And then the movement of the Marching Men began to come to the
surface. It got into the blood of men. That harsh drumming voice began
to shake their hearts and their legs.
Everywhere men began to see and hear of the Marchers. From lip to lip
ran the question, "What's going on?"
"What's going on?" How that cry ran over Chicago. Every newspaper man
in town got assignments on the story. The papers were loaded with it
every day. All over the city they appeared, everywhere--the Marching
Men.
There were leaders enough! The Cuban War and the State Militia had
taught too many men the swing of the march step for there not to be at
least two or three competent drill masters in every little company of
men.
And there was the marching song the Russian wrote for McGregor. Who
could forget it? Its high pitched harsh feminine strain rang in the
brain. How it went pitching and tumbling along in that wailing calling
endless high note. It had strange breaks and intervals in the
rendering. The men did not sing it. They chanted it. There was in it
just the weird haunting something the Russians know how to put into
their songs and into the books they write. It isn't the quality of the
soil. Some of our own music has that. But in this Russian song there
was something else, something world-wide and religious--a soul, a
spirit.
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