They sing as they advance. It is a ragtime chorus whose most
memorable line runs, "You never seem to kiss me in the same place
twice." A jaunty lilt, to be sure, both in tune and in rhythm. Tramp,
tramp! The one-eyed leader swerves round a corner, roaring the refrain.
His followers swerve too. Suddenly the Matron is encountered, emerging
from her room. "Fine afternoon, Matron!" The leader interrupts his chant
to utter this hearty greeting. And, with one voice, "Fine afternoon,
Matron!" exclaim his followers. But they do not turn their heads. Each
with his hand resting on the shoulder of the man in front they go
steadily on, towards the concert-room, with an odd intentness, glancing
neither to one side nor the other. For though, at their leader's cue,
they have hailed the Matron, they have not seen her. They are blind.
The spectacle of men--particularly young men--who have given their sight
for their country is, to most observers, a moving one. Melancholy are
the reflections of the visitor who meets, for the first time, a
promenading party of our blind patients. It is the plain truth,
nevertheless, that the blind men themselves are far from melancholy.
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