to throw the soldier over his head, on to a mattress just back of the strong man.  It is a simple act; one that soon would tire Broadway, but when one remembers that soldiers bring their local pride with them to Paris from the ends of the earth, from New Zealand, from India, from Canada, from South Africa, from Morocco, from China, from Australia, and then when one remembers that the men of his country are gathered in the theater to back every local athlete, it is easy to see why the strong man holds week after week, month after month, season after season.  Every night some proud nation gathers in the show house to get that fifty dollars with its favourite son.  And every night some favourite son almost gets it.  And if the strong man didn’t fudge a little, pinch the favourite son’s hands on the pole and make him let go, almost every night the strong man would be worsted.  The struggle sets the house yelling.  It is the only real drama in Paris.  We noticed that the shows of Paris which appealed to the eyes and ears were far below the American standard.  In comedy which appeals to something behind the sense, in the higher grades of acting, the Paris shows were, on the whole, better than Broadway shows.  But in the choruses, the dancers lack that finish, that top dressing of mechanical unison required by American taste.  Moreover the lighting and colour were poor.  The music at the Follies was Victor Herbert of 1911!  Old American popular songs seemed to be in vogue.  One heard “O Johnny” and “Over There” at every vaudeville house this year.  Sometimes they were done in French, sometimes in English.  In Genoa, one may say in passing that we heard one of the songs from “Hitchy-Coo” done in Italian.  It was eery!  American artists are popular in Paris.  We saw a girl at three show houses in Paris, under the name of Betty Washington, doing a gipsy dance, playing the fiddle.  She was barefoot, and Henry, who has a keen eye, noticed that she had her toes rouged!  But she always was good for four encores, and she usually got a good start at the fifth from Henry and me; we had just that much national pride!  Great throngs of soldiers filled these gay show houses.  The French, the English, and the Australians seemed satisfied with them.  But the Canadians and Americans sniffed.  To them Paris is a poor show town.

One night we fell into a Boulevard show the like of which we had never seen before.  It was a political revue!  The whole evening was devoted to skits directed at the ministry, at the food administration, at the scandals in the interior department and the deputies, at the high taxes and the profiteering of the munition makers.  The skits were done in dialogue, song and dance, and the various forms of burlesque.  A good crowd—­but not a soldier crowd—­sat through it and applauded appreciatively.  Imagine an American audience devoting a whole evening to a theatrical performance exclusively concerned with Hoover, Secretary Daniels, Colonel Roosevelt, former