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p My farewell to Moscow was a spectacular one and thrilling—something like a million Comrades turned out and demonstrated for me,—or so it seemed, for I lingered over November seventh, the day of days in Red Russia, the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution. By the old calendar October 25th.

p For days beforehand, truck-loads of green garlands rattled down the cobbled streets, and the fire-ladders carried them to the top of every official building, looping them over the whole fagade—the Comintern, the Moscow Sovyet, the Dom Soyusov or Central Labor Council, and the Sovyet doms. Every building in the city carried its share of decoration, even to the Nep hotels. And among the ropes of evergreen, hung banners of red and gold, fluttered scarlet flags, flaunted mottoed buntings, almost screamed the color and glitter of the Revolutionary day. Over all, rested the merest flaking of the first snow, caught in the green, leaving untouched the red.

p Without a permit or membership in an organization, no one might enter the Red Square that day, so I bethought me of an organization which was careless in its censorship, to which I might be said to belong by virtue of my presence in Moscow. At nine-thirty A. M., I took my place in the 152 ranks of the English-speaking section of the Immigrants’ Club. Above us advanced a cartoon of the Dawes Plan, with unflattering portraits, before us a red banner announced our division as "Anglo-Saxon Communists.” Near me marched Gertrude Haessler, correspondent and little Ruth Kennell, pioneer, just from Kuzbas, and Anna Louise Strong,—“immigrants” all. About half of us were Jews,—Russian-Americans—and as each contingent arrived, they were greeted with the friendly jeer, "Hurrah for the AngloSaxons!" They evidently enjoyed the joke as well as anyone. The one who walked by me said, "Only workers can enter the Red Square today.” "And Communists,” I added. "All Communists,” was the quick and proud reply, "are workers!" No one had censored me, and I might have been a “counter” and carried bombs in my pocket. These Revolutionists are growing careless! Nevertheless, again and again the eagle-eyed marshal of our division prevented some by-stander from the crowded sidewalk from falling craftily into line.

p Most of the Americans are voluntary exiles, but many others—practically all the French—are political refugees. The French section marched just behind us, arrogantly proclaiming on their bunting, "The bourgeoisie recognize us, but we do not recognize the bourgeoisie.” Back of them the Italians were swinging to the measure of their "All’ ar—mil All’ ar—mi! All’ ar—mi Communisti!" on the bugle tones. And under the slogan, "Hands off China!" marched the students of the Far Eastern University. Along the frozen Boulevard, under the leafless lindens, sharp into the Tverskaya we turned, swelling the broad ranks that surged from all sides into this main current of the parade, 153 on to the street’s end at the old gateway of the Red Square. On the rising grade of the entrance, looking forward and backward, we could see no end to the lines moving steadily on in rhythmic advance. Even the Octyabrati were out, truck-loads of the wee ones born since Red October, and lines and lines of the little “Leninists” striding valiantly, and ranks and ranks of the Communist Youth tramping sturdily, and workers—men and women,—and the soldiers of the Red Army, all under the red banners of the Revolution.

p Into the Red Square we marched, over the frost of white that mottled its cobbles, and past the tribune of the Mausoleum where, with others, Trotski stood above his sleeping Comrade to see our ranks go by. Very grim he looked and motionless, with hand at cap, while the crowd, not a whit awed, spelled out his name and shouted as each division passed. Very determined, too, and soldierly, and I think he saw us, in his mind, marching on and on, west and still west, until our ranks had doubled, tripled, swelled a hundred-fold, and our feet were stayed by the Atlantic breakers. That at least is what I seemed to see on this Revolutionary anniversary, as I marched with Russia’s workers through the Krasnaya Ploshchad.

THE END.