SPAIN formally surrendered 'Porto Rico at twelve o'clock on Tuesday, October 18, 1898, by the withdrawal of her troops from the capital city of San Juan. The dawn of this memorable day came clear, colorless, and hot.

At daylight the last Spanish bugle call sounded through the town from the Fortress of San Cristobal and Morro, and 1,600 Spanish soldiers prepared to take a sad leave.

In answer to the shrill blasts of Spanish bugles, came back the responsive notes of the Americans, and soon the steady, sturdy tramp of the boys in khaki resounded between the low walls of the city streets. As the hour of twelve drew near, American soldiers stood before the white front of the balconied home of the Spanish Governor-general, and, in the plaza before the Chamber of Deputies and the City Hall, and again at the gates of Morro and San Cristobal. Around about them at these places were gathered queer, interesting groups of American tourists, newspaper men, Spanish and Porto Rican merchants, and dark colored, ragged natives. There was little enthusiasm. The minutes passed in hushed waiting, a straining of eyes toward the bare flagpoles, and a nervous consultation of watches.

The cry of "Attention!" caused every soldier to straighten rigidly on his heels. Newspaper men craned their necks in eager expectancy, and the click of camera-shutters could be heard from every point of elevation. At each flagstaff a shoulder-strapped man stood grasping the flag-halyards, trying them now and then, in fear lest they might fail at the critical moment, and, from their high-perched positions, watching the clock towers, or looking seaward toward the fortified castles for the first flash of fire and smoke from the black guns.

Ding! and the little, sweet-toned bell of a nearby cathedral sang the first note of twelve; it was overpowered in its first vibrations by the deep, bellowing clang of the great bell on the City Hall. They answered each other in rhythmic chi-me, the ponderous and the weak, one after another, until the last echoing thrill of twelve made Porto Rico Uncle Sam's.

The Stars and Stripes rose gently over every building and were wafted by a new-born breeze, as if in sympathy with the rousing cheers of the surging Americans beneath, and, too, as if in salutation to the roaring guns that belched their smoke far to seaward as they boomed out the twenty-one shots of honor and of freedom.

It was a deeply impressive ceremony – done without ostentatious display, done without gold lace, uniforms or martial panoply, but well done. No bombastic speeches were uttered; no great military pomp; the Stars and Stripes were raised softly, proudly, and, as we may say, with an outstretched hand of friendship.