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White, red, blue yellow, orange, green these were the tri-colors of the lamps that poured their rich effulgence from every window on the gloomy scene without. The streets were thronged and the cafés crowded; men of all nations and Parisians of all classes were in the streets; the rattle of musketry had ceased; the troops were in their barracks and the people at their homes.
"Can you define the new-comer's nationality?" we asked. "Not yet." "See! she is now in full sight." "French!" exclaimed Don Herero, as the tri-colors were clearly visible hanging from her peak. "What will the cruiser do with the brigantine?" we asked. "First catch your hare," said our friend.
Then there was all kinds of flags, from little ten centers to big twenty footers swung across the street. There was a whackin' big Irish flag loaned by the A. O. H.; two Italian flags almost as big; I don't know how many French tri-colors and some I couldn't place; Czecho-Slovaks maybe. And besides the lanterns and extra arc-lights there was red fire burnin' liberal.
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