em nothin, He got what was
coming to him he got his, This is a white man's coun-
try, Kick the bucket, Gone west, If you dont like it
you can croaked him

Say buddy cant you tell me how I can get back to
my outfit?

Cant help jumpin when them things go off, give
me the trots them things do. I lost my identification tag
swimmin in the Marne, roughhousin with a guy while
we was waitin to be deloused, in bed with a girl named
Jeanne (Love moving picture wet French postcard
dream began with saltpeter in the coffee and ended at
the propho station); --

Say soldier for chrissake cant you tell me how I
can get back to my outfit?

-471-

John Doe's
heart pumped blood:
alive thudding silence of blood in your ears
down in the clearing in the. Oregon forest where the
punkins were punkincolor pouring into the blood
through the eyes and the fallcolored trees and the
bronze hoopers were hopping through the dry grass,
where tiny striped snails hung on the underside of the
blades and the flies hummed, wasps droned, bumblebees
buzzed, and the woods smelt of wine and mushrooms
and apples, homey smell of fall pouring into the blood,
and I dropped the tin hat and the sweaty pack and
lay flat with the dogday sun licking my throat and
adamsapple and the tight skin over the breastbone.

The shell had his number on it.

The blood ran into the ground.

The service record dropped out of the filing cab-
inet when the quartermaster sergeant got blotto that
time they had to pack up and leave the billets in a
hurry.

The identification tag was in the bottom of the
Marne.

The blood ran into the ground, the brains oozed
out of the cracked skull and were licked up by the
trenchrats, the belly swelled and raised a generation of
bluebottle flies,

and the incorruptible skeleton,
and the scraps of dried viscera and skin bundled
in khaki

they took to Chalons-sur-Marne
and laid it out neat in a pine coffin

-472-

and took it home to God's Country on a battleship
and buried it in a sarcophagus in the Memorial
Amphitheatre in the Arlington National Cemetery
and draped the Old Glory over it
And the bugler played taps
and Mr. Harding prayed to God and the diplo-
mats and the generals and the admirals and the brass-
hats and the politicians and the handsomely dressed
ladies out of the society column of the Washington
Post stood up solemn
and thought how beautiful sad Old Glory God's
Country it was to have the bugler play taps and the
three volleys made their ears ring.

Where his chest ought to have been they pinned
the Congressional Medal, the D.S.C., the Me-
daille Militaire, the Belgian Croix de Guerre, the Ital-
ian gold medal, the Vitutea Militara sent by Queen
Marie of Rumania, the Czechoslovak war cross, the
Virtuti Militari of the Poles, a wreath sent by Hamilton
Fish, Jr., of New York, and a little wampum presented
by a deputation of Arizona redskins in warpaint and
feathers. All the Washingtonians brought flowers.

Woodrow Wilson brought a bouquet of poppies.

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