UC-NRLF 
 
 $B 27S flS? 
 
 GREAT POEMS OF THE 
 WORLD WAR 
 
 Edited ByT 
 
 W. D. EATON 
 
GREAT POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR 
 
Between the hedges of the centuries 
 A thousand phantom armies go and come, 
 While Reason whispers as each marches past, 
 "This is the last of wars this is the last!" 
 
 Lieut. Gilbert Waterhouse. 
 
GREAT POEMS OF 
 THE WORLD WAR 
 
 EDITED, WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND 
 ORIGINAL MATTER, BY 
 
 W. D. EATON 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 T. S. DENISON & COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1918 
 
 <BS 
 EBEN H. NORRIS 
 
 under title 
 "The War in Verse and Prose" 
 
 Copyright, 1922, by T. S. Denison & Company 
 
 "Great Poems of the World War" 
 
if 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 N a fateful day in 1914, without a warning flash 
 
 or tremor, there fell upon the world such a 
 
 blast of war as human reason could not have 
 
 J foreglimpsed, nor Apocalyptic vision raised, to 
 
 appall the souls of men. Twenty-seven nations took 
 the shock and were rocked to their foundations. Eleven 
 were caught and knotted in the maddest agony of 
 conflict that ever was known. Through four years the 
 winds of destruction swirled and roared around the 
 monstrous welter, before the evil forces failed and their 
 exhaustion brought a breathing space such as lies at the 
 heart of a typhoon. Around the widening edges of that 
 space they still muttered for a while in gusts of blood 
 and fire, slowly receding, slowly dying. But the great 
 storm is gone; the long night that seemed the night of 
 doom is over. 
 
 Its epic has not been written. The time is too near us, 
 the motive too deep, the theme too vast. But out of the 
 dark came many voices, voices of lamentation, of home 
 and love and hope and heroism and loftiest ideality, of 
 romance, of strange comedy. These had their inspira- 
 tion from a gigantic spectacle of elemental passions in 
 cross-play, from the thoughts and emotions not of a single 
 people, but of all that were fighting for the life and light 
 of civilization. Poets great and poets minor followed 
 
 5 
 
 542101 
 
the war or fought in it, and expressed its spirit with a 
 personal, passionate fidelity impossible to historians. 
 
 It would not be well were all these voices lost. Many 
 are worth fixation where they may be heard again at will, 
 and that is the reason for and purpose of this book. The 
 finest and truest of them are given here. 
 
 In making selection, availability for recitation has been 
 considered. There is no better way to stir the mind or 
 fix the memory than by spoken words of beauty in rhyth- 
 mic cadence, especially in schools. It is hoped they will 
 be effective in such uses. 
 
 Readers will find in the captain notes many helpful 
 sidelights upon topics and personalities. These will com- 
 mend themselves for their own sake. 
 
 W. D. EATON. 
 
 The Press Club, Chicago. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT 
 
 MIDNIGHT . . . . . . Vachel Lindsay . . 144 
 
 ACELDAMA Dr. George F. Butler . 117 
 
 AFTERWARD Charles Hanson Toivne 133 
 
 ALAN SEEGER Washington Van Dusen 14 
 
 AMBULANCE DRIVER'S PRAYER, AN Chaplain Thomas F. 
 
 Coakley .... 74 
 
 AMERICAN CREED, AN .... Everard Jack Appleton 57 
 
 ANXIOUS ANTHEMIST, THE . . Guy Forrester Lee . 169 
 
 ANXIOUS DEAD, THE .... Lieut. Col. John McCrae 109 
 
 APRIL SONG, AN George C. Michael . 189 
 
 ARMED LINER, THE ... . . H. Smalley Sarson . . 183 
 
 "As SHE Is SPOKE" 113 
 
 As THE TRUCKS Go ROLLIN' BY Lieut. L. W. Suckert . 26 
 
 AUSTRALIA'S MEN ..... Dorothea Mackellar . 96 
 
 BATTLE LINE, THE J. B. Dollard ... 65 
 
 BATTLE OF BELLE AU WOOD . . Edgar A. Guest . . 29 
 
 BEFORE ACTION Lieut. William Noel 
 
 Hodgson .... 13 
 
 BLIGHTY Lieut. Siegfried Sassoon, 
 
 M. C 121 
 
 BLUE AND THE GRAY IN FRANCE George M. Mayo . . 41 
 
 BOY NEXT DOOR, THE . . . . S. E. Kiser . ... 172 
 
 BRITISH ARMY OF 1914, THE . . Alfred W. Pollard . . 119 
 
 BULLINGTON ...... C. Fox Smith ... 34 
 
 BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE . . Sergt. Leslie Coulson . 103 
 
 CALL, THE Robert W. Service . . 106 
 
 CHANT OF ARMY COOKS, A 66 
 
 CHRIST IN FLANDERS . . . . L. W 55 
 
 CLERK, THE B. H. M. Hetherington 94 
 
 COLUMBIA'S PRAYER Thomas P. Bashaw . 82 
 
CONTENTS Continued 
 
 CORP'RAL'S CHEVRONS 37 
 
 CRIMSON CROSS, THE .... Elizabeth Brown Du 
 
 Bridge .... 48 
 
 CROSS AND THE FLAG, THE . . William Henry, Car- 
 dinal O'Connell . . 45 
 
 CROWN, THE Helen Combes ... 193 
 
 CRUTCHES' TUNE, THE . . . Elizabeth R. Stoner . . 108 
 
 DESTROYERS "Klaxon" .... 84 
 
 DIRGE, A Victor Peronvne . . 90 
 
 Do YOUR ALL Edgar A. Guest . .152 
 
 DRUM, THE Joseph Lee .... 67 
 
 EASTER-EGGS Reginald Wright Kauf- 
 man 89 
 
 EDITH CAVELL McLandburgh Wilson . 178 
 
 EPITAPH FOR THE UNKNOWN SOL- 
 DIER . Annette Kohn . . . 202 
 
 EVENING STAR, THE .... Harold Seton ... 81 
 
 FLAG EVERLASTING . . . . . A. G. Riddoch ... 40 
 
 FLAG OF THE FREE Francis T. Smith . . 153 
 
 FLAG SPEAKS, THE Walter E. Peck . . 105 
 
 FLAG, THE Edward A. Norton . 173 
 
 FLEMISH VILLAGE, A ....//. A 92 
 
 FRANCE Capt. Joseph Medill 
 
 Patterson .... 93 
 
 FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES . . William J. Robinson . 19 
 
 GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD, THE . Nor ah M. Holland . 115 
 
 GOING WEST Eleanor Jewett . . 123 
 
 GOLDENROD, THE "Anchusa" ... 129 
 
 GOLD STAR, THE Edgar A. Guest . . 17 
 
 GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI, THE . . L. L. (A..N. Z. A. C.) 27 
 GREAT ADVENTURE, THE . . . Major Kendall Ban- 
 ning 68 
 
 "HEARTS ARE TOUCHING" 159 
 
 HERE AT VERDUN Chester M. Wright . 167 
 
 HOME Reginald Wright Kauf- 
 man 110 
 
CONTENTS Continued 
 
 HOMECOMING, THE Leroy Folge .... 192 
 
 HYMN OF FREEDOM, A .... Mary Perry King . . 98 
 
 I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH 
 
 DEATH Alan Seeger ... 99 
 
 IN FLANDERS' FIELDS .... Lieut, Col. John McCrae 101 
 IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS . . Lieut. Elmer Franklin 
 
 Powell .... 143 
 
 JEAN DESPREZ Robert W. Service . 146 
 
 JOHN DOE BUCK PRIVATE . . Allan P. Thomson . . 127 
 
 JUST THINKING Hudson Hawley . . 80 
 
 Km HAS GONE TO THE COLORS William Herschell . . 23 
 
 KINGS, THE Hugh J. Hughes . . 145 
 
 KNITTING SOCKS 128 
 
 LET THERE BE LIGHT! .... Ruth Wright Kauff- 
 
 man 196 
 
 LITANY * Allene Gregory . . 20 
 
 LITTLE GRIMY-FINGERED GIRL, A Lee Wilson Dodd . . 43 
 
 LITTLE HOME PAPER, THE . . Charles Hanson To^-ne 15 
 
 LITTLE TOWN IN SENEGAL, A . . Will Thompson . . 42 
 
 LONELY GARDEN, THE . . . Edgar A. Guest . . 118 
 
 LOST ONES, THE Francis Ledwidge . . 104 
 
 MAGPIES IN PICARDY .... "Tipcuca" .... 130 
 
 MAN BEHIND, THE .... Douglas Malloch . . 166 
 
 MARCHING SOLILOQUY, A 71 
 
 MARINES, THE Adolphe E. Smylie . . 73 
 
 MEN OF THE BLOOD AND MIRE . Daniel M. Henderson 160 
 
 MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY . . Lieut. John Pierre Roche 61 
 
 MISSING "Iris" 78 
 
 MORITURI TE SALUTANT . . . P. H. B. L 120 
 
 MULES C. Fox Smith , . 187 
 
 NAZARETH "L." 47 
 
 NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS, THE Grace Hazard Conkling 50 
 
10 
 
 CONTENTS Continued 
 
 NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN .... Susan Hooker Whitman 85 
 
 No MAN'S LAND Capt. James H. Knight- 
 
 Adkin 16 
 
 NOT Too OLD TO FIGHT . . . T. C. Harbaugh . . 75 
 
 NOT WITH VAIN TEARS . . . Lieut. Rupert Brooke . 102 
 
 NOVEMBER ELEVENTH .... Elizabeth Hanly . . 198 
 
 NURSE, THE 14 
 
 OLD GANG ON THE CORNER, THE . William Herschell . . 64 
 
 OLD JIM Norman Shannon Hall . 199 
 
 OLD TOP SERGEANT, THE . . Berton Braley ... 38 
 
 ON His OWN Adolphe E. Smylie . 124 
 
 OUR SOLDIER DEAD . . . . . Annette Kohn . . . 195 
 
 PADRE, THE Capt. C. W. Blackall . 36 
 
 PARENTHETICALLY SPEAKING 176 
 
 PASSING THE BUCK Sergt. Norman E. Ny- 
 
 gaard 32 
 
 PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF 
 
 LAFAYETTE Amelia Josephine Burr 52 
 
 PIERROT GOES Charlotte Becker 4 . 49 
 
 POILU Steuart M. Emery . 95 
 
 "POOR OLD SHIP!" C. Fox Smith ... 30 
 
 POPPIES Capt. John Mills Han- 
 son 25 
 
 PRESENT BATTLEFIELD, THE . . Wright Field ... 197 
 
 RAGNAROK . Arthur Guiterman . . 21 
 
 RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT . Lieut. J. H. Wicker sham 182 
 
 REFUGEES, THE W. G. S 162 
 
 RETINUE, THE Katharine Lee Bates . 137 
 
 RETURN, THE Theodore Howard 
 
 Banks, Jr 33 
 
 RIDE IN FRANCE, A .... "O. C. Platoon" . . 170 
 
 RIVERS OF FRANCE, THE ...//. J. M. .... 79 
 
 ROAD TO FRANCE, THE . . . Daniel M. Henderson . 46 
 
 RUNNER McGEE Edgar A. Guest . . 57 
 
 SCRAP OF PAPER, A .... Herbert Kaufman . . 24 
 
 SERBIAN EPITAPH, A .... V. Stanimirovic . . 50 
 
11 
 
 CONTENTS Continued 
 
 SERVICE FLAG, THE . . . . J. E. Evans . . . 158 
 
 SERVICE FLAG, THE .... William Herschell . 154 
 
 SHIPS THAT SAIL IN THE NIGHT Dysart McMullen . . 126 
 
 SILENT ARMY, THE .... Jan Adanac ... 86 
 
 SMALL TOWN SPORT, A ... Damon Runyon . . 155 
 
 SOLDIER'S FOLKS AT HOME, THE 59 
 
 SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL .... Everard Jack Appleton 44 
 
 SOLDIER, THE Lieut. Rupert Brooke . 102 
 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE . . . LeRoy C. Henderson . 157 
 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918 . Almon Hensley . . . 132 
 
 SONG OF THE AIR, THE . . . Gordon Alchin ... 190 
 
 SONG OF THE DEAD, THE . . J. H. M. Abbott . . 161 
 
 SONG OF THE GUNS, THE . . Herbert Kaufman . . 134 
 
 SONG OF THE WINDS .... Mary Lanier Magruder 163 
 
 SOURCE OF NEWS, THE . 86 
 
 SPIRES OF OXFORD, THE . . . Winifred M. Letts . 114 
 
 SPRING F. M. H. D. . . .123 
 
 SUDDENLY ONE DAY 151 
 
 SWAN SONGS 99 
 
 TANKS 0. C. A. Child ... 97 
 
 TELLING THE BEES . . . . G. E. R 136 
 
 THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM 184 
 
 THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN Mabel Hillyer Eastman 171 
 
 THEY SHALL NOT PASS . . . Alison Brown ... 125 
 
 THEY SHALL RETURN . . . . J. Lewis Milligan . . 179 
 
 THREE HILLS Everard Owen ... 60 
 
 To HAPPIER DAYS Mabel McElliott . . Ill 
 
 To MY SON 87 
 
 To SERVE Is TO GAIN .... Charles H. Mackintosh 179 
 
 To SOMEBODY Harold Seton ... 69 
 
 "To THE IRISH DEAD" . . . Essex Evans . . . 180 
 To THE WRITER OF "CHRIST IN 
 
 FLANDERS" E. M. V 69 
 
 TRAINS Lieut. John Pierre Roche 53 
 
 Two VIEWPOINTS Amelia Josephine Burr 83 
 
 UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE 
 
 DAY AT ARLINGTON, THE . . Grantland Rice . . . 200 
 
CONTENTS Continued 
 
 VICTORY! S. J. Duncan-Clark . 191 
 
 VISION Dorothy Paul ... 181 
 
 VIVE LA FRANCE! Charlotte Holmes Craw- 
 ford 139 
 
 WAR . . . Col. William Lightfoot 
 
 Visscher .... 70 
 
 WAR HORSE, THE Lieut. L. Fleming . .174 
 
 WAR ROSARY, THE Nellie Hurst . . . 185 
 
 WATCHIN' OUT FOR SUBS . . . U. A. L . 18 
 
 WAYSIDE IN FRANCE, A ... Adolphe E.Smylie . . 76 
 WE'RE MARCHIN' WITH THE 
 
 COUNTRY Frank L. Stanton . . 151 
 
 "WHAT THINK YE ?" .... W.A.Briscoe ... 165 
 WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PAR- 
 LEY Voos Put. Charles Divine . 186 
 
 WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS 63 
 
 WHILE SUMMERS PASS . . . Aline Michaelis . . 72 
 
 WIDOW, THE Miss C. M. Mitchell . 51 
 
 WITH THE SAME PRIDE . . . Theodosia Garrison . 116 
 
 WOES OF A ROOKIE, THE . . . William L. Colestock . 141 
 
 WOMAN'S GAME, THE 91 
 
 WORLD SERIES OPENED BATTER 
 
 UP! ' 177 
 
 YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD . . . Randall Parrish . . 112 
 
GREAT POEMS OF THE WORLD WAR 
 
 BEFORE ACTION 
 
 LIEUT. WILLIAM NOEL HODGSON 
 MILITARY CROSS, DEVON REGIMENT KILLED IN BATTLE 
 
 From "Verse and Prose in Peace and War." John Murray, Pub- 
 lisher, London. Permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 "D Y all the glories of the day, 
 
 And the cool evening's benison; 
 By the last sunset touch that lay 
 
 Upon the hills when day was done: 
 By beauty lavishly outpoured, 
 
 And blessings carelessly received, 
 By all the days that I have lived, 
 
 Make me a soldier, Lord. 
 
 By all of human hopes and fears, 
 
 By all the wonders poets sing, 
 The laughter of unclouded years, 
 
 And every sad and lovely thing: 
 By the romantic ages stored 
 
 With high endeavor that was his, 
 By all his mad catastrophes, 
 
 Make me a man, O Lord. 
 
 I, that on my familiar hill 
 
 Saw with uncomprehending eyes 
 A hundred of Thy sunsets spill 
 
 Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, 
 Ere the sun swings his noonday sword 
 
 Must say good-bye to all of this: 
 By all delights that I shall miss, 
 
 Help me to die, O Lord. 
 
 13 
 
ALAN SEEGER 
 
 WASHINGTON VAN DUSEN 
 IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 beauty could escape his loving eyes, 
 Not even ruthless war could hide from view 
 The smiling fields where crimson poppies grew, 
 
 Nor mar the sunset's rose and purple dyes; 
 
 He watched a vine-clad slope, with glad surprise 
 
 To hear grapepickers sing, although they knew 
 Just on the other side, the cannon threw 
 
 Their deadly shells and woke the startled skies. 
 
 But over all that made Champagne so fair, 
 He saw the grandeur of the field of strife, 
 
 Exulting in the cause that placed him there, 
 He felt a calm, mid all the carnage rife, 
 
 And faced the battle with a spirit rare, 
 
 "For death may be more wonderful than life." 
 
 THE NURSE 
 
 IN LONDON PUNCH 
 Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of "Punch" 
 
 TLJERE in the long white ward I stand, 
 
 * Pausing a little breathless space, 
 Touching a restless fevered hand, 
 
 Murmuring comforts commonplace 
 
 Long enough pause to feel the cold 
 Fingers of fear about my heart; 
 
 Just for a moment, uncontrolled, 
 All the pent tears of pity start. 
 
 While here I strive, as best I may, 
 Strangers' long hours of pain to ease, 
 
 Dumbly I question Far away 
 Lies my beloved even as these? 
 
THE LITTLE HOME PAPER 
 
 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 
 
 IN THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 PHE little home paper comes to me, 
 
 As badly printed as it can be; 
 It's ungrammatical, cheap, absurd 
 Yet, how I love each intimate word! 
 For here am I in the teeming town, 
 Where the sad, mad people rush up and down, 
 And it's good to get back to the old lost place, 
 And gossip and smile for a little space. 
 
 The weather is hot ; the corn crop's good ; 
 They've had a picnic in Sheldon's Wood. 
 And Aunt Maria was sick last week ; 
 Ike Morrison's got a swollen cheek, 
 And the Squire was hurt in a runaway 
 More shocked than bruised, I'm glad they say. 
 Bert Wills I used to play with him 
 Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim. 
 
 The Red Cross ladies gave a tea, 
 
 And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee 
 
 Has sold his house on Lincoln Road 
 
 He couldn't carry so big a load. 
 
 The methodist minister's had a call 
 
 From a wealthy parish near St. Paul. 
 
 And old Herb Sweet is married at last 
 
 He was forty-two. How the years rush past! 
 
 But here's an item that makes me see 
 What a puzzling riddle life can be. 
 "Ed Stokes," it reads, "was killed in France 
 When the Allies made their last advance." 
 
Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes 
 As blue as the early-summer skies! 
 He wouldn't have killed a fly and yet, 
 Without a murmur, without a regret, 
 
 He left the peace of our little place, 
 And went away with a light in his face; 
 For out in the world was a job to do, 
 And he wouldn't come home until it was through ! 
 Four thousand miles from our tiny town 
 And its hardware store, this boy went down. 
 Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap- 
 But he's put East Dunkirk on the map! 
 
 NO MAN'S LAND 
 
 CAPT. JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN 
 IN THE SPECTATOR 
 
 "M"O Man's Land is an eerie sight 
 
 At early dawn in the pale gray light. 
 Never a house and never a hedge 
 In No Man's Land from edge to edge, 
 And never a living soul walks there 
 To taste the fresh of the morning air. 
 Only some lumps of rotting clay, 
 That were friends or foemen yesterday. 
 
 What are the bounds of No Man's Land? 
 You can see them clearly on either hand, 
 A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun, 
 Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run 
 From the Eastern hills to the Western sea, 
 Through field or forest, o'er river and lea ; 
 No man may pass them, but aim you well 
 And Death rides across on the bullet or shell. 
 
17 
 
 But No Man's Land is a goblin sight 
 
 When patrols crawl over at dead o' night; 
 
 Boche or British, Belgian or French, 
 
 You dice with death when you cross the trench. 
 
 When the "rapid," like fire-flies in the dark, 
 
 Flits down the parapet spark by spark, 
 
 And you drop for cover to keep your head 
 
 With your face on the breast of the four months' dead. 
 
 The man who ranges in No Man's Land 
 Is dogged by the shadows on either hand 
 When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead, 
 Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead, 
 And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch 
 May answer the click of your safety-catch. 
 For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, 
 Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land. 
 
 THE GOLD STAR 
 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to repro- 
 duce in this book. 
 
 HTHE star upon their service flag has changed to gleam- 
 A ing gold ; 
 
 It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old, 
 But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see 
 And softly whispers: "Here lived one who died for 
 liberty. 
 
 "Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft 
 
 his smile was known ; 
 
 Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own. 
 Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell ; 
 Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell. 
 
18 
 
 "No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace, 
 For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble 
 
 place 
 A soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the 
 
 door, 
 A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return no 
 
 more. 
 
 "Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who 
 Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you! 
 This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you 
 
 and fell; 
 This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage 
 
 dwell." 
 
 WATCHIN' OUT FOR SUBS 
 
 U. A. L. 
 
 From Bert Leston Taylor's column, "A Line o' Type or Two," 
 IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 T^OSUN'S whistle piping, "Starboard watch is on" 
 
 Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o' dawn ; 
 In the forward crow's nest, watchin' out for subs ; 
 If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin' tubs. 
 
 Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon ; 
 Transports fore and aft of us daylight comin' soon ; 
 Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below ; 
 Something in the water makes the spindrift glow. 
 
 In the forward crow's nest ah! the day is here! 
 Transports and destroyers looming far and near. 
 Ours the great adventure gone is old romance ! 
 Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look! the shores of 
 France ! 
 
19 
 
 FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES 
 
 WILLIAM J. ROBINSON 
 
 IN THE SAN FRANCISCO ARGONAUT 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 T HAVE a conversation book; I brought it out from 
 
 home. 
 It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise 
 
 brush and comb] 
 It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the 
 
 stars, 
 And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars. 
 
 But there ain't no stores to buy in; there ain't no big 
 
 hotels, 
 When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale 
 
 trade in shells; 
 
 It's nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such, 
 But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn't help you 
 
 much. 
 There's all them friendly kind o' things you'd naturally 
 
 say 
 When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o' 
 
 day. 
 Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears 
 
 the air. 
 But when you use your French book, why, them things 
 
 isn't there. 
 
 I met a chap the other day a-rootin' in a trench, 
 He didn't know a word of ours, nor me a word of French ; 
 And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand, 
 But I never used my French book though I had it in my 
 
 hand. 
 
 I winked at him to start with ; he grinned from ear to ear ; 
 An' he says, "Bong jour, Sammy," an' I says "Souvenir" : 
 He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar, 
 
20 
 
 Which setxthe ball a-rollin', and so well, there you are! 
 I showed him next my wife and kids; he up and showed 
 
 me his, 
 
 Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz; 
 "Annette," he says, "Louise," he says, and his tears begin 
 
 to fall; 
 We was comrades when we parted, though we'd hardly 
 
 spoke at all. 
 
 He'd have kissed me if I'd let him. We had never met 
 
 before, 
 And I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the way 
 
 of war; 
 And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the 
 
 same 
 If he'll ever see them kids of his I never asked his name. 
 
 LITANY 
 
 ALLENE GREGORY 
 
 IN HARRIET MONROE'S POETRY MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 C AINT GENEVIEVE, whose sleepless watch 
 
 Saved threatened France of old, 
 Above the ship that carries him 
 Your sacred vigil hold. 
 
 Where all the fair green fields you loved 
 
 Are scarred with bursting shell, 
 Joan, the Maid who fought for France 
 
 Oh, guard your young knight well. 
 
 But if by sea or if by land 
 
 God set death in his way 
 Then, Mother of the Sacrificed, 
 
 Teach me what prayer to pray! 
 
21 
 
 RAGNAROK 
 
 THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 
 ARTHUR GUITERMAN 
 
 IN THE BELLMAN, MINNEAPOLIS 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "LJO! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn 
 
 11 The hosts of Hel rush forth 
 
 And Fenris rages redly 
 
 From his shackles in the North ; 
 
 Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed, 
 
 And freed is Giant Rime; 
 
 The Rainbow-bridge is broken 
 
 By the hordes of Muspelheim. 
 
 The wild Valkyries ride the wind 
 
 With spear and clanging shield 
 
 Where all the Hates embattled 
 
 Are met on Vigrid-field ; 
 
 For there shall fall the Mighty Ones 
 
 By valiant men adored 
 
 Great Odin, Tyr the fearless, 
 
 And Frey that sold his sword. 
 
 And Thor shall slay the dragon 
 
 Whose breath shall be his bane. 
 
 The gods themselves shall perish; 
 
 The sons of the gods shall reign ! 
 
 Old Time shall sound the boding horn 
 
 Again and yet again, 
 
 To rouse the warring passions 
 
 That swell the hearts of men. 
 
 Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy, 
 
 With all their horrid throng 
 
 Revenge, Destruction, Rapine, 
 
22 
 
 The spawn of ancient Wrong, 
 With all the hosts of slaughter 
 That our own sins must breed 
 Cold Hate, Oppression's daughter, 
 And Rage, the child of Greed. 
 Then, though we stand to battle 
 As men have ever stood, 
 Down, down shall crash our temples, 
 The Evil and the Good; 
 Yea, all that now we cherish 
 Must pass but not in vain. 
 The gods we love shall perish ; 
 The sons of the gods shall reign! 
 
 So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt, 
 
 Or berserk-mad, we range 
 
 Our spears in that long battle 
 
 Which means not Death, but Change. 
 
 Our highest with our lowest 
 
 Must own the grim behest, 
 
 And Good shall yield for Better 
 
 Else how should come the Best? 
 
 Yet if we win our portion 
 
 How dare we crave the whole? 
 
 And if we still press forward, 
 
 Why need we know the goal? 
 
 But those whose hearts are constant 
 
 And those whose souls are wise 
 
 Have said that from our ashes 
 
 A nobler race shall rise 
 
 From shreds of shattered altars 
 
 To rear the Perfect Fane. 
 
 Our little gods must perish 
 
 That God Himself shall reign ! 
 
23 
 
 THE KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS 
 
 WILLIAM HERSCHELL 
 
 IN THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 'T'HE Kid has gone to the Colors 
 
 And we don't know what to say; 
 The Kid we have loved and cuddled 
 
 Stepped out for the Flag today. 
 We thought him a child, a baby, 
 
 With never a care at all, 
 But his country called him man-size 
 
 And the Kid has heard the call. 
 
 He paused to watch the recruiting 
 
 Where, fired by the fife and drum, 
 He bowed his head to Old Glory 
 
 And thought that it whispered: "Come!" 
 The Kid, not being a slacker, 
 
 Stood forth with patriot-joy 
 To add his name to the roster 
 
 And God, we're proud of the boy! 
 
 The Kid has gone to the Colors; , 
 
 It seems but a little while 
 Since he drilled a schoolboy army 
 
 In a truly martial style. 
 But now he's a man, a soldier, 
 
 And we lend him listening ear, 
 For his heart is a heart all loyal, 
 
 Unscourged by the curse of fear. 
 
 His dad, when he told him, shuddered, 
 His mother God bless her! cried; 
 Yet, blest with a mother-nature, 
 
24 
 
 She wept with a mother-pride. 
 But he whose old shoulders straightened 
 
 Was Granddad for memory ran 
 To years when he, too, a youngster, 
 
 Was changed by the Flag to a man! 
 
 A SCRAP OF PAPER 
 
 HERBERT KAUFMAN 
 
 From Mr. Kaufman's book of poems, "The Hell-Gate of Soissons." 
 T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. 
 Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 "Just for a word, 'neutrality' . . just for a scrap of 
 paper, Great Britain was going to make war." The 
 German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin. 
 
 JUST for a "scrap of paper," 
 Just for a Nation's word, 
 Just for a clean tradition, 
 Just for a treaty slurred ; 
 Just for a pledge defaulted, 
 Just for a dastard blow, 
 Just for an ally's summons, 
 Just for a friend struck low ; 
 Just for the weal of progress, 
 Just for a trust held dear, 
 Just for the rights of mankind, 
 Just for a duty clear; 
 Just for a Prussian insult, 
 Just for a splendid cause, 
 Just for the hope of progress, 
 Just for the might of laws ; 
 Just for the kingdom's peril, 
 Just for a deed of shame, 
 Just for defense of honor, 
 Just for the British name! 
 
25 
 POPPIES 
 
 CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A. 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 POPPIES in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of 
 
 France, 
 Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and 
 
 dance ; 
 
 Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune 
 Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June. 
 
 Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers 
 Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns 
 
 play! 
 
 Over them the shrapnel's song greets the summer morn 
 Poppies in the wheat fields but, ah, the fields are torn. 
 
 See the stalwart Yankee lads, never ones to blench, 
 Poppies in their helmets as they clear the shallow trench, 
 Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread 
 Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods 
 ahead. 
 
 Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun, 
 Broken, bruised and trampled but the bitter day is won; 
 Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine, 
 With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold 
 the line. 
 
 Poppies in the wheat fields; how still beside them lie 
 Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst 
 
 on high; 
 
 Gently bending o'er them beneath the moon's soft glance, 
 Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of 
 
 France. 
 
26 
 
 AS THE TRUCKS GO ROLLIN' BY 
 
 LIEUT. L. W. SUCKERT, A.S., U.S.A. 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 T* HERE'S a rumble an' a jumble an' a humpin' an' a 
 1 thud, 
 
 As I wakens from my restless sleep here in my bed 
 
 o' mud, 
 
 'N' I pull my blankets tighter underneath my shelter fly, 
 An' I listen to the thunder o' the trucks a-rollin' by. 
 
 They're jumpin' and they're humpin* through the inky 
 
 gloom o' night, 
 
 'N' I wonder how them drivers see without a glim o' light; 
 I c'n hear the clutches roarin' as they throw the gears 
 
 in high, 
 And the radiators boilin' as the trucks go rollin' by. 
 
 There's some a-draggin' cannons, you c'n spot the sound 
 
 all right; 
 
 The rumblin' ones is heavies, an' the rattly ones is light; 
 The clinkin' shells is pointin' up their noses at the sky; 
 Oh, you c'n tell what's passin' as the trucks go rollin' by. 
 
 But most of 'em is packin' loads o' human Yankee freight 
 That'll slam the ol' soft pedal ontuh Heinie's Hymn o' 
 
 Hate; 
 You c'n hear 'em singin' "Dixie," and the "Sweet Bye 
 
 'n' Bye," 
 'N' "Where Do We Go From Here, Boys?" as the trucks 
 
 go rollin' by. 
 
 Some's singin' songs as, when I left, they wasn't even 
 
 ripe, 
 (A-showin' 'at they's rookies wot ain't got a service 
 
 stripe) ; 
 But jus' the same they're good ol' Yanks, and that's the 
 
 reason why 
 I likes the jazz 'n' barber shop o' the trucks a-rollin' by. 
 
27 
 
 Jus' God ?.nd Gen'rul Pershing knows where these here 
 birds'll light, 
 
 Where them bumpin' trucks is bound for under camou- 
 flage o' night, 
 
 When they can't take aero pitchers with their Fokkers in 
 the sky 
 
 Of our changes o' location by the trucks a-rollin' by. 
 
 So, altho' my bed is puddles an' I'm soaked through to 
 
 the hide, 
 My heart's out with them doughboys on their bouncin', 
 
 singin' ride; 
 They're bound for paths o' glory, or, p'raps, to fight 'n' 
 
 die- 
 God bless that Yankee cargo in the trucks a-rollin' by. 
 
 THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI 
 
 L. L. (A. N. Z. A. C.) 
 
 From "The Anzac Book." Cassell & Co., Ltd., Publishers, London. 
 Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 This poem is one of many that were 'written to commemorate the 
 stubborn bravery of the Anzacs, the British soldiers from Australia 
 and New Zealand. These indomitables came half way round the globe 
 at Britain's first call. Their first appearance was in Egypt, where 
 they drove the German-led Turks back into the desert and saved the 
 Suez canal. They were and are officially designated the "Australian 
 and New Zealand Army Corps," a title too long for common use. They 
 have won fame and the world's admiration as the "Anzacs." a word 
 made by running together the first letters of their official title. Aus- 
 tralia's own name for her soldier is Bill-Jim. "The Graves of Gal- 
 lipoli" is one of the most noble and tender poems that have come to 
 us out of the war. 
 
 HP HE herdman wandering by the lonely rills 
 * Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain's 
 
 flanks, 
 
 Remembering that wild morning when the hills 
 Shook to the roar of guns, and those wild ranks 
 Surged upward from the sea. 
 
28 
 
 None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring, 
 And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green. 
 Some bird that sings in English woods may sing 
 To English lads beneath the wind will keep 
 Its ancient lullaby. 
 
 Some flower that blooms beside the southern foam 
 May blossom where our dead Australians lie, 
 And comfort them with whispers of their home; 
 And they will dream, beneath the alien sky, 
 Of the Pacific Sea. 
 
 "Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls, 
 Under their father's eyes," the Trojan said, 
 "Not we who die in exile where who falls 
 Must lie in foreign earth." Alas! our dead 
 Lie buried far away. 
 
 Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight 
 For his dear country, there his country is. 
 And we will mourn them proudly as of right 
 For meaner deaths be 'weeping and loud cries: 
 They died pro patria! 
 
 Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed, 
 
 In the high flush of youth and strength and pride. 
 
 These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed 
 
 Of nobler futures. 'Twas for us they died. 
 
 Keep we their memory green. 
 
 This be their epitaph. "Traveler, south or west, 
 
 Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call. 
 
 And answered. Now beside the sea we rest. 
 
 Our end was happy if our country thrives: 
 
 Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small 
 
 That which we had we gave it was our lives." 
 
29 
 
 BATTLE OF BELLEAU WOOD 
 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Com- 
 mandant of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the 
 Marine Corps verse written during the war. It is republished here by 
 permission of the author and of the publishers, Reilly and Lee, who 
 hold the copyright. 
 
 TT was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with 
 
 German guns; 
 Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for 
 
 Huns. 
 Death was guarding every roadway, death was -watching 
 
 every field, 
 
 And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed ; 
 But Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: "Drive the Boche 
 
 from where they're hid. 
 For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!" and so 
 
 they did. 
 
 I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told 
 None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers 
 
 bold. 
 How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields 
 
 of golden wheat 
 With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle 
 
 heat. 
 It's a tale too big for writing; it's beyond the voice or 
 
 pen, 
 But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of 
 
 men. 
 
 It's recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live, 
 
 As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have 
 
 to give. 
 Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming 
 
 mounts of guns; 
 Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded 
 
 Huns ; 
 
30 
 
 On through fields that death was sweeping with a murder- 
 ous fire, they went 
 
 Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German 
 strength was spent. 
 
 Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle as they've seldom 
 
 done before; 
 Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds 
 
 of war. 
 
 For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead, 
 The living line of courage kept the faith and moved 
 
 ahead. 
 They'd been ordered not to falter, and when night came 
 
 on they stood 
 With Old Glory proudly flying o'er the trees of Belleau 
 
 Wood. 
 
 "POOR OLD SHIP!" 
 
 C. FOX SMITH 
 IN PUNCH 
 
 Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of "Punch" 
 
 SHE wasn't much to brag about, she wasn't much to 
 see, 
 
 A rusty, crusty hooker as a merchant ship could be; 
 They sunk her off the Longships light as night was com- 
 ing on, 
 And we had to go and leave her there and, poor old ship, 
 
 she's gone. 
 
 All that was good of her, all that was bad of her, 
 All that we gave to her, all that we had of her, 
 Poor old ship, she's gone! 
 
 The times we spent aboard her, they was oftener bad 
 
 than good, 
 But bad or good, we'd live the lot all over if we could ; 
 
31 
 
 She's stood her trick as well as us, she's had her whack 
 
 of fun, 
 She's shared it all with sailormen, and poor old ship, she's 
 
 done. 
 Hard times and soft times and all times we've been with 
 
 her, 
 
 Bad days and good days and all sorts we've seen with her, 
 And, poor old ship, she's done ! 
 
 She's stuck her crazy derricks up by half a hundred quays, 
 She's dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas ; 
 Her funnels caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in 
 
 the sun, 
 She's moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she's 
 
 done. 
 
 North seas and south, and they've all had a go at her, 
 Hot winds and cold, and they've all had a blow at her, 
 And, poor old ship, she's done! 
 
 She's trailed her smudge the whole world round in 
 
 weather gray and blue, 
 She's churned a dozen oceans with her bloomin' nine-knot 
 
 screw ; 
 
 She's sampled all the harbor mud from Cardiff to Canton, 
 And she'll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, 
 
 she's gone. 
 
 Ports up and down, and she's seen many a score of 'em ; 
 Seas high and low, and she won't sail no more of 'em, 
 For, poor old ship, she's gone ! 
 
 And chaps that knowed her in her time, 'tween London 
 
 and Rangoon, 
 
 In many a sailor's drinking-place and water-front saloon, 
 Will set their drinks down when they hear her bloomin' 
 
 yarn is spun, 
 
32 
 
 And say, "I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, 
 
 she's done. 
 
 Many's the hard word I once used to spend on her, 
 Ah, them was the great days, and now there's an end 
 
 on her, 
 
 Poor old ship, she's done!" 
 
 PASSING THE BUCK 
 
 SERGT. NORMAN E. NYGAARD, 313TH SN. TN. 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 HTHE Colonel has a job to do 
 
 That's really hard, and puzzling, too; 
 He can't quite figure what it needs, 
 So hands it out to Major Heeds. 
 
 And Major Heeds he thinks it o'er, 
 And thinks it o'er and o'er some more, 
 And he can't make it out at all, 
 So Captain Jones, he takes a fall. 
 
 The Captain shoves his helmet back, 
 And puts his brains all on the rack; 
 But "D n" is all that can be said, 
 And then it's up to First Loot Head. 
 
 O' course, he "knows," but hasn't time 
 The work they shove on him's a crime; 
 This, and then lots more to boot, 
 So on it goes to the Second Loot. 
 
 Now Lieutenant Young is just a kid, 
 A baby mouth by an eyebrow hid ; 
 A job like that would knock him cold, 
 He hands it down to Top-soak Gold. 
 
 The Top-soak, 'course, is swamped with work ; 
 It never was his plan to shirk, 
 But Sergeant Reed, he's just the man, 
 He'll sure do it if any can. 
 
33 
 
 But that old sarge must sleep a lot: 
 This biz of overworking rot; 
 He gives the Corp'rul loads of gas, 
 And so that duffer takes a pass. 
 
 But Corp'ruls don't know what to do, 
 They're only built for bossing, too; 
 So Corp'rul Jenks, he says he's stuck, 
 And hands it on to a common buck. 
 
 And when the job is finished right, 
 And all the things are clear as light, 
 Why, then, it's found by all the Fates, 
 The job was done by Private Bates. 
 
 An' it's passin' the buck, 
 An' a-passin' the buck, 
 
 An' a-passin' the buck along, 
 An' on with the buck 
 With the best o' luck, 
 
 An' I hope you come out wrong. 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 THEODORE HOWARD BANKS, JR. 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 HEN I return, let us be very still ; 
 No mirth, and but one deep, soul-searching 
 
 glance, 
 
 Mindful of the unnumbered graves of France, 
 Where love lies buried on each trampled hill. 
 
34 
 
 BULLINGTON 
 
 . C. FOX SMITH 
 IN PUNCH 
 
 Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of "Punch" 
 
 FT was the high midsummer, and the sun was shining 
 
 strong, 
 And the lane was rather flinty, and the lane was rather 
 
 long, 
 When up and down the gentle hills beside the stripling 
 
 Test- 
 I chanced to come to Bullington and stayed a while to 
 
 rest. 
 
 It was drowned in peace and quiet, as the river reeds are 
 
 drowned 
 In the water clear as crystal, flowing by with scarce a 
 
 sound, 
 And the air was like a posy with the sweet haymaking 
 
 smells, 
 And the Roses and Sweet Williams and Canterbury 
 
 Bells. 
 
 Far away as some strange planet seemed the old world's 
 
 dust and din, 
 And the trout in sun-warmed shallows hardly seemed to 
 
 stir a fin ; 
 And there's never a clock to tell you how the hurrying 
 
 world goes on 
 In the little ivied steeple down in drowsy Bullington. 
 
 Small and sleepy, there it nestled, seeming far from hasten- 
 ing Time, 
 
 As a teeny-tiny village in some quaint old nursery rhyme ; 
 And a teeny-tiny river by a teeny- tiny weir 
 Sang a teeny-tiny ditty that I stayed a while to hear. 
 
 
35 
 
 "Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the 
 
 sea, 
 But the reedy banks of Bullington are good enough for 
 
 me; 
 Oh, the lane runs to the highway, and the highway o'er 
 
 the down, 
 But it's better here in Bullington than there in London 
 
 town." 
 
 Then high above an aeroplane in humming flight went by, 
 With the droning of its engines filling all the cloudless 
 
 sky, 
 
 And like the booming of a knell across that perfect day 
 There came the gun's dull thunder from the ranges far 
 
 away. 
 
 And while I lay and listened, oh, the river's sleepy tune 
 
 Seemed to change its rippling music, like the cuckoo's 
 stave in June; 
 
 And the cannon's distant thunder, and the engines' war- 
 like drone 
 
 Seemed to mingle with its burthen in a solemn undertone. 
 
 "Oh, the stream runs to the river, and the river to the sea, 
 And there's war on land and water, and there's work for 
 
 you and me! 
 And on many a field of glory there are gallant lives laid 
 
 down 
 As well for tiny Bullington as mighty London town!" 
 
 So I roused me from my daydream, for I knew the song 
 
 spoke true 
 That it isn't time for dreaming while there's duty still 
 
 to do; 
 And I turned into the highway where it meets the flinty 
 
 lane, 
 And the world of wars and sorrows was about me once 
 
 again. 
 
36 
 
 THE PADRE 
 
 CAPT. C. W. BLACKALL 
 
 'E's a sportsman is our Padre, 
 
 Of that there ain't a doubt. 
 'E don't chuck religion at yer, 
 
 An' preach at yer an' spout ; 
 An' if 'e 'ears yer cussin', 
 
 As yer fillin' up ther bags, 
 'E jest ses, "Fumigate your throat," 
 
 An' 'ands yer out some fags. 
 
 'E don't take all fer granted 
 
 That yer murderers an' thieves, 
 An' always tell yer, now's ther time 
 
 Fer turnin' over leaves. 
 'E'll wander round ther trenches, 
 
 Jest to pass ther time o' day. 
 An' there ain't a bloke as doesn't feel 
 
 A man 'as passed that way. 
 
 I remember once, near Wipers, 
 
 When things was pretty 'ot, 
 An' yer 'ad ter keep yer nut down 
 
 If yer didn't want it shot; 
 While they was fairly plasterin' 
 
 As fast as they could load, 
 'E came ridin' mark yer, ridin 
 
 All down ther Menin Road. 
 
 'E was dossin' in a "staminay," 
 
 Pyjamas all complete, 
 When a 'igh-explosive carried 
 
 'Arf the 'ouse into the street. 
 While other blokes was runnin' wild, 
 
 An' kickin' up a row, 
 'E calmly arsts, "Pray, what is the 
 
 Correct procedure now?" 
 
37 
 
 They tells 'im as 'e'd better 
 
 Do a bunk for all 'e's worth, 
 As 'is bloomin' "staminay" is not 
 
 Ther safest spot on earth. 
 But 'e 'as a look around 'im, 
 
 An' wags 'is bally 'ead ; 
 Ses 'e, "It seems quite restful now," 
 
 An' back 'e goes to bed. 
 
 But 'e fairly put ther lid on 
 
 When we made ther last attack : 
 If 'is lads was goin' ter cop it, 
 
 'E weren't fer 'angin' back. 
 So 'e 'ops out of ther trenches 
 
 Level with ther foremost 'ound, 
 An' natural like 'e stops one 
 
 An' gets a little wound. 
 
 'E's a sportsman is our Padre, 
 Of that there ain't a doubt. 
 
 'E don't chuck religion at yer, 
 An' preach at yer an' spout. 
 
 Still, 'e'll show ther way ter 'Eaven 
 That's if anybody can 
 
 But we'd follow 'im to 'ell; 'cos why? 
 
 CORP'RAL'S CHEVRONS 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRA'NCE 
 
 H, the General with his epaulets, leadin' a parade; 
 The Colonel and the Adjutant a-sportin' of their 
 
 braid ; 
 
 The Major and the Skipper none of 'em look so fine 
 As a newly minted corp'ral, comin' down the line. 
 
38 
 
 Oh, the Bishop in his miter pacin' up the aisle; 
 
 The Governor, frock-coated, with a votes-for-women 
 
 smile ; 
 
 The Congressman, the Mayor aren't in it, I opine, 
 With a newly minted corp'ral comin' down the line. 
 
 THE OLD TOP SERGEANT 
 
 BERTON BRALEY 
 
 From Mr. Braley's book, "In Camp and Trench," published and 
 copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special per- 
 mission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 "Shavetail" is a name applied by enlisted men in the regular army 
 to lieutenants fresh from West Point. 
 
 HP WENT Y years of the army, of drawing a sergeant's 
 
 pay 
 And helping the West Point shavetails, fresh from the 
 
 training school, 
 To handle a bunch of soldiers and drill 'em the proper 
 
 way 
 (Which isn't always exactly according to book and 
 
 rule). 
 I've seen 'em rise to Captains and Majors and Colonels, 
 
 too, 
 
 And me still only a sergeant, the same as I used to be, 
 And I knew that some of them didn't know as much as 
 
 a sergeant knew, 
 
 But I stuck to my daily duty there wasn't a growl 
 from me. 
 
 Twenty years of the army, 
 
 Serving in peace and war, 
 Standing the drill of the army mill, 
 
 For that's what they p^u'd me for. 
 
39 
 
 Twenty years with the army, which wasn't so much for 
 
 size, 
 But man for man I'd back it to lick any troops on 
 
 earth. 
 'Twas a proud little classy army, as good as the flag it 
 
 flies, 
 And it takes an old top sergeant to know what the 
 
 flag is worth. 
 
 Then a shot at Sarejevo, and hell burst over there 
 And the kaiser dragged us in it, and the bill for the 
 
 draft was passed 
 And they handed me my commission, and some shoulder 
 
 straps to wear, 
 
 And the crazy dream of my rooky days had changed 
 to a fact at last. 
 
 Twenty years with the army, 
 And it's great to know they call 
 
 On the guys like me for what will be 
 The mightiest job of all. 
 
 Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails bid, 
 And I know I haven't the polish that fellows like that 
 
 will show, 
 And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West Point 
 
 kid, 
 But I think I can make him hustle when it comes to 
 
 the work I know. 
 But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, 
 
 or the Guard, 
 This isn't a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought 
 
 and won ; 
 
 There's a serious job before us, a job that is huge and 
 hard, 
 
40 
 
 And the social register don't count until we've got it 
 done! 
 
 Twenty years in the army, 
 
 And now I've got my chance. 
 Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch the chaps 
 
 That I've trained for the game in France! 
 
 FLAG EVERLASTING 
 
 A. G. RIDDOCH 
 
 "CLAG of our Faith: lead on 
 Across the sand-blown plain, 
 The deep and trackless main, 
 When duty's trumpets blow, 
 Where frowns the freeman's foe, 
 And right crushed to the sod 
 Lifts soul to righteous God. 
 Flag of our Faith: lead on 
 
 Flag of our Hope : lead on 
 When stormy clouds hang low 
 And chilling north-winds blow 
 And days are long and drear. 
 When nights breed grief and fear; 
 A rainbow lights the sky 
 Whene'er its colors fly. 
 Flag of our Hope: lead on 
 
 Flag of our Love: lead on 
 In loyal hearts supreme, 
 Fairer than love's first dream, 
 Our first choice and our last, 
 Brightened by every blast, 
 Oh, emblem pure and sweet, 
 
41 
 
 Thou can'st not know defeat. 
 Flag of our Love: lead on 
 
 Flag of our Home: lead on 
 Beneath thy folds we rest, 
 We live and love our best, 
 The fairest roses blow, 
 The richest harvests grow, 
 And care-free children play 
 And gladden every day. 
 Flag of our Home: lead on 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 Flag of our Faith, our Hope, our Love, 
 Flag of our Home, wave on above. 
 We'll live, we'll fight, we'll die for you 
 Flag Everlasting, Red, White and Blue. 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY IN FRANCE 
 
 GEORGE M. MAYO 
 
 TJERE'S to the Blue of the wind-swept North, 
 
 When we meet on the fields of France; 
 May the spirit of Grant be with you all 
 As the sons of the North advance. 
 
 And here's to the Gray of the sun-kissed South, 
 When we meet on the fields of France; 
 
 May the spirit of Lee be with you all 
 As the sons of the South advance. 
 
 And here's to the Blue and the Gray as one, 
 When we meet on the fields of France; 
 
 May the spirit of God be with us all 
 As the sons of the Flag advance. 
 
42 
 
 A LITTLE TOWN IN SENEGAL 
 
 WILL THOMPSON 
 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 T HEAR the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric 
 
 rain: 
 The Afric spring is breaking, down in Senegal again. 
 
 little town in Senegal, amid the clustered gums, 
 Where are your sturdy village lads, who one time danced 
 
 to drums? 
 
 At Soissons, by a fountain wall, they sang their melodies ; 
 
 And some now lie in Flemish fields, beside the northern 
 seas; 
 
 And some tonight are camped and still, along the Marne 
 and Aisne; 
 
 And some are dreaming of the palms that bend in Afric 
 rain. 
 
 The music of the barracks half awakes them from their 
 dream ; 
 
 They smile and sink back sleepily along the Flemish 
 stream. 
 
 They dream the baobab's white buds have opened over- 
 night ; 
 
 They dream they see the solemn cranes that bask in morn- 
 ing light: 
 
 1 hear the great drums beating in the square across the 
 
 plain. 
 
 Where are the tillers of the soil, the gallant, loyal train? 
 O little town in Senegal, amid the white-bud trees, 
 At Soissons, in Picardy, went north the last of these! 
 
43 
 
 A LITTLE GRIMY-FINGERED GIRL 
 
 LEE WILSON DODD 
 
 IN THE OUTLOOK 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 In sending his permission to use this sharp flash of the 
 spirit of France, Mr. Dodd wrote : "It may interest you to know that 
 the little grimy-fingered girl is real, and that I bought 'L'Intrans' from 
 her every evening for many months during the dark days of last spring 
 in Paris." The spring referred to being that of 1918, when the Germans 
 were only a few miles from the city. 
 
 A LITTLE grimy-fingered girl 
 
 In stringy black and broken shoes 
 Stands where sharp human eddies whirl 
 And offers news: 
 
 News from the front. " 'L'lntransigeant* \ 
 M'sieu, comme d' ordinaire?" Her smile 
 Is friendly though her face is gaunt; 
 There is no guile, 
 No mere mechanic flash of teeth, 
 No calculating leer of glance . . . 
 You wear your courage like a wreath, 
 Daughter of France. 
 Back of old sorrow in tired eyes 
 Back of endurance, through the night 
 That wearies you and makes you wise, 
 I see a light 
 
 Unshaken, proud, that does not pale, 
 And you are nobody, my dear; 
 "Une vraie gamine" who does not quail, 
 Who knows not fear. 
 Rattle your sabers, Lords of Hate, 
 Ye shall not force them to their knees! 
 
 A street-girl scorns your God, your State 
 
 The least of these. . . . 
 
 Place du Theatre Frangais, 
 Paris, February, 1918. 
 
44 
 
 SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL 
 
 EVERARD JACK APPLETON 
 
 By permission of Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Publishers 
 of "With the Colors," by Everard Jack Appleton. Copyright, 1917. 
 
 TT'S a high-falutin' title they have handed us; 
 
 It's very complimentary and grand ; 
 But a year or so ago they called us "hicks," you know 
 An' joshed the farmer and his hired hand ! 
 
 Now it's, "Save the country, Farmer! 
 
 Be a soldier of the soil ! 
 Show your patriotism, pardner, 
 
 By your never ending toil." 
 So we're croppin' more than ever, 
 
 An' we're speedin' up the farm. 
 Oh, it's great to be a soldier 
 A sweatin' sun-burnt soldier, 
 A soldier in the furrows 
 
 Away from "war's alarm!" 
 
 While fightin' blight and blister, 
 
 We hardly get a chance 
 To read about our "comrades" 
 
 A-doin' things in France. 
 To raise the grub to feed 'em 
 
 Is some job, believe me plus! 
 And I ain't so sure a soldier 
 A shootin', scrappin' soldier, 
 That's livin' close to dyin' 
 
 Ain't got the best of us! 
 
 But we'll harrer and we'll harvest, 
 An' we'll meet this new demand 
 Like the farmers always meet it 
 
45 
 
 The farmers and the land. 
 An' we hope, when it is over 
 
 An' this war has gone to seed, 
 You will know us soldiers better 
 Th' sweatin', reapin' soldiers, 
 Th' soldiers that have hustled 
 To raise th' grub you need ! 
 
 It's a mighty fine title you have given us, 
 A name that sounds too fine to really stick ; 
 
 But maybe you'll forget (when you figure out your debt) 
 To call th' man who works a farm a "hick." 
 
 THE CROSS AND THE FLAG 
 
 WILLIAM HENRY, CARDINAL O'CONNELL 
 IN THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL JOURNAL 
 
 "LTAIL, banner of our holy faith, 
 
 Redemption's sacred sign, 
 Sweet emblem thou of heavenly hope 
 
 And of all help divine, 
 We bare our heads in reverence 
 
 As o'er us is unfurled 
 The standard of the Cross of Christ 
 
 Whose blood redeemed the world. 
 
 Hail, banner of our native land, 
 
 Great ensign of the free, 
 We love thy glorious Stars and Stripes, 
 
 Emblem of liberty; 
 Lift high the cross, unfurl the flag; 
 
 May they forever stand 
 United in our hearts and hopes, 
 
 God and our native land. 
 
46 
 
 THE ROAD TO FRANCE 
 
 DANIEL M. HENDERSON 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 The 1917 prize of the National Arts Club of New York was 
 awarded to Mr. Henderson's poem. It was chosen out of more than 
 four thousand that were submitted. 
 
 HTHANK God, our liberating lance 
 
 Goes flaming on the way to France! 
 To France the trail the Gurkhas found; 
 To France old England's rallying-ground ! 
 To France the path the Russians strode! 
 To France the Anzacs' glory road! 
 To France where our Lost Legion ran 
 To fight and die for God and man ! 
 To France with every race and breed 
 That hates Oppression's brutal creed! 
 
 Ah, France, how could our hearts forget 
 The path by which came Lafayette? 
 How could the haze of doubt hang low 
 Upon the road of Rochambeau? 
 How was it that we missed the way 
 Brave Joffre leads us along today? 
 At last, thank God ! At last, we see 
 There is no tribal Liberty! 
 No beacon lighting just our shores, 
 No Freedom guarding but our doors. 
 The flame she kindled for our sires 
 Burns now in Europe's battle-fires. 
 The soul that led our fathers west 
 Turns back to free the world's opprest. 
 
 Allies, you have not called in vain; 
 We share your conflict and your pain. 
 "Old Glory," through new stains and rents, 
 Partakes of Freedom's sacraments. 
 
47 
 
 Into that hell his will creates 
 We drive the foe his lusts, his hates. 
 Last come, we will be last to stay, 
 Till Right has had her crowning day. 
 Replenish, comrades, from our veins 
 The blood the sword of despot drains, 
 And make our eager sacrifice 
 Part of the freely rendered price 
 You pay to lift humanity 
 You pay to make our brothers free. 
 See, with what proud hearts we advance 
 To France! 
 
 NAZARETH 
 
 "L" 
 
 IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 On the capture of the city by the British under General Allenby, 
 September 21, 1918. 
 
 A CROSS the sands by Mary's well 
 
 Along the shores of Galilee, 
 The paths are pitted deep with shell 
 And drab with marching infantry. 
 
 Perhaps upon the self-same spot 
 
 Where He first lifted up His head, 
 
 In cellar straw and manger cot, 
 Now Freedom's hosts are billeted. 
 
 Then 'twas a life now myriad death. 
 The Allied troops win Nazareth. 
 
48 
 
 THE CRIMSON CROSS 
 
 ELIZABETH BROWN DU BRIDGE 
 IN THE DAILY NEWS, SAULT STE. MARIE 
 
 QUTSIDE the ancient city's gate 
 
 Upon Golgotha's crest 
 Three crosses stretched their empty arms, 
 
 Etched dark against the west. 
 And blood from nail-pierced hands and feet 
 
 And tortured thorn-crowned head 
 And thrust of hatred's savage spear 
 
 Had stained one dark cross red. 
 Emblem of shame and pain and death 
 
 It stood beside the way, 
 But sign of love and hope and life 
 
 We lift it high today. 
 
 Where horror grips the stoutest heart, 
 
 Where bursting shells shriek high, 
 Where human bodies shrapnel scourged 
 
 By thousands suffering lie; 
 Threading the shambles of despair, 
 
 Mid agony and strife, 
 Come fleetest messengers who wear 
 
 The crimson cross of life. 
 To friend and foe alike they give 
 
 Their strength and healing skill, 
 For those who wear the crimson cross 
 
 Must "do the Master's will." 
 
 Can we, so safely sheltered here, 
 
 Refuse to do our part? 
 When some who wear the crimson cross 
 
 Are giving life and heart 
 To succor those who bear our flag, 
 
49 
 
 Who die that we may live 
 Shall we accept their sacrifice 
 
 And then refuse to give? 
 Ah, no! Our debt to God and man 
 
 We can, we will fulfill, 
 For we, who wear the crimson cross, 
 
 Must "do the Master's will." 
 
 PIERROT GOES 
 
 CHARLOTTE BECKER 
 
 m EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 TIP among the chimneys tall 
 ^ Lay the garret of Pierrot. 
 Here came trooping to his call 
 
 Fancies no one else might know; 
 Here he bade the spiders spin 
 Webs to hide his treasure in. 
 
 Here he heard the night wind croon 
 Slumber-songs for sleepyheads; 
 
 Here he spied the spendthrift moon 
 Strew her silver on the leads ; 
 
 Here he wove a coronet 
 
 Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette. 
 
 But the bugles blew him down 
 To the fields with war beset ; 
 
 Marched him past the quiet town, 
 Past the window of Pierrette ; 
 
 Comrade now of sword and lance, 
 
 Pierrot gave his dreams to France. 
 
50 
 
 A SERBIAN EPITAPH 
 
 V. STANIMIROVIC 
 
 After the retreat of the Serbian Army across the mountains of 
 Albania in 1915, the survivors who reached the coast were shipped to 
 Corfu. Here, and in the neighboring island of Vido, many of them 
 died to begin with, at the rate of hundreds a day. Some of them 
 were buried at sea. Others lie in common graves. In the midst of 
 the mounds which mark their resting-place, and which vary in size, 
 there stands a cross. On it is a Serbian inscription, written by the poet, 
 V. Stanimirovic, and translated for the London Westminster Gazette by 
 Mr. L. F. Waring: 
 
 "\TEVER a Serbian flower shall bloom 
 
 In exile on our far-off tomb. 
 Our little ones shall watch in vain : 
 Tell them we shall not come again. 
 
 Yet greet for us our fatherland, 
 
 And kiss for us her sacred strand. 
 
 These mounds shall tell the years to be 
 Of men who died to make her free. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS 
 
 GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 
 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book. 
 "Le rossignol n'est pas mobilise." A French Soldier 
 
 HTHE nightingales of Flanders, 
 They had not gone to war ; 
 A soldier heard them singing 
 Where they had sung before. 
 
 The earth was torn and quaking, 
 
 The sky about to fall; 
 The nightingales of Flanders, 
 
 They minded not at all. 
 
51 
 
 At intervals we heard them 
 
 Between the guns, he said, 
 Making a thrilling music 
 
 Above the listening dead. 
 
 Of woodland and of orchard 
 
 And roadside tree bereft, 
 The nightingales of Flanders 
 
 Were singing 'Trance is left!" 
 
 THE WIDOW 
 
 MISS C. M. MITCHELL 
 IN PUNCH 
 
 Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of "Punch' 
 
 "VfY heart is numb with sorrow; 
 
 The long days dawn and wane ; 
 To me no sweet tomorrow 
 Will bring my man again. 
 
 Yet must my grief be hidden 
 
 Life makes insistent claim, 
 And women, anguish-ridden, 
 
 Their rebel hearts must tame. 
 
 For while, my vigil keeping, 
 
 I face the eternal law, 
 Here on my breast lies sleeping 
 
 The son he never saw. 
 
52 
 
 PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 From Amelia Josephine Burr's book of poems, "The Silver Trum- 
 pet." Published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, 
 New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 'T'HEY knew they were fighting our war. As the months 
 
 grew to years 
 Their men and their women had watched through their 
 
 blood and their tears 
 For a sign that we knew, we who could not have come 
 
 to be free 
 
 Without France, long ago. And at last from the threat- 
 ening sea 
 The stars of our strength on the eyes of their weariness 
 
 rose 
 And he stood among them, the sorrow-strong hero we 
 
 chose 
 To carry our flag to the tomb of that Frenchman whose 
 
 name 
 A man of our country could once more pronounce without 
 
 shame. 
 What crown of rich words would he set for all time on 
 
 this day? 
 The past and the future were listening what he would 
 
 say 
 Only this, from the white-flaming heart of a passion 
 
 austere, 
 Only this ah, but France understood! "Lafayette, we 
 
 are here." 
 
53 
 
 TRAINS 
 
 LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE 
 
 From Lieutenant Roches book of poems, "Rimes in Olive Drab." 
 Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. 
 Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 Lieutenant Roche has deftly caught and preserved in words the 
 strange vision of unannounced trains that flashed now and then past 
 towns and villages bearing American troops from unknown camps to 
 unknown ports of embarkation the flash of faces of men about whom 
 it was known only that they came from the shops and fields of home 
 and were going across the seas to fight somewhere, for those who stood 
 and gazed as they whirled by. The mystery, the roar of wheels, the 
 eddying dust and the silence that followed infuse these lines with pic- 
 ture and sound that will stay in the minds of any who saw such trains 
 go hurrying away. 
 
 thousands of miles 
 Of shining steel rails, 
 Past green and red semaphores 
 And unheeding flagmen, 
 Trains are running, 
 Trains, trains, trains. 
 
 Rattling through tunnels 
 
 And clicking by way stations, 
 
 Curving through hills, past timber, 
 
 Out into the open places, 
 
 Flashing past silos and barns 
 
 And whole villages, 
 
 Until finally they echo 
 
 Against the squat factories 
 
 That line the approach to the cities. 
 
 Trains, trains, trains 
 
 With the fire boxes wide open, 
 
 Giant Moguls and old-time Baldwins 
 
 And oil-burners on the Southern Pacific, 
 
 Fire boxes wide open 
 
 Flaring against the night, 
 
 Like a tremendous watch fire 
 
54 
 
 Where the sentries cluster at their post. 
 
 Trains, trains, trains 
 
 Serpentine strings of cars 
 
 Loaded with boys and men 
 
 The legion of the ten-year span 
 
 To whom has been given the task 
 
 Of seeking the Great Adventure. 
 
 Swaying through the North and South, 
 
 And East and West, 
 
 Freighted with the Willing 
 
 And the Unwilling; 
 
 Packed with the Thinking 
 
 And the Unthinking, 
 
 Pushing on to the Unknown 
 
 Away from the shelter and security 
 
 Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 
 
 Trains, trains, trains 
 
 With their coach sides scrawled 
 
 With chalked bravado and, sometimes, 
 
 With their windows black 
 
 With yelling boys, 
 
 In open-mouthed exultation 
 
 That they do not feel, 
 
 Rushing farther and farther 
 
 From the known into the unseeable. 
 
 Trains, trains, trains 
 
 With sky-larking boys in khaki, 
 
 Munching sandwiches and drinking pop; 
 
 Or, tired and without their depot swagger, 
 
 Curled up on the red-plush seats; 
 
 Or asleep, with a stranger, in the Pullmans. 
 
55 
 
 They rush past our camp, 
 
 Which lies against the railroad, 
 
 With the crossing alarm jangling caution, 
 
 And fade into the dust or night. 
 
 Leaving us to conjecture where, 
 
 As they have left others to wonder 
 
 As they must wonder themselves 
 
 When they are done 
 
 With the shouting and hand-shaking 
 
 And kissing and hat-waving and singing. 
 
 Trains, trains, trains 
 
 Clicking on into unforecast days 
 
 Away from the shelter and security 
 
 Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 
 
 CHRIST IN FLANDERS 
 
 L. W. 
 
 IN THE SPECTATOR 
 
 "Vj[7 E had forgotten You, or very nearly 
 
 You did not seem to touch us very nearly 
 
 Of course we thought about You now and then; 
 Especially in any time of trouble 
 We knew that You were good in time of trouble 
 
 But we are very ordinary men. 
 
 And there were always other things to think of 
 There's lots of things a man has got to think of 
 
 His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; 
 And so we only thought of You on Sunday 
 Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday 
 
 Because there's always lots to fill one's life. 
 
56 
 
 And, all the while, in the street or lane or byway 
 In country lane, in city street, or byway 
 
 You walked among us, and we did not see. 
 Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements 
 How did we miss Your Footprints on our pavements? 
 
 Can there be other folk as blind as we? 
 
 Now we remember; over here in Flanders 
 (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders) 
 
 This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. 
 We never thought about You much in England 
 But now that we are far away from England 
 
 We have no doubts, we know that You are here. 
 
 You helped us pass the jest along the trenches 
 Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches 
 
 You touched its ribaldry and made it ,fme. 
 You stood beside us in our pain and weakness 
 We're glad to think You understand our weakness 
 
 Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. 
 
 We think about You kneeling in the Garden 
 Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden 
 
 We know You prayed for us upon the Cross. 
 If anything could make us glad to bear it 
 'Twould be the knowledge that You willed to bear it 
 
 Pain death the uttermost of human loss. 
 
 Though we forgot You You will not forget us 
 We feel so sure that You will not forget us 
 
 But stay with us until this dream is past. 
 And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon 
 Especially, I think, we ask for pardon 
 
 And that You'll stand beside us to the last. 
 
57 
 
 AN AMERICAN CREED 
 
 EVERARD JACK APPLETON 
 
 By permission of Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Publishers 
 of "With the Colors," by Everard Jack Appleton. Copyright, 1918. 
 
 CTRAIGHT thinking, 
 
 Straight talking, 
 Straight doing, 
 And a firm belief in the might of right. 
 
 Patience linked with patriotism, 
 Justice added to kindliness, 
 Uncompromising devotion to this country, 
 And active, not passive, Americanism. 
 
 To talk less, to mean more, 
 To complain less, to accomplish more, 
 And to so live that every one of us is ready to look 
 Eternity in the face at any moment, and be unafraid ! 
 
 RUNNER McGEE 
 
 (WHO HAD "RETURN IF POSSIBLE" ORDEKS.) 
 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 From Edgar A. Guest's book of war time rhymes, entitled "Over 
 Here." Published and copyright, 1918, by The Reilly & Britton Company, 
 Chicago. Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 E heard a good deal of the telephone wires," 
 He said as we sat at our ease, 
 And talked of the struggle that's taking men's lives 
 
 In these terrible days o'er the seas, 
 "But I've been through the thick of the thing 
 
 And I know when a battle's begun 
 It isn't the 'phone you depend on for help. 
 It's the legs of a boy who can run. 
 
58 
 
 "It isn't because of the 'phone that I'm here. 
 
 Today you are talking to me 
 Because of the grit and the pluck of a boy. 
 
 His title was Runner McGee. 
 We were up to our dead line an' fighting alone; 
 
 Some plan had miscarried, I guess, 
 And the help we were promised had failed to arrive. 
 
 We were showing all signs of distress. 
 
 "Our curtain of fire was ahead of us still, 
 
 An' theirs was behind us an' thick, 
 An' there wasn't a thing we could do for ourselves 
 
 The few of us left had to stick. 
 You haven't much chance to get central an' talk 
 
 On the 'phone to the music of guns ; 
 Gettin' word to the chief is a matter right then 
 
 That is up to the fellow who runs. 
 
 "I'd sent four of 'em back with the R. I. P. sign, 
 
 Which means to return if you can, 
 But none of 'em got through the curtain of fire; 
 
 My hurry call died with the man. 
 Then Runner McGee said he'd try to get through. 
 
 I hated to order the kid 
 On his mission of death; thought he'd never get by, 
 
 But somehow or other he did. 
 
 "Yes, he's dead. Died an hour after bringing us word 
 
 That the chief was aware of our plight, 
 An' for us to hang onto the ditch that we held ; 
 
 The reserves would relieve us at night. 
 Then we stuck to our trench an' we stuck to our guns ; 
 
 You know how you'll fight when you know 
 That new strength is coming to fill up the gaps. 
 
 There's heart in the force of your blow. 
 
59 
 
 "It wasn't till later I got all the facts. 
 
 They wanted McGee to remain. 
 They begged him to stay. He had cheated death once, 
 
 An' was foolish to try it again. 
 *R. I. P. are my orders/ he answered them all, 
 
 'An' back to the boys I must go ; 
 Four of us died comin' out with the news. 
 
 It will help them to know that you know.' " 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S FOLKS AT HOME 
 
 FROM THE CHRISTIAN HERALD 
 
 \Ji7E often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights, 
 When fireflies out upon the lawn are soft enchanted 
 
 lights 
 
 From Fairyland; when, far away, a vagrant nightingale 
 Is sobbing from a bursting heart his tragic untold tale. 
 We often sit upon the porch, quite silently, for we 
 Are seeing golden wonder-worlds that no one else may see. 
 
 My mother sighs; I feel her hand upon my ruffled hair, 
 The while I know she thinks of one, of one who is not 
 
 there. . . . 
 And grandma, with her down-bent head, is dreaming of 
 
 the day 
 When to the strains of "Dixie Land" her sweetheart 
 
 marched away. 
 And brother stares into the dusk, with vivid eyes aflame, 
 
 And hears the stirring call to arms, to battle and to fame! 
 
 
 
 My little sister, half asleep, holds tight against her breast 
 A battered doll with china eyes that she herself has 
 dressed ; 
 
60 
 
 And baby brother holds my hand, and thinks of cakes and 
 
 toys 
 That grow on trees in some fair land for perfect little 
 
 boys. 
 And auntie holds her head erect, and seems to dare the 
 
 fates 
 With eyes that hold the glowing look of one who hopes 
 
 and waits. 
 
 We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights 
 
 When fireflies out upon the lawn are vague enchanted 
 lights, 
 
 And no one speaks, for each one dreams and plans, per- 
 haps, and strays, 
 
 A wanderer through years to come, a ghost through 
 bygone days, 
 
 And as the stars far in the sky come shining softly 
 through, 
 
 My heart and soul are all one prayer one silver prayer 
 for you. 
 
 THREE HILLS 
 
 EVERARD OWEN 
 
 From Mr. Owen's book, "Three Hills and Other Poems." Sidgwick 
 & Jackson, Ltd., Publishers, London, England. Special permission to 
 insert in this book. 
 
 'T'HERE is a hill in England, 
 
 Green fields and a school I know, 
 Where the balls fly fast in summer, 
 And the whispering elm-trees grow, 
 
 A little hill, a dear hill, 
 And the playing fields below. 
 
61 
 
 There is a hill in Flanders, 
 
 Heaped with a thousand slain, 
 
 Where the shells fly night and noontide 
 And the ghosts that died in vain 
 
 A little hill, a hard hill, 
 To the souls that died in pain. 
 
 There is a hill in Jewry, 
 
 Three crosses pierce the sky, 
 On the midmost He is dying 
 
 To save all those who die 
 A little hill, a kind hill 
 
 To souls in jeopardy. 
 
 MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY 
 
 LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE 
 
 From Lieutenant Roche's book of poems, "Rimes in Olive Drab." 
 Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. 
 Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 "Doughboy" is an old nickname for a United States infantryman. 
 When our army went into what is now New Mexico, Arizona and 
 California to quiet the Mexicans hostilities that preceded the war of 
 1846, the infantry fell into a way of camping in houses built by -the 
 natives with sun-dried bricks of adobe mud. The cavalry, having to 
 lie in the open with the horses, were joked thereat and came back 
 by calling the infantry dobie boys. The name stuck and by an easy slide 
 arrived at the present form. 
 
 IKE DILLON was a doughboy 
 
 And wore the issue stuff; 
 He wasn't much to look at 
 
 In fact, was rather rough; 
 He served his time as rookie 
 
 At drilling in the sun, 
 And cleared a lot of timber 
 And polished up his gun. 
 
 Mike Dillon was a private 
 With all the word entails; 
 
62 
 
 He cussed and chewed tobacco 
 And overlooked his nails. 
 
 You never saw Mike Dillon 
 At dances ultra nice ; 
 
 In fact, inspection found him 
 Enjoying body lice. 
 
 If Mike had married money 
 
 Or had a little drag, 
 He might have got a brevet 
 
 And missed a little "fag"; 
 But as a social figure 
 
 He simply wasn't there 
 So Mike continued drilling 
 
 And knifing up his fare. 
 
 In course of time they shipped 'em 
 
 And shipped 'em over where 
 A man like Mike can sidestep 
 
 The frigid social stare, 
 And do the job of soldier 
 
 Without the fancy frills, 
 And keep a steady footing 
 
 In the pace that really kills. 
 
 Now Mike did nothing special ; 
 
 He only did his best: 
 He stuck and "went on over" 
 
 And got it in the chest ; 
 He played it fair and squarely 
 
 Without a social air, 
 And Mike is now in heaven 
 
 And at least a corporal there! 
 
63 
 
 WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 IN THE STABS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 HT HERE'S a military band that plays, on Sunday after- 
 * noons, 
 
 In a certain nameless city's quaint old square. 
 It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes, 
 
 And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer. 
 When it starts "Ave Maria" there is no one in the throng 
 
 But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise; 
 And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses 
 sounding strong, 
 
 There is flung out on the breeze "La Marseillaise"? 
 
 When it starts to render "Sambre et Meuse," the march 
 
 that won the day 
 
 At the battle of the Marne, one sees again 
 The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern 
 
 array 
 
 Of our gallant sister-ally's blue-clad men. 
 And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and 
 
 clear 
 
 While the khaki lads stand steady then we feel 
 That, though tongues and ways may vary, we've found 
 
 brothers over here, 
 Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel. 
 
 For it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by 
 
 side, 
 
 Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square; 
 And it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide, 
 
 That will blaze the way to victory "up there." 
 So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our 
 
 troth 
 
 To the Cause the world set free ! for which we fight. 
 As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki 
 
 both, 
 And the bugles die away into the night. 
 
64 
 
 THE OLD GANG ON THE CORNER 
 
 WILLIAM HERSCHELL 
 IN COLLIER'S WEEKLY 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 '"THE Old Gang on the Comer! What an arrant tribe 
 
 they were; 
 
 The Widow Kelly's Connie he had always worried her! 
 The Schultz boys, Jake and Rudy; the parson's own, 
 
 Chub Smith, 
 "Who," sister told the neighbors, "they can't do nothin' 
 
 with." 
 Young Tony Boots, the Dago, and Scamp, the tinner's 
 
 son 
 To them a mischief thought of was a mischief quickly 
 
 done. 
 
 The Old Gang on the Corner! In the arc light's friend- 
 ly glow 
 
 They trooped each night till Tim the Cop came by and 
 made them go. 
 
 But all that now is ended, for the Sword of Hate is 
 drawn 
 
 The Old Gang on the Corner from its happy haunt is 
 gone. 
 
 The street lamp idly sputters; Tim, the lonely, walks 
 iiis beat, 
 
 His good heart well ahunger for the Old Gang in the 
 street. 
 
 The Old Gang on the Corner! Now each loyal mother 
 
 brags 
 
 No other neighborhood can boast as many service flags. 
 Con Kelly's won a sergeantcy; the parson's black-sheep 
 
 son 
 Has had his picture printed for heroic deeds he's done. 
 
65 
 
 The Scfoultz boys, in the navy, though they yet are in 
 their teens, 
 
 Are mates with Scamp and Tony in the chase for sub- 
 marines. 
 
 The Old Gang on the Corner! Yes, we've all forgotten 
 
 now 
 
 The Hallowe'en they calcimined McDougall's muley cow, 
 We've put aside the memories of cream and cake they 
 
 stole 
 When our church had a festival to pay for last year's 
 
 coal. 
 All that is in the Yesterday they're now our fighting 
 
 men 
 And, God, won't we be happy if they all come home 
 
 again ? 
 
 THE BATTLE-LINE 
 
 J. B. BOLLARD 
 
 IN THE GLOBE, TORONTO 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 A THWART that land of bloss'ming vine 
 * ^ Stretches the awful battle-line ; 
 A lark hangs singing in the sky, 
 With sullen shrapnel bursting nigh! 
 Along the poplar-bordered road 
 The peasant trudges with his load, 
 While horsemen and artillery 
 Rush to red fields that are to be! 
 The plains for tillage furrowed well 
 Are now replowed with shot and shell! 
 The ditches, swollen by the rain, 
 Show bloated faces of the slain. 
 The hedge-rows sweet with leaf and flower 
 Now mask the cannon's murderous power! 
 
66 
 
 Small birds by household cares opprest 
 Beg truce and time to build their nest. 
 The sun sinks down oh, blest release! 
 And the spent world cries out for peace, 
 In vain! In vain! Tho' mild stars shine, 
 War wakes the thundering battle-line. 
 
 A CHANT OF ARMY COOKS 
 
 ANONYMOUS 
 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 never were made to be seen on parade 
 When sweethearts and such line the streets; 
 When the band starts to blare, look for us we ain't 
 
 there 
 
 We're mussing around with the eats. 
 It's fun to step out to the echoing shout 
 
 Of a crowd that forgets how you're fed, 
 While we're soiling our duds hacking eyes out of spuds 
 You know what Napoleon said. 
 
 When the mess sergeant's gay, you can bet hell's to pay 
 
 For the boys who are standing in line; 
 When the boys get a square, then the sergeant is there 
 
 With your death warrant ready to sign. 
 If you're long on the grub, then you're damned for a dub, 
 
 If you're short, you're a miser instead, 
 But, however you feel, you must get the next meal 
 
 You know what Napoleon said. 
 
 You think it's a cinch when you come to the clinch 
 
 For the man who is grinding the meat; 
 In the heat of the fight, why the cook's out of sight 
 
 With plenty of room to retreat. 
 
67 
 
 But a plump of a shell in a kitchen is hell 
 When the roof scatters over your head, 
 
 And you crawl on your knees to pick up the K. P.'s 
 You know what Napoleon said. 
 
 If the war ever ends, we'll go back to our friends 
 
 In the army we've nary a one; 
 We'll list to the prattle of this or that battle, 
 
 And then, when the story is done, 
 We'll say, when they ask, "Now what was your task, 
 
 And what is the glory you shed?" 
 "You see. how they thrive well, we kept 'em alive! 
 
 You know what Napoleon said." 
 
 THE DRUM 
 
 JOSEPH LEE 
 "Come to me, and I will give you flesh." Old Pibrochadh. 
 
 ^ Says the drum; 
 
 Though graves be hollow, 
 
 Yet follow, follow: 
 Come! 
 Says the drum. 
 
 Life! 
 
 Shrills the fife, 
 
 Is in strife 
 
 Leave love and wife: 
 
 Come! 
 
 Says the drum. 
 
 Ripe! 
 
 Screams the pipe, 
 
 Is the field- 
 
 Swords and not sickles wield 
 Come! 
 Says the drum. 
 
68 
 
 The drum 
 Says, Come! 
 
 Though graves be hollow, 
 
 Yet follow, follow: 
 Come! 
 Says the drum. 
 
 THE GREAT ADVENTURE 
 
 MAJOR KENDALL BANNING 
 SIGNAL RESERVE CORPS, AVIATION SECTION, U. S. ARMY 
 
 , the Master Pilot, 
 Or gods, if such there be 
 Pour me no weakling's measure 
 
 When ye pour the wine for me ! 
 Of pain, of love, of pleasure, 
 
 I'll drain the draught ye give; 
 Of good and ill, give me the fill 
 Of the life ye bade me live! 
 
 Spare me no tithe of favor, 
 
 With fortune pave my path, 
 Nor hold the hand of vengeance 
 
 When I deserve your wrath. 
 Whatever fates ye send me, 
 
 Whatever cast the sky, 
 Grant me the grace to live a man 
 
 And as a man to die! 
 
 Upon the good I render 
 
 Let shine your proudest sun: 
 And rest me in the valleys 
 
 When my last trick is done. 
 For these your utmost portions, 
 
 I'll pay the utmost toll, 
 So this my life, become the great 
 
 Adventure of my soul ! 
 
69 
 
 TO THE WRITER OF "CHRIST IN FLANDERS" 
 
 E. M. V. 
 IN THE SPECTATOR 
 
 the battlefields of Flanders men have blessed you 
 in their pain ; 
 
 For you told us Who was with us, and your words were 
 not in vain. 
 
 All you said was very gentle, but we felt you knew our 
 
 ways ; 
 And we tried to find the Footprints we had missed in 
 
 other days. 
 
 When we found Those blood-stained Footsteps, we have 
 
 followed to the End ; 
 For we know that only Death can show the features of 
 
 our Friend. 
 
 In the Mansions of the Master, He will make the mean- 
 ing plain 
 Of the battlefields of Flanders, of the Crucifix of Pain. 
 
 TO SOMEBODY 
 
 HAROLD SETON 
 IN MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 '"THEY'VE put us through our paces; 
 
 They say we're doing fine ; 
 We'll soon go to our places 
 
 Upon the firing-line. 
 Some chaps will fight for mothers, 
 
 And some for wives so true; 
 
70 
 
 For sweethearts many others, 
 And I w-ill fight for you! 
 
 Through all these months of training 
 
 We've cherished hopeful thoughts 
 And drilled without complaining, 
 
 Like soldiers and good sports. 
 We're warring for a reason, 
 
 We've sworn to see this through ; 
 To falter would be treason, 
 
 And I will fight for you! 
 
 Your presence will be near me, 
 
 Your voice will call my name ; 
 You'll comfort me and cheer me, 
 
 Your love, behold, I claim ! 
 'T would take more than an ocean 
 
 To separate us two; 
 I'll hold unto this notion, 
 
 ,And I will fight for you! 
 
 WAR 
 
 COL. WILLIAM LIGHTFOOT VISSCHER 
 IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB'S MAGAZINE 
 
 "D Y blazing homes, through forests torn 
 
 And blackened harvest fields, 
 The grim and drunken god of war 
 In frenzied fury reels. 
 
 His breath the sulph'rous stench of guns 
 
 That death and famine deals 
 And Pity, pleading, wounded falls 
 
 Beneath his steel-shod heels. 
 
A MARCHING SOLILOQUY 
 
 BY A MEMBER OF THE S. A. T. C., NORTHWESTERN 
 COLLEGE, NAPERVILLE, ILL. 
 
 "Left! 
 Left!" 
 
 Had a good girl when I 
 "Left! 
 Left!" 
 Mighty good pal when I 
 
 "Left!" 
 
 "One! Two! Three! Four!" 
 How 
 many 
 miles 
 more? 
 "Left! 
 
 "Left! 
 Left!" 
 
 Booked for a wife when I 
 "Left! 
 Left!" 
 That was my life when I 
 
 "Left!" 
 
 "One! Two! Three! Four!" 
 Hear 
 old 
 
 Lieutenant 
 roar 
 "Left!" 
 
72 
 
 WHILE SUMMERS PASS 
 
 ALINE MICHAELIS 
 IN THE ENTERPRISE, BEAUMONT, TEXAS 
 
 CUMMER comes and summer goes, 
 Buds the primrose, fades the rose; 
 
 But his footfall on the grass, 
 Coming swiftly to my door, 
 I shall hear again no more, 
 
 Though a thousand summers pass. 
 
 Once he loved the clovers well, 
 Loved the larkspur and bluebell. 
 
 And the scent the plum-blooms yield ; 
 But strange flowers his soul beguiled, 
 Pallid lilies, laurels wild, 
 
 Blooming in a crimson field. 
 
 So he plucked the laurels there, 
 And he found them sweet and fair 
 
 In that field of blood-red hue; 
 And, when on a summer night . 
 Moonlight drenched my clovers white, 
 
 Lo! He plucked Death's lilies, too. 
 
 It may be that e'en to-night, 
 In the Gardens of Delight, 
 
 Where his shining soul must dwell, 
 He has found some flowers more sweet 
 Than the clovers at my feet, 
 
 Some celestial asphodel. 
 
 But while summer comes and goes, 
 With the primrose and the rose 
 
 Comes his footfall on the grass 
 Gladly, lightly to my door 
 I shall hear it echo o'er, 
 
 Though a thousand summers pass. 
 
73 
 
 THE MARINES 
 
 ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE 
 
 OF THE VIGILANTES 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "DARDON! he has no Engleesh, heem, 
 
 II ne parle que Franchise, 
 I spik it leetle some Monsieur, 
 
 Vaire bad, j'en suis fache 
 Marines ? Mais oui ! I fight wiz zem 
 
 At Chateau Thierry 
 An' on ze Ourcq an' Marne in grand 
 
 Bon camaraderie. 
 I see zem fight at bois Belleau, 
 
 Like sauvage make ze yell, 
 Sacre nom de Dieu! zoze sailor man 
 
 Eez fightin' like ze hell! 
 All time zey smile when make ze push, 
 
 Magnifique zaire elan, 
 Zey show ze heart of lion 
 
 For delight our brav Franchman. 
 An' in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop 
 
 From ze Etats Unis 
 Queeck make ze good frien' of poilu 
 
 Wiz beeg slap on ze knee! 
 Zey make ze song an' joke, si drole 
 
 An' pass ze cigarette; 
 Zey call us goddam good ol' scout 
 
 Like Marquis La Fayette. 
 Next day, mebbee, again ze taps 
 
 Ze volley in ze air. 
 Adieu! some fightin' sailor man 
 
 Eez gone West. C'est la guerre! 
 No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand 
 
 Queeck wiz ze cigarette; 
 
74 
 
 C'est vrai, at funerall of heem 
 
 Ze poilu's eye eez wet. 
 But, every day like tidal wave, 
 
 Like human avalanche, 
 Ze transport bring more Yankee troop, 
 
 To get ze beeg revanche! 
 Zen from ze heart Americaine 
 
 Come milliards of monnaie; 
 Eet eez ze end ! Your country bring 
 
 Triomphant liberte. 
 So, au revoir! I mus' go on 
 
 But first I tell to you 
 What some high Officier remark 
 
 Zat day at bois Belleau. 
 He says, our great Napoleon 
 
 Wiz envy would turn green 
 Eef he could see zoze sailor man, 
 
 Zoze Uncle Sam Marines!" 
 
 AN AMBULANCE DRIVER'S PRAYER 
 
 LIEUT. CHAPLAIN THOMAS F. COAKLEY 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 ID blinding rain this inky night, 
 
 Loud bursting shells each foot of road, 
 Thy Light, O Christ, will guide me right, 
 To save this gasping, dying load. 
 
 Their shattered limbs have followed Thee; 
 
 Their wounded hands have done Thy work. 
 They bled, O Lord, to make men free; 
 
 They fought the fight they did not shirk, 
 
75 
 
 NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT 
 
 T. C. HARBAUGH 
 IN THE CHICAGO LEDGER 
 
 "VfY name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty- 
 three, 
 
 Years ago I went with Sherman to the ever sunny sea. 
 I stood my ground at Gettysburg, that bloody summer 
 
 day, 
 When gallant Pickett rushed the hill and lost his boys 
 
 in gray; 
 
 And now our starry banner is insulted and defied, 
 The kaiser tears it into shreds and glories in his pride; 
 Just pass the word across the sea to his stronghold of 
 
 might, 
 And say that Danny Bloomer's here and not too old to 
 
 fight. 
 
 I gave my youth to Uncle Sam in years I'll ne'er forget, 
 In mem'ry of those stirring times my old blood tingles 
 
 yet. 
 With four score years upon me I can lift the same old 
 
 gun, 
 
 And to face our Flag's insulter will be everlasting fun. 
 Please say that Danny Bloomer is ready for the fray, 
 Cry "Forward, march!" and see him in the good old 
 
 ranks today. 
 
 I love the flag of Washington because it stands for Right, 
 And that is why I tell you I am not too old to fight. 
 
 'Tis true I'm somewhat crippled, but I do not care for 
 
 that, 
 
 I feel as young as when I saw the tilt of Sherman's hat ; 
 I want to do my duty again before I die, 
 And see Old Glory proudly in the streets of Berlin fly. 
 
76 
 
 I do not know the kaiser, but I hope within a year 
 Amid the roar of cannon he will say, "Old Bloomer's 
 
 here!" 
 
 Yes, hand me down a rifle and I will use it right, 
 Your Uncle Danny Bloomer isn't yet too old to fight. 
 We've borne their insults long enough they make me 
 
 long to go. 
 
 I want to squint along my gun and aim it at the foe ; 
 I'll eat the same old rations that I ate in '64, 
 And feel the blood of youth again amid the battle's roar. 
 I haven't long to tarry here until my work is done, 
 But I want to show the kaiser we're not in it for fun ; 
 So give me marching orders and I'll disappear from 
 
 sight, 
 For I am Danny Bloomer, and I'm not too old to fight. 
 
 A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE 
 
 ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE 
 
 IN THE NEW YORK HERALD 
 
 Permission to repi'oduce in this book 
 
 shake hands, my little peach blossom. 
 That's right, dear, climb up on my knee. 
 This big Yankee soldier is lonesome 
 Ah, now we'll be friends, ma cherie. 
 We won't understand one another, 
 Your round eyes are telling me so, 
 But the cling of your chubby fingers 
 Is a language that all daddies know. 
 When I caught a sight of your pigtails 
 And those eyes of violet blue, 
 It made me heart-hungry, ma petite, 
 
77 
 
 For I've a wee girl just like you. 
 
 She lives 'way across the wide ocean. 
 
 Out where the bald eagles nest, 
 
 And she knows all the chipmunks and gophers 
 
 At my shack out in the West." 
 
 "Tu dis 1'ouest! Est-ce ton pays? 
 Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi 
 Maman est toujours a pleurer 
 Me retrouver mon soldat Papa? 
 II etait avec sa batterie 
 Pres des Anglais la, en campagne, 
 Mais Papa est alle dans 1'ouest, 
 Des Anglais disaient a Maman. 
 Alors, Maman sera heureuse 
 Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus; 
 Je veux te donner un baiser, 
 Merci ! Tu es si bon pour nous!" 
 
 There she goes! She told me her secret, 
 
 Kissed me and then flew away, 
 
 Say, Poilu! You savez some English, 
 
 Now what did that little tot say? 
 
 "She say Engleeshman toF her Mama 
 
 Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West ! 
 
 You said West, bien ! Zen you live zaire, 
 
 So she make you her leetle request, 
 
 Zat you find heem in your countree 
 
 So her Mama no more she weel cry ; 
 
 Zen she thank you an' kees you, si joyeuse, 
 
 Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!" 
 
78 
 
 MISSING 
 
 "IRIS" 
 FROM B. L. T.'s COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 THE soldier boys are marching, are marching past my 
 
 door ; 
 They're off to fight for Freedom, to wage and win the 
 
 war; 
 
 And yet I cannot cheer them, my eyes are full of tears 
 My son, who should be with them, is dead these many 
 
 years. 
 
 I've missed his boyish laughter, I've missed his sunny 
 
 ways, 
 
 I've lived alone with sorrow through endless empty days. 
 But now my bitter longing dims all the grief before 
 His boyhood friends are marching, without him, past my 
 door. 
 
 I've envied happy mothers the children at their knee; 
 Their very joys seemed given to mock my grief and me. 
 Time healed those wounds, but this one will pain me 
 
 while I live 
 When Freedom called her warriors, I had no son to give. 
 
 And still the boys are marching, are marching toward the 
 
 sea, 
 
 To suffer and to conquer, that all men may be free. 
 Be glad for them, O mothers ! and leave to me the tears 
 My son, who should be with them, is dead these many 
 
 years. 
 
79 
 
 THE RIVERS OF FRANCE 
 
 H. J. M. 
 IN THE ENGLISH REVIEW 
 
 'T'HE rivers of France are ten score and twain, 
 * But five are the names that we know 
 The Marne, the Vesle, the Ourcq, and the Aisne, 
 And the Somme of the swampy flow. 
 
 The rivers of France, from source to the sea, 
 
 Are nourished by many a rill, 
 But these five, if ever a drought there be, 
 
 The fountains of sorrow would fill. 
 
 The rivers of France shine silvery white, 
 
 But 'the waters of five are red 
 With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight 
 
 For Freedom, that ever was shed. 
 
 The rivers of France sing soft as they run, 
 
 But five have a song of their own, 
 That hymns the fall of the arrogant one 
 
 And the proud cast down from his throne. 
 
 The rivers of France all quietly take 
 To sleep in the house of their birth, 
 
 But the carnadined wave of five shall break 
 On the uttermost strands of Earth. 
 
 Five rivers of France, see their names are writ 
 
 On a banner of crimson and gold, 
 And the glory of those who fashioned it 
 
 Shall nevermore cease to be told. 
 
80 
 
 JUST THINKING 
 
 HUDSON HAWLEY 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A. E. F., FRANCE 
 
 CTANDIN' up here on the fire-step, 
 
 Lookin' ahead in the mist, 
 With a tin hat over your ivory 
 
 And a rifle clutched in your fist ; 
 Waitin' and watchin' and wond'rin' 
 
 If the Hun's comin' over tonight 
 Say, aren't the things you think of 
 
 Enough to give you a fright? 
 
 Things you ain't even thought of 
 
 For a couple o' months or more; 
 Things that 'ull set you laughin', 
 
 Things that 'ull make you sore ; 
 Things that you saw in the movies, 
 
 Things that you saw on the street, 
 Things that you're really proud of 
 
 Things that are not so sweet; 
 
 Debts that are past collectin', 
 
 Stories you hear and forget, 
 Ball games and birthday parties, 
 
 Hours of drill in the wet; 
 Headlines, recruitin' posters, 
 
 Sunset 'way out at sea, 
 Evenings of pay-days golly 
 
 It's a queer thing, this memory! 
 
 Faces of pals in Homeburg, 
 
 Voices of womenfolk, 
 Verses you learnt in schooldays 
 
 Pop up in the mist and smoke 
 
81 
 
 As you stand there grippin' that rifle, 
 A-starin', and chilled to the bone, 
 
 Wonderin' and wonderin' and wonde-rin', 
 Just thinkin' there all alone: 
 
 When will the war be over? 
 
 When will the gang break through? 
 What will the U. S. look like? 
 
 What will there be to do? 
 Where will the Boches be then? 
 
 Who will have married Nell? 
 When's the relief a-comin' up? 
 
 Gosh! But this thinkin's hell! 
 
 THE EVENING STAR 
 
 HAROLD SETON 
 IN THE CHICAGO EVENING POST 
 
 PHE evening star a child espied, 
 
 The one star in the sky. 
 "Is that God's service flag?" he cried, 
 And waited for reply. 
 
 The mother paused a moment ere 
 
 She told the little one 
 "Yes, that is why the star is there ! 
 
 God gave His only Son!" 
 
82 
 
 COLUMBIA'S PRAYER 
 
 THOMAS P. BASHAW 
 
 * IN THE HERALD AND EXAMINER, CHICAGO 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "DOY in khaki, boy in blue, 
 
 I am watching over you, 
 Going forth amid the rattle 
 Of the drums that call to battle. 
 
 Oft have men waged fight for me, 
 Fought to make their brothers free; 
 God protect and succor you, 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue. 
 
 God go with you on your mission, 
 And in His all-wise decision 
 Turn this tide of war to you, 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue. 
 
 With the Stars and Stripes high o'er you, 
 Snatch the vic'try just before you, 
 Heaven keep, encompass you, 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue. 
 
 When the foe is rent asunder, 
 And the world looks on in wonder, 
 Paying tribute rare to you, 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue, 
 
 God return you safe to me; 
 To Columbia Liberty; 
 'Tis my prayer, my hope for you, 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue. 
 
S3 
 
 TWO VIEWPOINTS 
 
 AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR 
 
 OF THE VIGILANTES 
 Permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 A German soldier in his journal wrote: 
 
 "LIE was a French Boy Scout a little lad 
 
 No bigger than my Hansel. He refused 
 To tell if any of his countrymen 
 Were hidden thereabout. Fifty yards on 
 We ran into an ambush. Well, of course 
 We shot him little fool! Poor little fool! 
 Thinking himself a hero as he stood 
 Facing our guns, so little and so young 
 Against the sunny vineyard-green, I thought 
 What wasted courage ! for the child was brave, 
 Fool as he was. The pity . 
 
 Here there came 
 A sudden shrapnel, and the writing stopped. . 
 
 Did I write that? O God did I write that? 
 
 Mine they were mine, the folly and the waste. 
 
 Now the keen edge of death has cut away 
 
 The eyelids of my soul and I must bear 
 
 The perfect understanding of the dead. 
 
 Now that I know myself as I am known, 
 
 How shall my soul endure Eternity? 
 
 God, God, if there be pity left for me, 
 
 Send to my son the child that I despised 
 
 A messenger to burn into his soul 
 
 While still he lives, the truth I died to learn! 
 
84 
 
 DESTROYERS 
 
 "KLAXON" 
 IN BLACKWOODS MAGAZINE 
 
 "THROUGH the dark night 
 * And the fury of battle 
 Pass the destroyers in showers of spray. 
 As the Wolf-pack to the flank of the cattle, 
 We shall close in on them shadows of gray. 
 
 In from ahead, 
 
 Through shell-flashes red, 
 We shall come down to them, after the Day, 
 
 Whistle and crash 
 
 Of salvo and volley 
 Round us and into us as we attack 
 Light on our target they'll flash in their folly, 
 Splitting our ears with shrapnel-crack. 
 
 Fire as they will, 
 
 We'll come to them still, 
 Roar as they may at us Back Go Back! 
 
 White though the sea 
 
 To the shell-splashes foaming, 
 We shall be there at the death of the Hun. 
 Only we pray for a star in the gloaming 
 (Light for torpedoes and none for a gun). 
 
 Lord of Thy Grace 
 
 Make it a race, 
 Over the sea with the night to run. 
 
NINETEEN-SEVENTEEN 
 
 SUSAN HOOKER WHITMAN 
 IN THE KANSAS CITY STAR 
 
 TT is long since knighthood was in flower, 
 
 There are no men today who tower 
 Above their kind the knights are dust, 
 Their names forgot, their good swords rust," 
 We idly say. And yet, in truth 
 The brave soul has eternal youth, 
 Like the great lighthouse rising free, 
 Whose far-flung beams guide ships at sea, 
 God lifts above his fellow man 
 A steadfast soul to dare and plan, 
 A king of men, by right divine, 
 Who in his forehead bears the sign 
 He walks along the city street; 
 Unknowing, in the fields we meet 
 A modern knight in whose hand lies 
 A mighty Nation's destinies. 
 
 Then say no more, the knights are gone; 
 Honor and Truth and Right live on, 
 And men today would keep the bridge 
 Horatius kept from rocky ridge 
 Heroic Youth would still fling down 
 His horse, himself, to save the town. 
 
 Columbia calls! 
 
 Off with your hats and lift them high, 
 Our own, our sons are passing by. 
 
86 
 
 THE SILENT ARMY. 
 
 IAN ADANAC 
 IN THE MONTREAL DAILY STAR 
 
 "VTO bugle is blown, no roll of drums, 
 
 No sound of an army marching. 
 No banners wave high, no battle-cry 
 Comes from the war-worn fields where they lie, 
 The blue sky overarching. 
 The call sounds clearer than the bugle call 
 From this silent, dreamless army. 
 "No cowards were we, when we heard the call, 
 For freedom we grudged not to give our all," 
 Is the call from the silent army. 
 
 Hushed and quiet and still they lie, 
 
 This silent, dreamless army, 
 
 While living comrades spring to their side, 
 
 And the bugle-call and the battle-cry 
 
 Are heard as dreamer and dreamless lie 
 
 Under the stars of the arching sky, 
 
 The men who have heard from the men who have died 
 
 The call of the silent army. 
 
 THE SOURCE OF NEWS 
 
 FROM THE NEEDLE 
 
 A BSOLUTE knowledge I have none, 
 But my aunt's washerwoman's son 
 Heard a policeman on his beat 
 Say to a laborer in the street 
 That he had a letter just last week, 
 Written in the finest Greek, 
 
 From a Chinese coolie in Timbuctoo, 
 Who said the niggers in Cuba knew 
 
87 
 
 Of a colored man in a Texas town 
 
 Who got it straight from a circus clown, 
 That a man in Klondike heard the news 
 From a gang of South American Jews, 
 
 About somebody in Bamboo 
 
 Who heard a man who claimed he knew 
 Of a swell society female rake 
 Whose mother-in-law will undertake 
 
 To prove that her husband's sister's niece 
 
 Has stated in a printed piece 
 
 That she has a son who has a friend 
 Who knows when the war is going to end. 
 
 TO MY SON 
 
 A poem, anonymous, sent to the Chicago Evening Post by one 
 whose son's regiment was leaving for France. 
 
 Y son, at last the fateful day has come 
 
 For us to part. The hours have nearly run. 
 May God return you safe to land and home ; 
 Yet, what God wills, so may His will be done. 
 
 Draw tight the belt about your slender frame ; 
 
 Flash blue your eyes! Hold high your proud young 
 
 head! 
 Today you march in Liberty's fair name, 
 
 To save the line enriched by France's dead ! 
 
 i would not it were otherwise. And yet 
 
 'Tis hard to speed your marching forth, my son! 
 
 'Tis doubly hard to live without regret 
 For love unsaid, and kindnesses undone. 
 
But would the chance were mine with you to stand 
 Upon those shores and see our flag unfurled! 
 
 To fight on France's brave, unconquered land 
 With Liberty's great sword for all the world! 
 
 Beyond the waves, my son, the siren calls, 
 The sky is black and Fastnet lies abreast ; 
 
 A signal rocket flings its stars and falls 
 
 Across the night to welcome England's guest. 
 
 When mid the scud you see the Cornish lights, 
 
 And through the mist you hear faint Devon chimes, 
 
 Thank God for memories of those other nights 
 And days on other ships in happier times. 
 
 Perhaps you'll stand within the pillared nave 
 And .aisles where colored sundust falls, and see 
 
 Old Canterbury Church where Becket gave 
 His life's best blood for England's liberty! 
 
 Same night you'll walk, perhaps, on Salisbury plain; 
 
 Above Stonehenge the Druid's stars still sleep, 
 And on the turf within the circled fane 
 
 Beneath the autumn moon still lie the sheep. 
 
 And if you march beside some Kentish hedge, 
 
 And blackberries hang thick clustered o'er the ways, 
 
 Pluck down a branch! Rest by the road's brown edge; 
 Eat! Nor forget our last vacation days! 
 
 And then the trench in battle-scarred Lorraine; 
 
 The town half burned but held in spite of hell; 
 The bridge twice taken, lost, and won again ; 
 
 The cratered glacis ripped with mine and shell. 
 
89 
 
 The leafless trees, bare-branched in spite of June; 
 
 The sodden road, the desolated plain; 
 The mateless birds, the season out of tune; 
 
 Fair France, at bay, is calling through her pain. 
 
 Oh, son ! My son ! God keep you safe and free 
 Our flag and you! But if the hour must come 
 
 To choose at last 'twixt self and liberty 
 
 We'll close our eyes! So let God's will be done! 
 
 EASTER-EGGS 
 
 REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 
 From this author's "Our Navy at Work," published by the Bobbs- 
 Merrill Co. In 1917, our Government took over a large number of 
 pleasure-yachts, fitted them with a few light guns and depth-charges 
 and sent them into French waters to hunt submarines. They were 
 variously known as "The Suicide Fleet" and "Easter-Eggs." Mr. Kauff- 
 man spent some time at sea with them. Permission to reproduce in 
 this book. 
 
 >J OW, Mr. Wall of Wall St., he built himself a yacht, 
 And he built that yacht for comfort and for speed ; 
 He didn't mean that it should go 
 Beyond a hundred miles or so; 
 He wanted something made for show, 
 Where he could drink and feed. 
 
 Then Uncle Sam'l went to war and hadn't any boats, 
 Or not enough to guard the stormy green, 
 
 And so he said to Mr. Wall: 
 
 "I'll take your six-feet-over-all 
 
 And set it out to get the call 
 Upon the submarine." 
 
 "A cruising-fighter ? Never!" (The experts chorused 
 
 that.) 
 
 "She'll sink before she's half-way out to France"; 
 But Sam cut out her bathtubs white, 
 He painted her a perfect fright 
 And loaded her with dynamite; 
 Says he: "I'll take a chance." 
 
90 
 
 "Good-night!" said Wall of Wall St.; the experts said 
 
 it, too; 
 
 But Uncle Sam was sot and sibylline ; 
 His little plan, it warn't a josh : 
 Wall's boat 's as dry 's a mackintosh ; 
 She rights, b' gum; what 's more, b' gosh, 
 She gits the submarine! 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 VICTOR PEROWNE 
 IN THE LONDON TIMES 
 
 'T'HOU art no longer here, 
 
 No longer shall we see thy face. 
 But, in that other place, 
 Where may be heard 
 The roar of the world rushing down the wantways of the 
 
 stars ; 
 
 And the silver bars 
 Of heaven's gate 
 Shine soft and clear: 
 Thou mayest wait. 
 
 No longer shall we see 
 Thee walking in the crowded streets, 
 But where the ocean of the Future beats 
 Against the flood-gates of the Present, swirling to this 
 earth, 
 
 Another birth 
 
 Thou mayest have; 
 
 Another Arcady 
 
 May thee receive. 
 
 Not here thou dost remain, 
 
 Thou art gone far away, 
 
91 
 
 Where, at the portals of the day, 
 
 The hours ever dance in ring, a silvern-footed throng, 
 
 While time looks on, 
 And seraphs stand 
 Choiring an endless strain 
 On either hand. 
 
 Thou canst return no more ; 
 Not as the happy time of spring 
 Comes after winter burgeoning 
 
 On wood and wold in folds of living green, for thou art 
 dead. 
 
 Our tears we shed 
 In vain, for thou 
 Dost pace another shore, 
 Untroubled now. 
 
 THE WOMAN'S GAME 
 
 AUTHORSHIP NOT KNOWN 
 
 "Vj[7AS there ever a game we did not share, 
 
 Brother of mine? 
 Or a day when I did not play you fair, 
 
 Brother of mine? 
 
 "As good as a boy," you used to say, 
 And I was as eager for the fray, 
 And as loath to cheat or to run away, 
 
 Brother of mine! 
 
 You are playing the game that is straight and true, 
 
 Brother of mine, 
 And I'd give my soul to stand next to you, 
 
 Brother of mine. 
 
92 
 
 The spirit, indeed, is still the same ; 
 I would not shrink from the battle's flame, 
 Yet here I stay at the woman's game, 
 Brother of mine! 
 
 If the last price must needs be paid, 
 
 Brother of mine, 
 You will go forward, unafraid, 
 
 Brother of mine. 
 
 Death can so small a part destroy, 
 You will have known the fuller joy 
 Ah ! would that I had been born a boy, 
 
 Brother of mine! 
 
 A FLEMISH VILLAGE 
 
 H. A. 
 IN LONDON SPECTATOR 
 
 is the spire that slept for centuries, 
 Whose image in the water, calm and low, 
 Was mingled with the lilies green and snow, 
 And lost itself in river mysteries. 
 The church lies broken near the fallen spire ; 
 For here, among these old and human things 
 Death swept along the street with feet of fire, 
 And went upon his way with moaning wings. 
 Above the cluster of these homes forlorn, 
 Where giant fleeces of the shells a.re rolled, 
 O'er pavements by the kneeling herdsmen worn, 
 The wounded saints look out to see their fold. 
 
 And silence follows fast, no evening peace, 
 But leaden stillness, when the thunder wanes, 
 Haunting the slender branches of the trees, 
 And settling low upon the listless plains. 
 
93 
 
 FRANCE 
 
 CAPT. JOSEPH MEDILL PATTERSON 
 
 IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 From the French of Armentier Ohanian 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 T WAS an exile from my own country and wandered 
 
 over the breast of the world seeking another country. 
 
 And I came into a land where there was only a long 
 
 spring and a long autumn, where they did not know the 
 
 deadly heats of our summers or the mortal colds of our 
 
 mountains. Among the vines and sunny fields I saw the 
 
 people of this land at work, ever young of soul, smiling, 
 
 loving, and kindly. 
 
 I asked, "What is the name of this happy place?" 
 And the answer was, "France the voluptuous." 
 I came to towns of splendid monuments, of harmoni- 
 ous buildings, of proud triumphal arches of the past, and 
 above always I saw the spires of great cathedrals stretch- 
 ing toward the sky, as if to seize upon the feet of God. 
 I asked, "What is the name of this marvelous land?" 
 And the answer was, "France the glorious." 
 I advanced again, when I was struck by the red color 
 of a large river. ... It was a river of warm blood 
 that rolled down from afar in thick and heavy waves. 
 I advanced again. Before me dark clouds of smoke hid 
 the endless sky above huge fields of warriors in battle ; 
 when these died smiling at death others took their places, 
 singing. 
 
 1 asked, "What is the name of this chivalrous land?" 
 And the answer was, "France the courageous." 
 At last I came to an immense city, of which I saw 
 neither the beginning nor the end, a city full of sumptu- 
 ous palaces, of parks, and fountains. The sun glistened 
 on the marble of the streets and kissed the serene, resigned 
 
94 
 
 faces of women clothed in black. The chimes of churches 
 filled the air with solemn sounds, and words, until then 
 unknown to me, "Te Deum," came from the throats of 
 thousands of thousands. 
 
 With respect I asked, "What is the name of this land 
 that mourns?" 
 
 And the answer was, "France the victorious." 
 I kissed the earth of this land and said, "I have found 
 my country, who was an exile." 
 
 THE CLERK 
 
 B. H. M. HETHERINGTON 
 IN THE LONDON BOOKMAN 
 
 "DERCHED upon an office stool, neatly adding figures, 
 
 With cuffs gone shiny and a pen behind his ear; 
 Deep in Liabilities, Goods and Double Entry, 
 So he worked from year to year. 
 
 Diligent and careful, hedged about with figures, 
 Given soul and body to discount and per cent; 
 
 Bounded by the columns of Purchase Book and Journal, 
 Soberly his moments went. 
 
 Now his pen has ceased from adding rows of figures, ' 
 Ceased from ruling ledgers and entering amounts: 
 
 Clad in sodden khaki, with a gun in Flanders 
 He is balancing accounts. 
 
95 
 
 POILU 
 
 STEUART M. EMERY, A. E. F. 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES 
 
 The traditional friendship between the United States and France 
 was recemented under the fire of German guns. In France they 
 celebrated our Fourth of July ; in this country, we celebrated the 
 Fourteenth of July, the anniversary of the fall of the Bastile. Yank 
 and Poilu are brothers in war, don't mind the languages. The inex- 
 tinguishable humor of France never showed more quaintly than in 
 that word, "Poilu." It means "unshaven." More freely, "a man who 
 needs a shave." A whimsical comment upon the French soldier's way 
 of letting his beard grow while he is in the field. Those boys were like 
 the English and our own. They smiled at misery. They were good 
 old sports, bless 'em! 
 
 "V^OU'RE a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap 
 
 And your war worn, faded uniform of blue, 
 With your multitude of haversacks abulge from heel to 
 
 flap 
 
 And your rifle that is most as big as you. 
 You were made for love and laughter, for good wine 
 
 and merry song, 
 
 Now your sunlit world has sadly gone astray, 
 And the road today you travel stretches rough and red 
 
 and long, 
 Yet you make it, petit soldat, brave and gay. 
 
 Though you live within the shadow, fagged and hungry 
 
 half the while, 
 
 And your days and nights are racking in the line, 
 There is nothing under heaven that can take away your 
 
 smile, 
 
 Oh, so wistful, and so patient and so fine. 
 You are tender as a woman with the tiny ones who crowd 
 
 To upraise their lips and for your kisses pout, 
 Still, we'd hate to have to face you when the bugle's 
 
 sounding loud 
 And your slim, steel sweetheart Rosalie is out. 
 
96 
 
 You're devoted to mustaches which you twirl with such 
 
 an air 
 
 O'er a cigarette with nigh an inch to run, 
 And quite often you are noticed in a beard that's full of 
 
 hair, 
 
 But that heart of yours is always twenty-one. 
 No, you do not "parlee English," and you find it very hard, 
 For you want to chum with us and words you lack; 
 So you pat us on the shoulder and say, "Nous sommes 
 
 camarades." 
 We are that, my poilu pal, to hell and back! 
 
 AUSTRALIA'S MEN 
 
 DOROTHEA MACKELLAR 
 
 Miss Mackellar is the daughter of Sir Charles Mackellar, Chairman 
 of the Bank of New South Wales. Acknowledgment is due Dr. George 
 Cooke-Adams, formerly an officer in the Australian naval forces, through 
 whose courtesy her verses are presented here. 
 
 HP HERE are some that go for love of a fight 
 
 And some for love of a land, 
 And some for a dream of the world set free 
 Which they barely understand. 
 
 A dream of the world set free from Hate 
 
 But splendidly, one and all, 
 Danger they drink as 'twere wine of Life 
 
 And jest as they reel and fall. 
 
 Clean aims, rare faculties, strength and youth, 
 They have poured them freely forth 
 
 For the sake of the sun-steeped land they left 
 And the far green isle in the north. 
 
 What can we do to be worthy of them, 
 Now hearts are breaking for pride? 
 
 Give comfort at least to the wounded men 
 And the kin of the man that died. 
 
97 
 
 TANKS 
 
 O. C. A. CHILD 
 
 S, back at home I used to drive a tram ; 
 And Sammy, there, he was a driver, too 
 He used to ride his racer did Sir Sam ; 
 While pokey London streets was all I knew. 
 
 But now, His Nibs and I, of equal rank, 
 Are chummy as the paper and the wall, 
 
 Each tooling of a caterpillar tank, 
 
 Each waiting on the blest old bugle call. 
 
 Say! Tanks are sport when you get used to them, 
 They're like a blooming railroad, self-contained ; 
 
 They lay their tracks, as you might say pro tern, 
 And pick 'em up, and there's good distance gained. 
 
 They roar across rough country like a gale, 
 They lean against a house and push it down, 
 
 They're like a baby fortress under sail, 
 And antic as a three-ring circus clown. 
 
 Sam says they're slow. They may seem so to him 
 They can't show fancy mile-a-minute stuff, 
 
 But when they charge, in armored fighting trim, 
 You bet the Germans find 'em fast enough ! 
 
 Now Sam and I are waiting, side by side, 
 To steam across yon farm-land in the night ; 
 
 We'll take their blamed barbed wire in our stride 5 
 And stamp a German trench line out of sight. 
 
98 
 
 A HYMN OF FREEDOM 
 
 MARY PERRY KING 
 
 IN COLLIER'S WEEKLY 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 TTNFURL the flag of Freedom, 
 
 Fling far the bugle blast ! 
 There comes a sound of marching 
 
 From out the mighty past. 
 Let every peak and valley 
 
 Take up the valiant cry: 
 Where, beautiful as morning, 
 
 Our banner cuts the sky. 
 
 Free born to peace and justice, 
 
 We stand to guard and save 
 The liberty of manhood, 
 
 The faith our fathers gave. 
 Then soar aloft, Old Glory, 
 
 And tell the waiting breeze 
 No law but Right and Mercy 
 
 Shall rule the Seven Seas. 
 
 No hate is in our anger, 
 
 No vengeance in our wrath, 
 We hold the line of freedom 
 
 Across the tyrant's path. 
 Where'er oppression vaunteth 
 
 We loose the sword once more 
 To stay the feet of conquest, 
 
 And pray an end of war. 
 
99 
 
 SWAN SONGS 
 
 \>f ORE than all the others put together, the war poems 
 of Alan Seeger, Lieutenant Colonel McCrae, and 
 Lieut. Rupert Brooke, have touched and thrilled the 
 heart of America. They are quiet, earnest, yet more 
 powerful than trumpet blasts, for they rise triumphant 
 from great depths, and as they sing, exalt. 
 
 Most familiar is our own Alan Seeger's "I Have a 
 Rendezvous with Death." He was studying in Paris 
 when the war broke out. In the third week he enlisted 
 in the Foreign Legion. Two arduous years later he 
 was called on higher service. July 4, 1916, his squad 
 was caught in an assault on the village of Belloy-en- 
 Santerre, where the Germans received them with the 
 fire of six machine guns. Seeger was severely wounded, 
 but went forward with the others, and helped take the 
 place. Next morning he died. He had kept the tryst. 
 
 .Alan Seeger was a New York boy. He was born in 
 that city June 22, 1888. In his short life he had written 
 some twenty poems. This was his last. It w-js written 
 in camp, shortly before his call came: 
 
 I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH* 
 
 T HAVE a rendezvous with Death 
 ' At some disputed barricade 
 When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
 And apple blossoms fill the air. 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 When Spring brings back blue days and fair 
 
 *From "Poems," by Alan Seeger. Copyright, 1916, by Charles Scrib 
 ner's Sons, Publishers, New York. Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
100 
 
 It may be he shall take my hand 
 
 And lead me into his dark land 
 
 And close my eyes and quench my breath; 
 
 It may be I shall pass him, still, 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 
 
 On some scarred slope of battered hill, 
 
 When Spring comes round again this year 
 
 And the first meadow flowers appear. 
 
 God knows 'twere better to be deep 
 Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
 Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, 
 Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
 Where hushed awakenings are dear. 
 But I've a rendezvous with Death 
 At midnight in some flaming town, 
 When Spring trips north again this year, 
 And I to my pledged word am true. 
 I shall not fail that rendezvous. 
 
 Lieut. Col. John McCrae was a Canadian physician 
 who served in the South African war as an artilleryman. 
 He was on his way to Canada when the war began in 
 1914, and immediately upon landing he entered the Val 
 Cartier training camp and was commissioned a Captain. 
 Later he joined the McGill Hospital corps and went with 
 it to France, where he rose to the rank of Lieutenant 
 Colonel, and died in service, January 28, 1918. 
 
 His poem, "In Flanders' Fields," was written on the 
 Flanders front in the Spring of 1915. Its inspiration is 
 thus explained by Sergeant Charles E. Bisset, of the 19th 
 Battalion, 1st Brigade, Canadian Infantry: 
 
"On the Flanders front in the early Spring of 1915, 
 when the war had settled down to trench righting, two 
 of the most noticeable features of the field were, first, 
 the luxuriant growth of red poppies appearing among 
 the graves- of the fallen soldiers, and second, that only 
 one species of bird the larks remained on the field 
 during the fighting. As soon as the cannonading ceased, 
 they would rise in the air, singing." 
 
 IN FLANDERS FIELDS 
 
 TN Flanders' fields the poppies blow 
 Between the crosses, row on row, 
 That mark our place, and in the sky 
 The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
 Scarce heard amid the guns below. 
 
 We are the Dead! Short days ago 
 We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
 Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
 In Flanders' fields. 
 
 Take up our quarrel with the foe! 
 To you from failing hands we throw 
 The Torch. Be yours to hold it high ! 
 If ye break faith with us who die 
 We shall not sleep, though poppies grow, 
 In Flanders' fields. 
 
 Rupert Brooke, a brilliant, impassioned young Eng- 
 lishman, was one of the first to take arms when Great 
 Britain went to war. He died in the Dardanelles expe- 
 
102 
 
 dition, April 23, 1915. A few days before, he had sent 
 from the /Egean Sea to the English-speaking peoples the 
 poem by which he is best known : 
 
 THE SOLDIER* 
 
 TF I should die, think only this of me: 
 
 That there's some corner of a foreign field 
 That is for ever England. There shall be 
 
 In that rich earth a richer dust concealed, 
 A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 
 
 Gave once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
 ,A body of England's breathing English air, 
 
 Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 
 And think, this heart, all evil shed away, 
 
 A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 
 
 Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; 
 Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; 
 
 And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, 
 
 In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 
 
 Lieutenant Brooke was a rare poet, having a serene 
 faith, a knowledge of life as continuous. His bent of 
 thought, the manner of his feeling, shine most clearly in 
 this sonnet: 
 
 NOT WITH VAIN TEARS 
 
 with vain tears, w r hen we're beyond the sun, 
 We'll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread 
 Those dusty highroads of the aimless dead, 
 Plaintive for Earth ; but rather turn and run 
 Down some close-covered byway of the air, 
 
 *"The Soldier," and "Not With Vain Tears" are from "The Col- 
 lected Poems of Rupert Brooke," published and copyright, 1915, by John 
 Lane Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this 
 book. 
 
Some low, sweet alley between wind and wind, 
 
 Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find 
 Some whispering, ghost-forgotten nook, and there 
 Spend in pure converse our eternal day; 
 
 Think each in each, immediately wise; 
 Learn all we lacked before; hear, know and say 
 
 What this tumultuous body now denies; 
 And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; 
 
 And see, no longer blinded by our eyes. 
 
 All of Rupert Brooke's work has been collected and 
 issued, a rich though slender sheaf. The book is fervently 
 commended to people whose own souls are in the key that 
 responds to notes so spiritually fine and clear as those 
 he sounds in all his lines. 
 
 "But a Short Time to Live" was written by Serg't 
 Leslie Coulson, whose "little hour" came to an end at 
 Arras, in France, October 7, 1916: 
 
 BUT A SHORT TIME TO LIVE 
 
 (~)UR little hour how swift it flies 
 
 When poppies flare and lilies smile ; 
 How soon the fleeting minute dies, 
 
 Leaving us but a little while 
 To dream our dreams, to sing our song, 
 
 To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower. 
 The gods they do not give us long 
 
 One little hour. 
 
 Our little hour how soon it dies; 
 How short a time to tell our beads, 
 
104 
 
 To chant our feeble litanies, 
 
 To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. 
 The altar lights grow pale and dim, 
 
 The bells hang silent in the tower 
 So passes with the dying hymn 
 
 Our little hour. 
 
 These songs, with others that have lilted so bravely, 
 so gravely, through the world's most bitter years of tra- 
 vail, will live long in literature, with many more as 
 strong or as sweet. Had all the writers lived, we would 
 have had a wealth of splendid gifts from them, espe- 
 cially, maybe, from that "poor bird-hearted singer of 
 a day," Francis Ledwidge, who fell in battle in Flan- 
 ders, July 31, 1917. Ledwidge was discovered by Lord 
 Dunsany, himself a soldier-poet and a patron of poets. 
 He was lance corporal in Lord Dunsany's company in 
 the 5th Battalion of the Royal Inniskillen Fusileers. 
 He wrote quite touchingly to a friend shortly before 
 the end, "I mean to do something great if I am spared, 
 but out here one may at any moment be hurled out 
 of life." There is no doubt he would have done "some- 
 thing great," for here is a swan song not unworthy to bear 
 his name to later times: 
 
 THE LOST ONES 
 
 COMEWHERE is music from the linnets' bills, 
 
 And through the sunny flowers the bee wings drone, 
 And white bells of convolvulus on hills 
 
 Of quiet May make silent ringing blown 
 Hither and thither by the wind of showers, 
 
 And somewhere all the wandering birds have flown; 
 
105 
 
 And the brown breath of Autumn chills the flowers. 
 But where are all the loves of long ago? 
 
 O little twilight ship blown up the tide, 
 Where are the faces laughing in the glow 
 
 Of morning years, the lost ones scattered wide? 
 Give me your hand, O brother; let us go 
 
 Crying about the dark for those who died. 
 
 THE FLAG SPEAKS 
 
 WALTER E. PECK 
 IN THE HAMILTON LITERARY MAGAZINE 
 
 IBBONS of white in the flag of our land, 
 
 Say, shall we live in fear? 
 Speak! For I wait for the word from your lips 
 Wet with the brine of the sea-going ships; 
 Speak! Shall we cringe 'neath an Attila's whips? 
 Speak ! For I wait to hear ! 
 
 "This is our word," said the ribbons of white ; 
 "This is the course to steer 
 Peace is our haven for foul or for fair 
 Won as a maiden and kept as an heir, 
 Peace with the sunlight of God on her hair, 
 Peace, with an honor clear!" 
 
 Ribbons of red in the flag of our land, 
 
 Bought for a price full dear, 
 
 Speak! For 'tis Man that is asking Man, 
 
 Churl in the centuries' caravan, 
 
 Speak! For he waits for your bold "I can!'* 
 
 Speak! For he waits to hear! 
 
106 
 
 "This is our word," said the ribbons of red, 
 Slowly, with gaze austere, 
 "War if we must in humanity's name, 
 Shielding a sister from sorrow and shame; 
 War upon beasts with the sword and with flame! 
 War till the Judge appear!" 
 
 Stars in a field of the sky's own blue, 
 Light of a midnight year, 
 Speak! For the spirit of Man awakes, 
 Shoulders the cross, and his couch forsakes, 
 Whispers a prayer, and the long way takes, 
 Speak! For he w T aits to hear! 
 
 "This is our word," said a star of white, 
 
 Set in the silken mere, 
 
 "Right against Might on the land, on the sea! 
 
 Little and Great are the same to me! 
 
 Only for Truth and for Liberty 
 
 Strike! For the hour is here!" 
 
 THE CALL 
 
 (FRANCE, AUGUST IST, 1914) 
 ROBERT W. SERVICE 
 
 From "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," a book of fine poems by 
 Mr. Service. Published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New 
 York. Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 1CAR and near, high and clear, 
 
 1 Hark to the call of War! 
 Over the gorse and the golden dells, 
 Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, 
 Praying and saying of wild farewells: 
 'War! War! War! 
 
107 
 
 High and low, all must go: 
 
 Hark to the shout of War! 
 Leave to the women the harvest yield; 
 Gird ye, men, for the sinister field ; 
 A sabre instead of a scythe to wield. 
 
 War! Red war! 
 
 Rich and poor, lord and boor, 
 
 Hark to the blast of War! 
 Tinker and tailor and millionaire, 
 Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, 
 Comrades now in the hell out there, 
 
 Sweep to the fire of War! 
 
 Prince and page, sot and sage, 
 
 Hark to the roar of War! 
 Poet, professor and circus clown, 
 Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, 
 Into the pot and be melted down 
 
 Into the pot of War! 
 
 Women all, hear the call, 
 
 The pitiless call of War! 
 Look your last on your dearest ones, 
 Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: 
 Swift they go to the ravenous guns, 
 
 The gluttonous guns of War! 
 
 Everywhere thrill the air 
 
 The maniac bells of War! 
 There will be little of sleeping tonight; 
 There will be wailing and weeping tonight; 
 Death's red sickle is reaping tonight: 
 
 War! War! War! 
 
108 
 
 THE CRUTCHES' TUNE 
 
 ELIZABETH R. STONER 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 T^OWN the street, with a lilting swing 1 , 
 ^ Each so bright that never a thing 
 Seemed to harass, so proud were they; 
 One leg gone, but their hearts were gay. 
 
 Clickety clack, went the crutches' tune. 
 God! How can they be brave so soon! 
 Brave, when I can not keep back the tears, 
 Thinking ahead of the crippled years. 
 
 With a rhythmic swing they passed me by, 
 
 And although, at first, I wanted 'to cry, 
 
 I didn't, because on each smiling face 
 
 Was the peace of God and the pride of race. 
 
 And the splendid pair, each with one leg gone, 
 Swung out of sight to the crutches' song. 
 And I thought I would give all my future joys 
 To feel just like those Canadian boys. 
 
 All night long, like an ancient rune, 
 Rang through my dreams the crutches' tune. 
 I shall never forget, though I'm old and gray, 
 The song that the crutches sang that day. 
 
109 
 
 THE ANXIOUS DEAD 
 
 LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE 
 IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR 
 
 GUNS, fall silent till the dead men hear 
 Above their heads the legions pressing on! 
 (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear 
 And died not knowing how the day had gone.) 
 
 O flashing muzzles, pause and let them see 
 The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar! 
 
 Then let your mighty chorus witness be 
 
 To them, and Caesar, that we still make war. 
 
 Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call ; 
 
 That we have sworn and will not turn aside ; 
 That we will onward till we win or fall ; 
 
 That we will keep the faith for which they died. 
 
 Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, 
 
 They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep 
 
 Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn, 
 And in content may turn them to their sleep. 
 
110 
 
 HOME 
 
 REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 
 From Mr. Kauffman's book of poems, "Little Old Belgium." 
 Henry Altemus Company, Publishers, Philadelphia. Copyright, 1914. 
 Reproduced in this book by special permission. 
 
 At a pillaged hamlet near Termonde, I asked a dying 
 peasant woman into which of the houses still standing 
 I should assist her which was her home? She pressed 
 a withered hand to her bayonet-pierced side and an- 
 swered : "The Germans have taken one home from me ; 
 but, without knowing it, they have given me another. I 
 am going there now." 
 
 "H/f Y house that I so soon shall own 
 
 Is builded in a silent place, 
 Not uncompanioned or alone, 
 
 But shared by almost all my race; 
 No landscape from its windows rolls 
 
 A picture of the earth's increase; 
 But, oh, for all our stricken souls, 
 
 Within its sturdy walls is Peace. 
 
 The other house I used to love 
 
 Before they burnt it overhead ; 
 My slaughtered man; the memory of 
 
 Our daughter screaming in the red 
 Embrace of Uhlans at my door, 
 
 Her shrieks all silenced by their shout 
 Of drunken fury that was war, 
 
 And my new home will shut it out. 
 
 I shall not see the German hands 
 
 That tear the baby from the breast; 
 
 I shall not hear the plundering bands 
 Laughing at murder: I shall rest. 
 
 There Joy shall never riot in 
 Nor robber sorrow find his way; 
 
Ill 
 
 Those shutters bar the call of Sin, 
 And Duty has no debt to pay. 
 
 So much I shall be heedless of, 
 
 Serene, secure, dispassionate; 
 There is not anything to love; 
 
 There is not anything to hate. 
 So in my house I shall forget 
 
 All of the orgies and the strife, 
 And find, past memory and regret, 
 
 The Resurrection and the Life. 
 
 TO HAPPIER DAYS 
 
 MABEL McELLIOTT 
 IN THE CHICAGO SUNDAY TRIBUNE 
 
 A GAINST the shabby house I pass each day 
 '^(The town is strange, and all so new to see) 
 Pink hollyhocks made friendly sport of me, 
 With nod and smile and endless courtesy 
 Enlive the lonely sameness of my way. 
 Slim little maids in rosy morning frocks, 
 They make a splash of color on the gray 
 The sun so bright a pity not to play, 
 But this old world is sadly work-a-day, 
 And I must hasten on, my hollyhocks! 
 
 I like to think that somewhere, overseas, 
 
 Perhaps in some neglected garden place, 
 
 Shy flowers from home lean out with wayward grace 
 
 Blue iris and the valley lilies' lace 
 
 Reminding them of happier times than these, . . . 
 
 Of happy times that are so soon to be, 
 
 When they come marching home to us our men 
 
 The world's work done, the land made clean again! 
 
112 
 
 YOUR LAD, AND MY LAD 
 
 RANDALL PARRISH 
 IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 1T\OWN toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb 
 
 of drum, 
 
 From city street and country lane the lines of khaki come ; 
 The rumbling guns, the sturdy tread, are full of grim 
 
 appeal, 
 While rays of western sunshine flash back from burnished 
 
 steel. 
 With eager eyes and cheeks aflame the serried ranks 
 
 advance ; 
 And your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to 
 
 France. 
 
 A sob clings choking in the throat, as file on file sweep by, 
 Between those cheering multitudes, to where the great 
 
 ships lie; 
 The batteries halt, the columns wheel, to clear-toned 
 
 bugle-call. 
 With shoulders squared and faces front they stand a 
 
 khaki wall. 
 Tears shine on every watcher's cheek, love speaks in every 
 
 glance ; 
 For your dear lad, and my dear lad, are on their way to 
 
 France. 
 
 Before them, through a mist of years, in soldier buff or 
 
 blue, 
 Brave comrades from a thousand fields watch now in 
 
 proud review ; 
 The same old Flag, the same old Faith, the Freedom 
 
 of the World 
 
113 
 
 Spells Duty in those flapping folds above long ranks un- 
 furled. 
 
 Strong are the hearts which bear along Democracy's 
 advance, 
 
 As your dear lad, and my dear lad-, go on their way to 
 France. 
 
 The word rings out ; a million feet tramp forward on the 
 road, 
 
 Along that path of sacrifice o'er which their fathers 
 strode. 
 
 With eager eyes and cheeks aflame, with cheers on smil- 
 ing lips, 
 
 These fighting men of '17 move onward to their ships. 
 
 Nor even love may hold them back, nor halt that stern 
 advance, 
 
 As your dear lad, and my dear lad, go on their way to 
 France. 
 
 "AS SHE IS SPOKE" 
 
 BOSTON TRANSCRIPT 
 
 T'VE heard a half a dozen times 
 
 1 Folks call it Reims. 
 
 That isn't right, though, so it seems, 
 
 Perhaps it's Reims. 
 Poor city ruined now by flames 
 
 Can it be Reims? 
 That once was one of France's gems 
 
 More likely Reims. 
 I'll get it right sometime, perchance ; 
 
 I'm told it's Reims. 
 
114 
 
 THE SPIRES OF OXFORD 
 
 (SEEN FROM THE TRAIN) 
 WINIFRED M. LETTS 
 
 From "The Spires of Oxford and Other Poems," by Winifred M. 
 Letts, published and copyright, 1917, by E. P. Dutton & Company, New 
 York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 T SAW the spires of Oxford 
 
 As I was passing by, 
 The gray spires of Oxford 
 Against a pearl-gray sky. 
 My heart was with the Oxford men 
 Who went abroad to die. 
 
 The years go fast in Oxford, 
 
 The golden years and gay, 
 
 The hoary colleges look down 
 
 On careless boys at play. 
 
 But when the bugles sounded War! 
 
 They put their games away. 
 
 They left the peaceful river, 
 The cricket field, the quad, 
 The shaven lawns of Oxford 
 To seek a bloody sod 
 They gave their merry youth away 
 For country and for God. 
 
 God rest you, happy gentlemen, 
 Who laid your good lives down, 
 Who took the khaki and the gun 
 Instead of cap and gown. 
 God bring you to a fairer place 
 Than even Oxford town. 
 
115 
 
 THE GENTLEMEN OF OXFORD 
 
 NORAH M. HOLLAND 
 
 IN EVERYWOMAN'S WORLD 
 
 'T'HE sunny streets of Oxford 
 
 Are lying still and bare. 
 No sound of voice or laughter 
 
 Rings through the golden air; 
 And, chiming from her belfry, 
 
 No longer Christchurch calls 
 The eager, boyish faces 
 
 To gather in her halls. 
 
 The colleges are empty. 
 
 Only the sun and wind 
 Make merry in the places 
 
 The lads have left behind. 
 But, when the trooping shadows 
 
 Have put the day to flight, 
 The Gentlemen of Oxford 
 
 Come homing through the night. 
 
 From France they come, and Flanders, 
 
 From Mons, and Marne and Aisne. 
 From Greece and from Gallipoli 
 
 They come to her again ; 
 From the North Sea's grey waters, 
 
 From many a grave unknown, 
 The Gentlemen of Oxford 
 
 Come back to claim their own. 
 
 The dark is full of laughter, 
 Boy laughter, glad and young. 
 
 They tell the old-time stories, 
 The old-time songs are sung; 
 
116 
 
 They linger in her cloisters, 
 They throng her dewy meads, 
 
 Till Isis hears their calling 
 And laughs among her reeds. 
 
 But, when the east is whitening 
 
 To greet the rising sun, 
 And slowly, over Carfax, 
 
 The stars fade, one by one, 
 Then, when the dawn-wind whispers 
 
 Along the Isis shore, 
 The Gentlemen of Oxford 
 
 Must seek their graves once more. 
 
 WITH THE SAME PRIDE 
 
 THEODOSIA GARRISON 
 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to. rep reduce in this book 
 
 ("WE star for all she had, 
 
 And in her heart 
 One wound yet is she glad 
 
 For all its smart 
 As they are glad who bear 
 
 The pangs of birth 
 That a new soul and fair 
 
 May come to earth, 
 Seeing she, too, was one 
 
 Who from Death's strife 
 Granted her first-born son 
 
 Proudly to Life. 
 Now with that very faith 
 
 Life justified, 
 She grants a son to Death 
 
 With the same pride. 
 
117 
 
 ACELDAMA 
 
 DR. GEORGE F. BUTLER 
 IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB'S MAGAZINE 
 
 CTILL breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care 
 
 And labor of the world ; hushed is the grove, 
 And overhead the vireo's note of love 
 
 Floats like a joyful utterance of prayer. 
 
 Soft insect murmurs fill the enchanted air. 
 Into a fairer day earth seems to move, 
 And statelier thoughts lift mortal sense above 
 
 Life's sin and pain ; the sorrow and despair. 
 
 But hark! where now the noonday beams are shed 
 In sorrowing Europe, trembles a sound 
 Of thunder, and the land with dews of blood 
 
 Is drenched; while o'er the dying and the dead 
 
 Fate turns to weep o'er every pleading wound 
 Can earth o'ercome the evil with the good? 
 
 But yesterday two monarchs, held in check 
 
 Like bloodhounds in the leash, broke forth before 
 The eyes of Christendom, and in the roar 
 Of lurid conflict heard not the wild shriek 
 Of outraged millions now again the wreck 
 Of crushed humanity must strew death's shore 
 With ghastly ruin crying evermore, 
 "Shame! Wretch of mortal form and vulture's beak- 
 To ask God's aid and Christ's! O, hour of woe! 
 Cover, O night of ages, the dread birth 
 Of man's Imperial hate! -Let kings go down 
 That peoples may aspire and live and own 
 A holier stature, and this crimsoned earth 
 Drink the pure light of Freedom's afterglow!" 
 
 Sunday in August, 1914 
 
118 
 
 THE LONELY GARDEN 
 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to repro- 
 duce in this book. 
 
 T WONDER what the trees will say, 
 
 The trees that used to share his play, 
 An' knew him as the little lad 
 Who used to wander with his dad. 
 They've watched him grow from year to year 
 Since first the good Lord sent him here; 
 This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time, 
 The little fellow tried t' climb ; 
 An' never a spring has come but he 
 Has called upon his favorite tree. 
 I wonder what they all will say 
 When they are told he's marched away. 
 
 I wonder what the birds will say, 
 The swallow an' the chatterin' jay, 
 The robin an' the kildeer, too. 
 For every one o' them he knew, 
 An' every one o' them knew him, 
 Waited each spring t' tell him all 
 They'd done and seen since 'way last fall. 
 He was the first to greet 'em here 
 An' hoppin' there from limb t' limb, 
 As they returned from year t' year; 
 An' now I wonder what they'll say 
 When they are told he's marched away. 
 
 I wonder how the roses there 
 Will get along without his care, 
 An' how the lilac bush will face 
 
119 
 
 The loneliness about th' place, 
 For ev'ry spring an' summer he 
 Has been the chum o' plant an' tree, 
 An' every livin' thing has known 
 A comradeship that's finer grown 
 By havin' him from year t' year. 
 Now very soon they'll all be here, 
 An' I'm wonderin' what they'll say 
 When they find out he's marched away. 
 
 THE BRITISH ARMY OF 1914 
 
 ALFRED W. POLLARD 
 
 IN WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 
 
 ET us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died 
 
 in our cause. 
 They went forth a little army : all its men were as true as 
 
 steel. 
 The hordes of the enemy were hurled against them: they 
 
 fell back, but their hearts failed not. 
 They went forward again and held their ground: though 
 
 their foes were as five to one. 
 They gave time for our host to muster: the most of the 
 
 men who never thought to fight. 
 A great host and a mighty: worthy of the men who died 
 
 to gain them time. 
 Let us praise God for these men: let us remember them 
 
 before Him all our days. 
 Let us care for the widows and orphans : and for the men 
 
 who came home maimed. 
 Truly God has been with us: these things were not done 
 
 without His help. 
 O Lord our God, be Thou still our helper: make us 
 
 worthy of those who died. 
 
120 
 
 MORITURI TE SALUTANT 
 
 P. H. B. L. 
 IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR 
 
 TN this last hour, before the bugles blare 
 
 The summons of the dawn, we turn again 
 To you, dear country, you whom unaware, 
 Through summer years of idle selfishness, 
 We still have loved who loved us none the less, 
 Knowing the destined hour \vould find us men. 
 
 O thrill and laughter of the busy town! 
 
 O flower valleys, trees against the skies, 
 
 Wild moor and woodland, glade and sweeping down, 
 
 O land of our desire! like men asleep 
 
 We have let pass the years, nor felt you creep 
 
 So close into our hearts' dear sanctities. 
 
 So, we are dreamers; but our dreams are cast 
 Henceforward in a more heroic mold; 
 We have kept faith with our immortal past. 
 Knights we have found the lady of our love; 
 Minstrels have heard great harmonies above 
 The lyrics that enraptured us of old. 
 
 The dawn's aglow with luster of the sun 
 O love, O burning passion, that has made 
 Our day illustrious till its hours are done 
 Fire our dull hearts, that, in our sun's eclipse, 
 When Death stoops low to kiss us on the lips, 
 He still may find us singing, unafraid. 
 
 One thing we know, that love so greatly spent 
 Dies not when lovers die: From hand to hand 
 We pass the torch and perish well content, 
 If in dark years to come our countrymen 
 Feel the divine flame leap in them again, 
 And so remember us and understand. 
 
121 
 
 "BLIGHTY" AND "GONE WEST" 
 
 "D RITISH soldiers in France have developed a terminol- 
 ogy that is plain to them, but confusing to civilians. 
 They speak of "Blighty," for example, and of "Gone 
 West." These two terms express hopes Blighty meaning 
 home ; in common acceptance, home for rest and recupera- 
 tion. "Gone West" means gone from the east with its 
 conflict to the refuge of death, where peace waits in the 
 glory of sunset. 
 
 "Blighty" is of Hindu origin. British officers in South 
 Africa who had served in India used the word, which 
 is an Anglicized form of the Indian word "vilayti," 
 meaning European. Englishmen being about the only 
 Europeans the natives knew, its application narrowed 
 down to England only ; and the army fell into a way 
 of using it as a synonym of home. When the troops 
 from India came into action early in the war, their 
 wounded were sent to the nearest English great hospital, 
 at Brighton, just across the channel. The consonance of 
 Brighton and vilayti or Blighty was so close that these 
 men used their own word as a matter of course, and in 
 this way it floated into general use. 
 
 It has acquired a new sense of late. Casualties inter- 
 mediate to those too severe for removal and those that 
 can be treated in field hospitals, are sent to England 
 to Blighty and are themselves called Blighty, meaning 
 wounds that get a man home. Lieut. Siegfried Sassoon 
 has woven the idea into a plaintively whimsical bit of 
 verse which he calls 
 
 BLIGHTY 
 
 T-TE woke: the clank and racket of the train 
 
 Kept time with angry throbbings in his brain, 
 . At last he lifted his bewildered eyes 
 And blinked, and rolled them sidelong:; hills and skies, 
 
122 
 
 Heavily wooded, hot with August haze, 
 And, slipping backward, golden for his gaze, 
 Acres of harvest. 
 
 Feebly now he drags 
 
 Exhausted ego back from glooms and quags 
 And blasting tumult, terror, hurtling glare, 
 To calm and'brightness, havens of sweet air. 
 
 He sighed, confused ; then drew a cautious breath ; 
 This level journeying was no ride through death. 
 "If I were dead," he mused, "there'd be no thinking- 
 Only some plunging underworld of sinking, 
 And hueless, shifting welter where I'd drown." 
 Then he remembered that his name was Brown. 
 
 But was he back in Blighty? Slow he turned, 
 Till in his heart thanksgiving leaped and burned. 
 There shone the blue serene, the prosperous land, 
 Trees, cows and hedges; skipping these he scanned, 
 Large, friendly names that change net with the year, 
 Lung Tonic, Mustard, Liver Pills and Beer. 
 
 Hugh Pendexter, in Adventure Magazine, says "going 
 west," as used by the men overseas to mean death, is of 
 peculiarly American origin. The Karok Indians of 
 California believed the spirit of the good Karok went 
 to the "happy western land." The Cherokee myths 
 picture the west as the "ghost country," the twilight land 
 where go the dead. The Shawnee tell of the boy who 
 "traveled west" to find his sister in the spirit land. The 
 Chippewa believes the spirit "followed a wide, beaten path 
 toward the west." The spirit world of the Fox Indians 
 
123 
 
 is at the setting of the sun. And so on, in the theology 
 of many Indian nations we find the West as the storied 
 abode of the great majority who have passed over. 
 
 The phrase traces back to the CEdipus Tyrannus of 
 Sophocles : 
 
 Toward the Western shore 
 Soul after soul is known to take her flight. 
 
 Its later significance is tenderly sung by Eleanor 
 Jewett in The Chicago Tribune: 
 
 GOING WEST 
 
 ST to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes 
 Straight and away into the sunset's glow, 
 
 Ribbed by the narrow barriers of Death 
 
 Dark are the waters that beside it flow r . 
 
 The red flowers fade upon the fields of France, 
 
 The soaring larks are fallen to their nest. 
 
 The glare of battle soothes a little space. . . . 
 
 As they go west. . . . 
 
 SPRING 
 
 F.M.H.D., F.A. 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 TT'S Spring at home; I know the signs 
 * The buds are bursting on the vines, 
 The birds speed high with happier wings, 
 The heart of youth is glad, and sings. 
 
 It's Spring in France; I know the signs 
 The massed reserves behind the lines; 
 The heart of youth burgeons once more 
 To manhood, and resurgent war! 
 
124 
 
 ON HIS OWN 
 
 ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE 
 
 OF THE VIGILANTES 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 *< "V^OU see that young kid lying there 
 
 Playing a game of solitaire? 
 All shot to pieces in the air; 
 By Heck, Sarge, he's a wonder. 
 The gamest kid I ever met ; 
 They're probing him for bullets yet, 
 But s sh ; here comes his nurse Yvette 
 Kept him from going under. 
 
 You think she's passing by him? Nit! 
 D'you get that smile? He waves his mitt; 
 I think he's stuck on her a bit, 
 Can't blame him for that matter, 
 She watches him just like a hawk. 
 Now listen to their daily talk. 
 She's all Paree, he's all New York ; 
 Sit quiet, hear their chatter." 
 
 "Pardonnez-moi, desirez-vous - " 
 "Oh, fine and dandy! How are you?" 
 "Quelque chose? Comprenez-vous? 
 "Ah, now I know you're kiddin'." 
 "Vous avez bonne mine aujourd'hui - 
 "It's high time you were nice to me." 
 "Time? Je comprends, il est midi 
 "Bright eyes, I think I'm skiddin'." 
 
 "Je crois que je vous donnerai - " 
 I'll back up anything you say - " 
 "Un petit morceau de poulet 
 "You fascinating creature!" 
 
125 
 
 "Avec le creme, dans la coquil-le, 
 "Rats! There she goes! I always feel 
 Some blessy's S. O. S. appeal 
 Will call off my French teacher." 
 
 The Sarge here nudged my splintered ribs; 
 "Well, I'll be damned ! Here comes His Nibs !" 
 And down the aisle stalked General Gibbs 
 With all the famous aces. 
 They formed around the sick boy's bed, 
 He gasped, saluted, then turned red : 
 "Looks like I'm pinched!" was all he said, 
 Scanning their smiling faces. 
 
 "So," spoke the General, "you alone 
 Brought down three Taubes on your own! 
 Another Yankee Ace is known 
 To everyone in Blighty. 
 I'm proud to know you, put it there, 
 And now we're going to let you wear 
 This gallantly won Croix de Guerre 
 I'm pinning on your nighty." 
 
 THEY SHALL NOT PASS 
 
 ALISON BROWN 
 
 OF THE VIGILANTES 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 'T'HEY shall not pass, 
 
 While Britain's sons draw breath, 
 
 While strength is theirs to strike with shining sword. 
 They shall not pass, 
 Except they pass to Death 
 
 For British fighting men have pledged their word. 
 
 They shall not pass 
 
 For France knows no defeat, 
 
 Nor hesitates to nobly pay the price. 
 
126 
 
 They shall not pass 
 
 Till brave hearts cease to beat, 
 
 And none shall stand to fall in sacrifice. 
 
 They shall not pass 
 America will stand 
 
 As long as lips can answer her, "I come." 
 They shall not pass, 
 To strike the loved land, 
 
 That freedom's children rise to call their home. 
 
 SHIPS THAT SAIL IN THE NIGHT 
 
 DYSART McMULLEN 
 
 IN MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "Not a light visible. Not a man above the deck." From a cor- 
 respondent's description, 
 
 JJAIL and farewell, 
 
 Ships that pass to the sea! 
 Hail and a long farewell, 
 Soldiers of destiny! 
 
 Not with rolling of drums, 
 
 Not with music and songs, 
 Not with laughter and weeping, 
 
 Or cheering of passionate throngs; 
 
 But silently, as is fitting, 
 
 Gray ghosts passing from sight; 
 
 Great ships like sea-gulls flitting 
 Against the curtain of night. 
 
127 
 
 * JOHN DOE BUCK PRIVATE 
 
 ALLAN P. THOMSON 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 \\7HO was it, picked from civil life 
 
 And plunged in deadly, frenzied strife 
 Against a devil's dreadful might? 
 
 Just plain "Jhri Doe Buck Private." 
 
 Who jumped the counter for the trench, 
 And left fair shores for all the stench 
 And mud, and death, and bloody drench? 
 Your simple, plain "Buck Private." 
 
 Who, when his nerves were on the hop, 
 With courage scaled the bloody top? 
 Who was it made the Fritzies stop? 
 "J. Doe (no stripes), Buck Private." 
 
 Who, underneath his training tan 
 Is, every single inch, a man! 
 And, best of all, American ? 
 
 "John Doe, just plain Buck Private." 
 
 Who saw his job and did it well? 
 Who smiles so bland yet fights like hell? 
 Who rang again old Freedom's bell? 
 'Twas only "Doe Buck Private." 
 
 Who was it lunged, and struck, and tore 
 His bayonet deep in flesh and gore? 
 Who was it helped to win the war? 
 
 "John Doe (no brains), Buck Private." 
 
 Who, heeding not the laurel pile 
 That scheming other men beguile, 
 Stands modestly aside the while? 
 
 "John Doe (God's kind), Buck Private." 
 
128 
 
 KNITTING SOCKS 
 
 The Boston Transcript reprinted the following poem in 1917, just 
 as it appeared in that paper November 27, 1861. 
 
 QLICK, click! how the needles go 
 
 Through the busy fingers, to and fro 
 With no bright colors of berlin wool, 
 Delicate hands today are full: 
 Only a yarn of deep, dull blue, 
 Socks for the feet of the brave and true. 
 Yet click, click, how the needles go, 
 'Tis a power within that nerves them so. 
 In the sunny hours of the bright spring day, 
 And still in the night time far away. 
 Maiden, mother, grandame sit 
 Earnest and thoughtful while they knit. 
 Many the silent prayers they pray, 
 Many the tear drops brushed away. 
 While busy on the needles go, 
 Widen and narrow, heel and toe. 
 The grandame thinks with a thrill of pride 
 How her mother knit and spun beside 
 For that patriot band in olden days 
 Who died the Stars and Stripes to raise 
 Now she in turn knits for the brave 
 Who'd die that glorious flag to save. 
 She is glad, she says, "the boys" have gone, 
 'Tis just as their grandfathers would have done. 
 But she heaves a sigh and the tears will start, 
 For "the boys" were the pride of grandame's heart. 
 The mother's look is calm and high, 
 God only hears her soul's deep cry 
 In Freedom's name, at Freedom's call, 
 She gave her sons in them her all. 
 The maiden's cheek wears a paler shade, 
 
129 
 
 But the light in her eyes is undismayed. 
 Faith and hope give strength to her sight, 
 She sees a red dawn after the night. 
 Oh, soldiers brave, will it brighten the day, 
 And shorten the march on the weary way, 
 To know that at home the loving and true 
 Are knitting and hoping and praying for you? 
 Soft are the voices when speaking your name, 
 Proud are their glories when hearing your fame. 
 And the gladdest hour in their lives will be 
 When they greet you after the victory. 
 
 THE GOLDENROD 
 
 "ANCHUSA" 
 FROM B. L. T.'s COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 COME day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace 
 
 again, 
 Field lilies and the clover spread where once was crimson 
 
 stain, 
 And a new, cheerful golden spray shine through the sun 
 
 and rain. 
 
 The clover's for the English who sleep beneath that sod, 
 The lily's for the noble French whose spirits rest with 
 
 God, 
 But where our sacred dead shall sleep must bloom the 
 
 goldenrod. 
 
 For every flower of summer those meadows will have 
 room, 
 
 And yet I think no Flemish hand will touch the kaiser- 
 bloom, 
 
 Whose growing blue must evermore whisper of grief and 
 doom. 
 
130 
 
 But clover for the English shall blossom from the sod, 
 And glorious lilies for the French whose spirits rest with 
 
 God. 
 And where our own lads lie asleep the prairie goldenrod. 
 
 Once more the Flemish children shall laugh through 
 
 Flemish lanes, 
 And gather happy garlands through fields of bygone 
 
 pains, 
 And, as they run and cull their flowers, sing in their 
 
 simple strains: 
 
 "These clovers are for English who fought to save this 
 
 sod, 
 These lilies for the valiant French may their souls rest 
 
 in God! 
 And for the brave Americans we pluck this goldenrod." 
 
 MAGPIES IN PICARDY 
 
 "TIPCUCA" 
 IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 
 
 'T'HE magpies in Picardy 
 
 Are more than I can tell. 
 They flicker down the dusty roads 
 
 And cast a magic spell 
 On the men who march through Picardy, 
 
 Through Picardy to hell. 
 
 (The blackbird flies with panic, 
 
 The swallow goes like light, 
 The finches move like ladies, 
 
 The owl floats by at night; 
 But the great and flashing magpie 
 
 He flies as artists might.) 
 
131 
 
 A magpie in Picardy 
 
 Told me secret things 
 Of the music in white feathers, 
 
 And the sunlight that sings 
 And dances in deep shadows 
 
 He told me with his wings. 
 
 (The hawk is cruel and rigid, 
 He watches from a height ; 
 
 The rook is slow and somber, 
 The robin loves to fight; 
 
 But the great and flashing magpie 
 He flies as lovers might.) 
 
 He told me that in Picardy, 
 
 An age ago or more, 
 While all his fathers still were eggs, 
 
 These dusty highways bore 
 Brown, singing soldiers marching out 
 
 Through Picardy to war. 
 
 He said that still through chaos 
 Works on the ancient plan, 
 
 And that two things have altered not 
 Since first the world began 
 
 The beauty of the wild green earth 
 And the bravery of man. 
 
 (For the sparrow flies unthinking 
 And quarrels in his flight. 
 
 The heron trails his legs behind, 
 The lark goes out of sight; 
 
 But the great and flashing magpie 
 He flies as poets might.) 
 
132 
 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918 
 
 ALMON HENSLEY 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 EAVE me alone here, proudly, with my dead, 
 
 Ye mothers of brave sons adventurous ; 
 He who once prayed: "If it be possible 
 
 Let this cup pass," will arbitrate for us. 
 Your boy with iron nerves and careless smile 
 
 Marched gaily by and dreamed of glory's goal ; 
 Mine had blanched cheek, straight mouth and close- 
 gripped hands 
 
 And prayed that somehow he might save his soul. 
 I do not grudge your ribbon or your cross, 
 
 The price of these my soldier, too, has paid ; 
 I hug a prouder knowledge to my heart, 
 
 The mother of the boy who was afraid! 
 
 He was a tender child with nerves so keen 
 
 They doubled pain and magnified the sad; 
 He hated cruelty and things obscene 
 
 And in all high and holy things was glad. 
 And so he gave what others could not give, 
 
 The one supremest sacrifice he made, 
 A thing your brave boy could not understand ; 
 
 He gave his all because he was afraid! 
 
133 
 
 AFTERWARD 
 
 CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 
 IN THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE 
 
 'T'HE sick man said: "I pray I shall not die 
 
 Before this tumult which now rocks the earth 
 Shall cease. I dread far journeyings to God 
 Ere I have heard the final shots of war, 
 And learned the outcome of this holocaust." 
 
 Yet one night, while the guns still roared and flashed, 
 His spirit left his body; left the earth 
 Which he had loved in sad, disastrous days, 
 And sped to heav'n amid the glittering stars 
 And the white splendor of the quiet moon. 
 
 One instant and a hundred years rushed by! 
 And he, a new immortal, found his way 
 Among the great celestial hills of God. 
 Then suddenly one memory of earth 
 Flashed like a meteor's flame across his mind. 
 
 One instant and another hundred years! 
 And even the dream of that poor little place 
 Which he had known was lost in greater spheres 
 Through which he whirled; and old remembrances 
 Were but as flecks of dust blown down the night; 
 And nothing mattered, save that suns and moons 
 Swung in the ether for unnumbered worlds 
 High, high above the pebble of the earth. 
 
134 
 
 THE SONG OF THE GUNS 
 
 HERBERT KAUFMAN 
 
 From Mr. Kaufman's book of poems, "The Hell Gate of Soissons." 
 T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. 
 Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 TLJEAR the guns, hear the guns! 
 
 High above the splutter-sputter 
 Of the Maxim, and the stutter 
 Of the rifles, hear them shrieking. 
 See the searching shells come sneaking, 
 Softly speaking, 
 Slyly seeking, 
 
 Thirsting, bursting, shrapnel-leaking 
 Where the ranks are thickest tearing 
 Mighty gaps among the daring. 
 Charging horse and rider stumble, 
 And brigades fall in a jumble; 
 Earthworks crumble, 
 Standards tumble, 
 And the driving bayonets fumble, 
 But unsated, 
 Still the hated 
 Cannon thunder, unabated. 
 Hear them rumble, 
 Hear them grumble, 
 Hear the old song of the guns! 
 "Send your sons, 
 Send your sons, 
 All your near ones, 
 All your dear ones ; 
 Give us food! 
 Give us food! 
 
 Give the strongest of your brood. 
 Let us feed! 
 Let us feed! 
 
135 
 
 On the bravest that you breed. 
 
 Give us meat, 
 
 Give us meat, 
 
 Oh, the blood of Valor's sweet!" 
 
 And the women make reply: 
 
 Ah, the glory of the lie 
 
 "Look, no tear is in our eye. 
 
 Rather would we see you die 
 
 For your country, than stand by. 
 
 Rather would we boast to tell 
 
 To your children that you fell, 
 
 Than to have you lurk and sell 
 
 Honor for a coward's breath ; 
 
 Better far the soldier's death. 
 
 Go and battle for the land. 
 
 Make a stand! 
 
 Make a stand! 
 
 Go and join the "dauntless band. 
 
 Take a hand ! 
 
 Take a hand! 
 
 Count not us God will provide!" 
 
 Thus the women in their pride 
 
 Mask their hearts their anguish hide. 
 
 Thus the mother and the bride 
 
 Bid their men to march and ride 
 
 To the guns, 
 
 Hungry guns, 
 
 Rumbling, grumbling for their sons. 
 
 Thus the women ever give, 
 
 Give their nearest, dearest ones 
 
 At the summons of the guns. 
 
 What is war to men they die. 
 
 But the widowed women, aye, 
 
 To the end alone, must live. 
 
136 
 
 TELLING THE BEES 
 
 (AN OLD GLOUCESTERSHIRE SUPERSTITION) 
 
 G. E. R. 
 IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 
 
 'T'HEY dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought 
 
 and who died out there: 
 Bugle and drum for him were dumb, and the padre said 
 
 no prayer; 
 The passing bell gave never a peal to warn that a soul 
 
 was fled, 
 And we laid him not in the quiet spot where cluster his 
 
 kin that are dead. 
 
 But I hear a foot on the pathway, above the low hum of 
 
 the hive, 
 That at edge of dark, with the song of the lark, tells 
 
 that the world is alive : 
 The master starts on his errand, his tread is heavy and 
 
 slow, 
 Yet he cannot choose but tell the news the bees have 
 
 a right to know. 
 
 Bound by the ties of a happier day, they are one with us 
 
 now in our worst ; 
 On the very morn that my boy was born they were told 
 
 the tidings the first: 
 With what pride they will hear of the end he made, and 
 
 the ordeal that he trod 
 Of the scream of shell, and the venom of hell, and the 
 
 flame of the sword of God. 
 
 Wise little heralds, tell of my boy ; in your .golden tabard 
 coats 
 
137 
 
 Tell the bank where he slept, and the stream he leapt, 
 
 where the spangled lily floats: 
 The tree he climbed shall lift her head, and the torrent 
 
 he swam shall thrill, 
 And the tempest that bore his shouts before shall cry his 
 
 message still. 
 
 THE RETINUE 
 
 KATHARINE LEE BATES 
 
 IN THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 A RCHDUKE FRANCIS FERDINAND, Austrian 
 
 heir-apparent, 
 Rideth through the Shadow Land, not a lone knight 
 
 errant, 
 
 But captain of a mighty train, millions upon millions, 
 Armies of the battle slain, hordes of dim civilians; 
 
 German ghosts who see their works with tortured eyes, 
 
 the sorry 
 
 Spectres of sacred tyrants, Turks hunted by their quarry, 
 Liars, plotters red of hand like waves of poisonous 
 
 gases, 
 Sweeping through the Shadow Land the host of horror 
 
 passes ; 
 
 Spirits bright as broken blades drawn for truth and honor, 
 Sons of Belgium, pallid maids, martyrs who have won her 
 Love eternal, bleeding breasts of the French defiance, 
 Russians on enraptured quests, Freedom's proud alliance. 
 
138 
 
 Through that hollow hush of doom, vast, unvisioned 
 
 regions, 
 Led by Kitchener of Khartum, march the English 
 
 legions : 
 
 Kilt and shamrock, maple leaf, dreaming Hindu faces, 
 Brows of glory, eyes of grief, arms of lost embraces. 
 
 Like a moaning tide of woe, midst those pale battalions 
 From the Danube and the Po, Arabs and Australians, 
 Pours a ghastly multitude that breaks the heart of pity, 
 Wreckage of some shell-bestrewed waste that was a city; 
 Flocking from the murderous seas, from the famished 
 
 lowland, 
 
 From the blazing villages of Serbia and Poland, 
 Woman phantoms, baby wraiths, trampled by war's blind- 
 ness, 
 
 Horses, dogs, that put their faiths in human loving kind- 
 ness. 
 
 Tamburlane, Napoleon, envious Alexander 
 Peer in wonder at the wan, tragical commander, 
 Archduke Francis Ferdinand when shall his train be 
 
 ended? 
 Of all the lords of Shadow Land most royally attended ! 
 
139 
 
 VIVE LA FRANCE! 
 
 CHARLOTTE HOLMES CRAWFORD 
 
 By permission: From Scribner's Magazine, copyright, 1916, by 
 Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
 "CRANCELINE rose in the dawning gray, 
 
 And her heart would dance though she knelt to pray, 
 For her man Michel had holiday, 
 Fighting for France. 
 
 She offered her prayer by the cradle-side, 
 And with baby palms folded in hers she. cried: 
 "If I have but one prayer, dear, crucified 
 Christ save France! 
 
 "But if I have two, then, by Mary's grace, 
 Carry me safe to the meeting place, 
 Let me look once again on my dear love's face, 
 Save him for France!" 
 
 She crooned to her boy: "Oh, how glad he'll be, 
 Little three-months old, to set eyes on thee! 
 For 'Rather than gold, would I give,' wrote he, 
 'A son to France.' 
 
 "Come, now, be good, little stray sauterelle, 
 For we're going by-by to thy papa Michel, 
 But I'll not say where for fear thou wilt tell, 
 Little pigeon of France! 
 
 "Six days' leave and a year between! 
 But what would you have? In six days clean, 
 Heaven was made," said Franceline, 
 "Heaven and France." 
 
140 
 
 She came to the town of the nameless name, 
 To the marching troops in the street she came, 
 And she held high her boy like a taper flame 
 Burning for France. 
 
 Fresh from the trenches and gray with grime, 
 Silent they march like a pantomime; 
 "But what need of music? My heart beats time 
 Vive la France!" 
 
 His regiment comes. Oh, then where is he? 
 "There is dust in my eyes, for^I cannot see, 
 Is that my Michel to the right of thee, 
 Soldier of France?" 
 
 Then out of the ranks a comrade fell 
 "Yesterday 'twas a splinter of shell 
 And he whispered thy name, did poor Michel, 
 Dying for France." 
 
 The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed 
 Like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed, 
 As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed 
 "Vive la France!" 
 
141 
 
 THE WOES OF A ROOKIE 
 
 WILLIAM L. COLESTOCK 
 
 T ENLISTED in the infantry last summer; 
 
 I was greeted at the training camp with joy; 
 I had hardly gotten settled, when a sergeant 
 
 Told me I was now the Company's errand boy. 
 Now, I knew I'd have to start in at the bottom, 
 
 And acquire my army training bit by bit; 
 But to be assigned to duties quite so humble, 
 
 Was humiliating, surely you'll admit. 
 
 My first errand was a trip to Field Headquarters. 
 
 It was raining and the mud was deep and thick. 
 I was ordered to seek out the Major General, 
 
 And procure a requisition for a brick. 
 'Twas explained to me, before I left my Company, 
 
 That our Captain suffered much with chilly feet, 
 And that bricks, when rightly heated, would correct this. 
 
 What that Major General said, I'll not repeat. 
 
 To our surly Regimental Quartermaster, 
 
 I was sent to get the Company's Sunday hats, 
 And my Sergeant said, "to save myself some walking," 
 
 I could "also get the First Lieutenant's spats"; 
 When I told that sour Quartermaster's seageant 
 
 What it was I'd like to have for Company A, 
 Gosh, he "bawled me out," said "Your ears should be 
 longer, 
 
 And your rations should be changed from beans to 
 hay." 
 
 For a thousand feet of skirmish line I hunted 
 For a half a day, before I saw the joke ; 
 
142 
 
 Next they sent me for a left-hand canvas stretcher, 
 To repair the Mess-hall windows, which were broke. 
 
 As the Company Street was slightly rough and bumpy, 
 They dispatched me for a double-jointed plow; 
 
 And one breakfast-time they sent me to the Colonel, 
 With a pail, to milk the Regimental cow. 
 
 Then one day the Sergeant said, "You've been promoted. 
 
 You're now morning call-boy for the Regiment, 
 And each morning, bright and early, you will sprinkle 
 
 Drops of water on each face, in every tent." 
 In the morning I began my sprinkling duties, 
 
 And had sprinkled in about one dozen tents, 
 When a bunch of fellows rushed me to the hydrant, 
 
 Where they "soused" me good; since then I've -hud 
 some sense. 
 
 As I look back at the time I "ran the paddles," 
 
 After having set me. down in water wet ; 
 Rushing down between two rows of husky messmates, 
 
 With my arms above my head, I feel it yet. 
 Now, I'vt graduated from the rookie section, 
 
 And the "awkward squad" will miss me in its ranks, 
 And I'm happy, for a bunch of bloomin' rookies 
 
 Have arrived. To those that sent them, Many Thanks. 
 
143 
 
 IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS 
 
 LIEUT. ELMER FRANKLIN POWELL 
 
 IN ADVENTURE MAGAZINE 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 TRIED to be a doughboy, but they said my feet 
 were flat 
 
 And I'd surely never stand the awful strain. 
 No chance to even argue that I'd like to bet my hat 
 
 I could out walk any tar-heel in the train. 
 "Awful sorry, but it's useless," was the doctor's mournful 
 wail. 
 
 "Your eyesight quite unfits you for the guns." 
 Uselessly I tried to tell him that at dropping leaden hail 
 
 I could surely decimate a pack of Huns. 
 
 Then I hoped for aviation, for my nerve is still in place, 
 But there wasn't even half a chance for that. 
 
 A stocky young lieutenant said, "You'll never hold the 
 
 pace, 
 For you've got a jumpy eyebrow." Think o' that! 
 
 So they went and made me captain in the Quartermaster 
 
 Corps, 
 
 Where I juggle lists of beans the livelong day. 
 Trying hard to grin and bear it as the boys march off 
 
 to war 
 While I sit and figure up their blasted pay. 
 
144 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT 
 
 (!N SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS) 
 VACHEL LINDSAY 
 
 From Vachel Lindsay's book entitled "The Congo and Other Poems," 
 published and copyright, 1914, by The Macmillan Company, New York. 
 Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 J" T is portentous, and a thing of state, 
 
 That here at midnight, in our little town 
 A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, 
 Near the old court house pacing up and down. 
 
 Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards 
 He lingers where his children used to play, 
 Or through the market, on the well-worn stones 
 He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. 
 
 A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, 
 A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl 
 Make him the quaint great figure that men love, 
 The prairie lawyer, master of us all. 
 
 He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. 
 He is among us; as in times before! 
 And we who toss and lie awake for long 
 Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. 
 
 His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings. 
 Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep? 
 Too many peasants fight, they know not why, 
 Too many homesteads in black terror weep. 
 
 The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. 
 He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. 
 He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now 
 The bitterness, the folly and the pain. 
 
145 
 
 He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn 
 Shall come; the shining hope of Europe free; 
 The League of sober folk, the Workers' Earth 
 Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea. 
 
 It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, 
 That all his hours of travail here for men 
 Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace 
 That he may sleep upon his hill again? 
 
 THE KINGS 
 
 HUGH J. HUGHES 
 IN FARM, STOCK AND HOME 
 
 PHE Kings are dying! In blood and flame 
 
 Their sun is setting to rise no more ! 
 
 They have played too long at the ancient game 
 
 Of their bluer blood and the bolted door. 
 
 Now the blood of their betters is on their hands 
 The blood of the peasant, the child, the maid ; 
 
 And there are no waters in all the lands 
 Can bathe them clean of the dark stain laid. 
 
 They have sinned in malice and craven fear 
 For the sake of their tinsel have led us on 
 
 To the hate-built trench and the death-drop sheer, 
 But the day will come when the Kings are gone. 
 
 The Kings are dying! Beat, O drums, 
 The world-wide roll of the democrat! 
 
 O bugles, cry out for the day that comes 
 
 When the Kings that were shall be marveled at ! 
 
146 
 
 JEAN DESPREZ 
 
 ROBERT W. SERVICE 
 
 From "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," by Robert W. Service, 
 published and copyright, 1916, by Barse & Hopkins, New York. Special 
 permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's 
 
 romance, 
 
 Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France ; 
 A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial 
 
 came, 
 Could feel within his soul upleap and soar, the sacred 
 
 flame; 
 Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes 
 
 may: 
 Oh, harken ! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. 
 
 With fire and sword the Teujon horde was ravaging the 
 
 land, 
 And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every 
 
 hand ; 
 Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black 
 
 abyss ; 
 The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they 
 
 miss. 
 And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot 
 
 and slay, 
 Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean 
 
 Desprez. 
 
 "Rout out of the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Cap- 
 tain said. 
 
 "Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is 
 dead. 
 
147 
 
 Now shall they Prussian vengeance know ; now shall they 
 
 rue the day, 
 
 For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall 
 ' pay." 
 
 They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and 
 babes and men, 
 
 And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose 
 he ten; 
 
 Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil ; they stood, they 
 knew not why 
 
 Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their chil- 
 dren cry; 
 
 Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed 
 they stood. 
 
 A moment only. . . . Ready! Fire! They weltered in 
 their blood. 
 
 But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the 
 
 frenzied cries, 
 Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's 
 
 eyes ; 
 A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was 
 
 nigh, 
 He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere 
 
 I die." 
 He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and 
 
 well. . . . 
 A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell. 
 
 They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was 
 
 like a flame. 
 With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major 
 
 came. 
 A blond, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye. 
 
148 
 
 He stared to see with shattered skull his favorite Captain 
 lie. 
 
 "Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he 
 cried ; 
 
 "Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be cruci- 
 fied." 
 
 With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the 
 
 Zouave there, 
 
 And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare ; 
 "Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they 
 
 jeered at him, 
 And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight 
 
 grow dim; 
 
 And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, 
 The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. 
 
 But 'mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in hor- 
 ror by, 
 
 Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woe- 
 ful cry: 
 
 "Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who 
 died. ..." 
 
 It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole 
 aside ; 
 
 It was the little barefoot boy who came with cup abrim 
 
 And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink 
 to him. 
 
 A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast 
 
 away. 
 
 The Prussian Major swings around ; no longer is he gay. 
 His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with 
 
 spite : 
 
 "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prus- 
 sian might. 
 
149 
 
 Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and 
 
 spare. 
 Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely 
 
 there, 
 And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste ! Make him 
 
 understand 
 The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his 
 
 hand. 
 And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse 
 
 his name, 
 Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death 
 
 and shame." 
 
 They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made 
 
 him understand; 
 
 They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. 
 "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you 
 
 must kill or die." 
 
 The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. 
 And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary 
 
 head: 
 "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and 
 
 straight," he said. 
 "Fire first and last, and do not flinch ; for lost to hope 
 
 am I; 
 And I will murmur: Vive la France! and bless you ere 
 
 I die." 
 
 Half-blind with blows the boy stood there ; he seemed to 
 
 swoon and sway; 
 Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean 
 
 Desprez. 
 He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were 
 
 singing clear; 
 
150 
 
 And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they 
 
 were! how dear! 
 He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned 
 
 his brow ; 
 O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were 
 
 they now! 
 
 The summer days and summer ways, how bright with 
 
 hope and bliss! 
 
 The autumn such a dream of gold ; and all must end in this : 
 This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around ; 
 The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the 
 
 ground ; 
 
 The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; 
 That Prussian bully standing by as if he watched a game. 
 "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; a minute 
 
 more I give; 
 A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would 
 
 live." 
 
 They only saw a barefoot boy, with blanched and twitch- 
 ing face; 
 
 They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; 
 
 The glory of a million men who for fair France have 
 died, 
 
 The splendor of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. 
 
 Yet he was but a peasant lad, and oh ! but life was sweet. 
 
 "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice 
 repeat. 
 
 "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! 
 Shoot!" the soldier said. 
 
 Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . the Prus- 
 sian Major dead! 
 
151 
 
 SUDDENLY ONE DAY 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 FROM THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 
 
 Found in the pocket of Capt. T. P. C. Wilson, a British officer, 
 killed in action. 
 
 CUDDENLY one day 
 
 The last ill shall fall away. 
 
 The last little beastliness that is in our blood 
 
 Shall drop from us as the sheath drops from the bud, 
 
 And the great spirit of man shall struggle through 
 
 And spread huge branches underneath the blue. 
 
 In any mirror, be it bright or dim, 
 
 Man will see God, staring back at him. 
 
 WE'RE MARCHIN' WITH THE COUNTRY 
 
 FRANK L. STANTON 
 IN JOURNAL OF EDUCATION 
 
 T^HE old flag is a-doin' her very level best, 
 
 She's a rainbow roun' the country from the rosy east 
 
 to the west; 
 An' the eagle's in the elements with sunshine on his 
 
 breast, 
 An' we're marchin' with the country in the mornin' ! 
 
 We're marchin' to the music that is ringin' far and nigh; 
 You can hear the hallelujahs as the regiments go by; 
 We'll live for this old country, or for freedom's cause 
 
 we'll die 
 We're marchin' with the country in the mornin'! 
 
152 
 
 DO YOUR ALL 
 
 EDGAR A. GUEST 
 
 From Mr. Guest's book of war time rhymes, "Over Here." Published 
 and copyright, 1918, by The Reilly & Britton Company, Publishers, 
 Chicago. Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 " "P\O your bit!" How cheap and trite 
 Seems that phrase in such a fight! 
 "Do your bit!" That cry recall, 
 Change it now to "Do your all!" 
 Do your all, and then do more; 
 Do what you're best fitted for ; 
 Do your utmost, do and give. 
 You have but one life to live. 
 
 Do your finest, do your best, 
 Don't let up and stop to rest, 
 Don't sit back and idly say, 
 "I did something yesterday." 
 Come on ! Here's another hour. 
 Give it all you have of power. 
 Here's another day that needs 
 Everybody's share of deeds. 
 
 "Do your bit!" of course, but then 
 Do it time and time again; 
 Giving, doing, all should be 
 Up to full capacity. 
 Now's no time to pick and choose. 
 We've a war we must not lose. 
 Be your duty great or small, 
 Do it well and do it all. . 
 
 Do by careful, patient living, 
 Do by cheerful, open giving; 
 Do by serving day by day 
 At whatever post you may; 
 
153 
 
 Do by sacrificing pleasure, 
 Do by scorning hours of leisure. 
 Now to God and country give 
 Every minute that you live. 
 
 FLAG OF THE FREE 
 
 FRANCIS T. SMITH. 
 IN POPULAR EDUCATOR 
 
 "CLOAT thou majestically, 
 
 Proudly, triumphantly, 
 Ever protectingly, 
 Flag of the free. 
 No foe our faith shall blight 
 In thy unconquered might, 
 Emblem of truth and right, 
 We bow to thee. 
 
 As in grim days of yore 
 Now on a hostile shore, 
 Fulfill thy pledge once more, 
 Red, white and blue. 
 Long as thy stately bars 
 And heaven's reflected stars 
 Dishonor never mars, 
 We will be true. 
 
 Prove to the waiting world, 
 When free men are assailed, 
 Our standard is unfurled 
 For justice still. 
 Strengthen us lest we fall, 
 Inspiring one and all, 
 Urging thy righteous call, 
 Under God's will. 
 
154 
 
 THE SERVICE FLAG 
 
 WILLIAM HERSCHELL 
 
 IN THE INDIANAPOLIS NEWS 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "TNEAR little flag in the window there, 
 
 Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer; 
 Child of Old Glory, born with a star 
 Oh, what a wonderful flag you are! 
 
 Blue is your star in its field of white, 
 Dipped in the red that was born of fight; 
 Born of the blood that our forbears shed 
 To raise your mother, the Flag, o'erhead. 
 
 And now you've come, in this frenzied day, 
 To speak from a window to speak and say 
 "I am the voice of a soldier-son 
 Gone to be gone till the victory's won. 
 
 "I am the flag of the Service, sir; 
 The flag of his mother I speak for her 
 Who stands by my window and waits and fears, 
 But hides from the others her unwept tears. 
 
 "I am the flag of the wives who wait 
 
 For the safe return of a martial mate, 
 
 A mate gone forth where the war god thrives 
 
 To save from sacrifice other men's wives. 
 
 "I am the flag of the sweethearts true; 
 The often unthought of the sisters, too; 
 I am the flag of a mother's son 
 And won't come down till the victory's won!" 
 
155 
 
 Dear little flag in the window there, 
 Hung with a tear and a woman's prayer ; 
 Child of Old Glory, born with a star- 
 On, what a wonderful flag you are! 
 
 A SMALL TOWN SPORT 
 
 DAMON RUNYON 
 IN THE HERALD AND EXAMINER, CHICAGO 
 
 In this piece of work Mr. Runyon presents a good specimen of a 
 large class, a young fellow who was going the trifling way to the Ever- 
 lasting Bonfire when the war caught him up and made a man of him. 
 Thousands of such cases, before the war little better than waste human 
 material, went out to fight, and found themselves, and made good, 
 and came home sobered, serious men, worthy to stand among those 
 to whom the nation's destinies were confided. 
 
 SON o' ol' Miz McAuliffe, the widder o' Box-Car 
 Jack, 
 An' ol' time shack on the Santa Fe, who run to Dodge 
 
 and back. 
 He was killed in a wreck at La Junta, and he left the 
 
 wife and boy 
 
 A kid knee-high to a hop-toad, and tagged by the name o'. 
 Roy. 
 
 This Roy was sort o' onery, and he never would go to 
 
 school. 
 He spent the most o' childhood days in learnin' the game 
 
 o' pool. 
 His shoulders grew somewhat rounded, and his chest it 
 
 grew rather thin 
 But, gosh, he grew to a marvel at knockin' them pool 
 
 balls in! 
 
156 
 
 Pool-shootin' Roy, we called him, and many a night I've 
 
 set 
 
 Watchin' him clean the table, and puffin' his cigaret. 
 Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and playin' so ca'm and 
 
 cool 
 If ever a lad was born for a thing, he \vas born for playin' 
 
 this pool! 
 
 Fifteen balls was a cinch for him fifteen balls from the 
 
 break ; 
 One ball loose from the bunch a bit, and the whole 
 
 darned rack he'd take. 
 He was great on a combination, and great on a cut-shot, 
 
 too 
 He'd make those pool balls talk to him when he started 
 
 handlin' a cue! 
 
 And some of us thought he'd be champeen, but every one 
 didn't agree, 
 
 For Doctor Wilcox wanted to bet he'd die of the old 
 T. B. 
 
 But the war it settled the question, for the first of our 
 kids to go 
 
 Was Pool-Shootin' Roy McAulifre our poolrooms suf- 
 fered a blow. 
 
 What is that thing the Frenchmen give to a good game 
 
 fightin boy? 
 Say it again the Croix de Guerre? Well, that's what 
 
 they give to Roy. 
 It seems fifteen Germans were on him, and handlin' him 
 
 rather mean, 
 When he got a machine gun to workin and pocketed the 
 
 ivhole fifteen! 
 
157 
 
 SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 
 
 LE ROY C. HENDERSON 
 
 IN CARTOONS MAGAZINE 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 C HE stands alone beside the gate, 
 
 ^ Where oft with him she stood before, 
 
 And seems to hear his voice relate 
 
 Life's sweetest story o'er and o'er; 
 A hand she feels upon her own, 
 
 Unconsciously a tender glance 
 She gives, then starts and stands alone, 
 
 The lover sleeps Somewhere in France. 
 
 She could have kept him if she would 
 
 His heart and soul were all her own 
 But true love knew and understood 
 
 That Honor is its own true throne; 
 She heard the bugles' blaring sound 
 
 And whispered "Go and take your chance." 
 There 'mid the scenes of war he found 
 
 Eternal peace Somewhere in France. 
 
 She knows not where that spot may be 
 
 On barren plain, in hidden dell, 
 On wooded hill, beside the sea 
 
 The lips that would will never tell ; 
 She knows not what his last words were, 
 
 The thoughts that come with Death's advance, 
 And yet, she feels they were of her, 
 
 Those last fond thoughts Somewhere in France. 
 
158 
 
 THE SERVICE FLAG 
 
 J. E. EVANS 
 IN THE SOVEREIGN VISITOR 
 
 CAY, pa! What is a service flag? 
 
 L see them everywhere. 
 There's little stars sewed on them; 
 
 What are they doing there? 
 Sometimes there's lots of little stars, 
 
 And sometimes just a few. 
 Poof Widow Jones has only one 
 
 I saw her crying, too. 
 
 My darling boy, those little stars 
 
 Upon a field of white, 
 Are emblems of our glorious boys 
 
 Enrolling for the right. 
 The border, as you see, is red, 
 
 Which represents their blood; 
 The stars are blue, the heavenly hue; 
 
 The white is always good. 
 
 Each star you see means some brave boy 
 
 Has left his hearth and home 
 And gone to fight for Freedom's cause 
 
 Wherever he may roam. 
 So when you see a lot of stars 
 
 Lift up your heart with joy, 
 And when you see a single one 
 
 Pray for some mother's boy. 
 
 They go away, those gallant lads, 
 Across the wreck-strewn sea; 
 
 They go to pledge their country's faith 
 For God and liberty. 
 
159 
 
 The Stars and Stripes they bear aloft 
 
 To join the British flag, 
 And, with the colors of brave France, 
 
 They mean to end "Der Tag." 
 And soon, my boy, that service flag, 
 
 Born in the nation's heart, 
 Will show the world that, when unfurled, 
 
 We proudly take our part. 
 
 "HEARTS ARE TOUCHING" 
 
 "DOEMS need not be rhymed, nor wrought in verses. 
 This brave and touching one occurred in a letter writ- 
 ten by a French schoolgirl: 
 
 "It was only a little river ; almost a brook ; it was 
 called the Yser. One could talk from one side to the 
 other without raising one's voice, and the birds could fly 
 over it with one sweep of their wings. And on the two 
 banks there were millions of men, the one toward the 
 other, eye to eye. But the distance which separated them 
 was greater than the stars in the sky ; it was the distance 
 which separates right from injustice. 
 
 "The ocean is so vast that the sea gulls do not dare 
 to cross it. During seven days and seven nights the great 
 steamships of America, going at full speed, drive through 
 the deep waters before the lighthouses of France come 
 into view; but from one side to the other, hearts are 
 touching." 
 
(60 
 
 MEN OF THE BLOOD AND MIRE 
 
 DANIEL M. HENDERSON 
 
 IN EVERYBODY'S MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 whom the draft rejected; 
 We who stay by the stuff; 
 We who measure our manhood 
 
 And find that it isn't enough ; 
 We who are gray and burdened; 
 We whom the trades require 
 Will you permit us to hail you, 
 Men of the Blood and Mire? 
 
 We of the thundering forum; 
 
 We of the pen and press; 
 We who are pouring our utmost 
 
 Into our land's success; 
 We of the Cross and Triangle, 
 Lofty in deed and desire 
 God, how we shrivel before you, 
 
 Men of the Blood and Mire! 
 
 Aye, we are square with conscience 
 
 We are reservists all; 
 Aye, when your ranks are gaping, 
 
 We will fight where you fall; 
 Yet, while we wait, your altar 
 
 Flames in the gas and fire 
 We are the shade of your glory, 
 
 Men of the Blood and Mire! 
 
151 
 
 THE SONG OF THE DEAD 
 
 J. H. M. ABBOTT 
 IN THE LONDON OUTLOOK 
 
 Large numbers of Australian and New Zealand volunteers are 
 already on the water bound for Vancouver, en route for Europe. Para- 
 graph of War News, 1915. 
 
 , Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you 
 Land of yellow wattle bloom, land of smiling 
 
 Spring 
 
 Hearken to the after words, land of pleasant memories, 
 Shea-oaks of the shady creeks, hear the song we sing. 
 For we lie quietly, underneath the lonely hills, 
 Where the land is silent, where the guns have ceased to 
 
 boom, 
 
 Here we are waiting, and shall wait for Eternity 
 Here on the battle-fields, where we found our doom. 
 
 Spare not thy pity Life is strong and fair for you 
 City by the waterside, homestead on the plain. 
 Keep ye remembrance, keep ye a place for us 
 So all the bitterness of dying be not vain. 
 Oh, be ye mindful, mindful of our honor's name; 
 Oh, be ye careful of the word ye speak in jest 
 For we have bled for you ; for we have died for you 
 Yea, we have given, we have given our best. 
 
 Life that we might have lived, love that we might have 
 
 loved, 
 
 Sorrow of all sorrows, we have drunk thy bitter lees. 
 Speak thou a word to us, here in our narrow beds 
 Word of thy mourning lands beyond the Seas. 
 Lo, we have paid the price, paid the cost of Victory. 
 Do not forget, when the rest shall homeward come 
 
162 
 
 Mother of our childhood, sister of our manhood days, 
 Loved of our heavy hearts, whom we have left alone. 
 
 Hark to the guns pause and turn, and think of us 
 Red was our life's blood, and heavy was the cost. 
 But ye have Nationhood, but ye are a people strong 
 Oh, have ye love for the brothers ye have lost? 
 Oh, by the blue skies, clear beyond the mountain tops, 
 Oh, by the dear, dun plains where we were bred, 
 What be your tokens, tokens that ye grieve for us, 
 Tokens of your Sorrowing for we that be Dead? 
 
 THE REFUGEES 
 
 W. G. S. 
 IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR 
 
 T)AST the marching men, where the great road runs, 
 
 Out of burning Ypres the pale women came: 
 One was a widow (listen to the guns!) 
 She wheeled a heaped-up barrow. One walked lame 
 And dragged two little children at her side 
 Tired and coughing with the dust. 
 
 The third 
 
 Nestled a dead child on her breast and tried 
 To suckle him. They never spoke a word. 
 
 So they came down along the Ypres road. 
 
 A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass, 
 
 Turned and in silence helped them with their load, 
 
 And led them to a field and gave them bread. 
 
 I saw them hide their faces in the grass 
 
 And cry, as women might when Christ was dead. 
 
163 
 
 SONG OF THE WINDS 
 
 MARY LANIER MAGRUDER 
 
 IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 CONG of the west wind whispering listen 
 
 The murmuring waves of the golden grain ; 
 The lisp of rivers that ripple and glisten, 
 Filled to brim with the night's wild rain, 
 Seaward going to come again, 
 Pouring the torrents of spring on the acres 
 Fallow and fertile. The wide world's bread 
 Harvested now by the busy rakers, 
 Gleaners afield when the dawn is red ; 
 Wind of the west, where the leaning sheaves 
 Darken the shadows as daylight leaves 
 Or heap the granary under the eaves, 
 Sing the song to us over and over, 
 Happy harvests and multifold, 
 Sweeter than breath of thyme or clover, 
 Western wind over sheaves of gold ! 
 
 Wind of the south from the wide prairie, 
 
 Mesquite barren and cactus lean, 
 
 Where the fleet herds browse and the coyote wary 
 
 Pierces the night with a note too keen ; 
 
 And the brown plain's grass grows all between. 
 
 Fields where the wild sage blows and billows, 
 
 Purple waves on a sea of jade; 
 
 And the bending cottonwoods touch the willows, 
 
 And the water holes glimmer in light and shade. 
 
 Then swinging up from a land of drouth, 
 
 And on by the bayous flowing south, 
 
164 
 
 There by the wandering river's mouth, 
 White is the sod with the cotton blossom, 
 Whiter the lint that has broken its pod 
 And lies like snow on the sad earth's bosom, 
 Fresh and fair from the hand of God. 
 
 Wind of the north from the long lakes sweeping 
 Down to the meadows and hills of corn, 
 Over the creeks where the perch are leaping, 
 And the mill wheels hum at the break of morn ; 
 Hills where the clover is newly shorn ; 
 And sharply pungent as old-world gorse is 
 The hay that the wagons have hurried home ; 
 And under the steady feet of the horses 
 The furrows grow in the loose black loam. 
 And ever the amber tassels seize 
 The wings of every riotous breeze 
 To fling gonfalons of golden sleaze, 
 Silken and soft, to the earth's far borders : 
 "August heat but hastens the days 
 When the hungry herds and the empty larders 
 Shall all be filled with the Indian's maize." 
 
 Wind of the east ah, east wind blowing 
 Long, long leagues from a land o'erseas; 
 Empty hands that can know no sowing, 
 Passionate pleading hands are these 
 Palms outstretched to us over the seas; 
 Ah, the heart of France is a thing to cherish! 
 But her werewolf, Hunger, cannot be slain 
 Till out of our largess, lest she perish, 
 We hasten the caravels of blessed grain. 
 
-165 
 
 Till the sea-shark's teeth forever are drawn, 
 
 And the dread great guns are stilled at the dawn, 
 
 We must hold high courage and carry on. 
 
 So winds of the north, south, west, your treasure 
 
 Corn and cattle and golden grain 
 
 Shall crowd the ships to their fullest measure, 
 
 And the bread thus cast will return again! 
 
 "WHAT THINK YE?" 
 
 W. A. BRISCOE 
 
 IN THE UNITED EMPIRE MAGAZINE 
 (Journal of the Royal Colonial Institute, London) 
 
 are we fighting for, men of my race, 
 And the best of us dying for? 
 For wealth or profit or power or fame? 
 Or a statesman's lust? or a monarch's name? 
 Or for aught that our sons of sons could blame 
 Did we throw the dice of war? 
 
 Why are ye weeping, sisters of mine, 
 
 With a mien so proud and brave? 
 Do ye weep because of the utter woe? 
 Are ye proud because ye would have it so, 
 Though Fate should have dealt you the final blow 
 
 And there's nothing to mark the grave? 
 
 What are we fighting for, women and men, 
 
 And the best of us dying for? 
 It was just because we had signed our name, 
 And the Briton's creed is to honor the same: 
 It was only for that, and our own fair fame 
 
 We took up the gage of war. 
 
166 
 
 THE MAN BEHIND 
 
 DOUGLAS MALLOCH 
 
 IN THE AMERICAN LUMBERMAN 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 r HE band is on the quarter-deck, the starry flag un- 
 furled ; 
 
 The air is mad with music and with cheers. 
 The ship is bringing home to us the homage of the world 
 
 And writing new our name upon the years. 
 Her officer is on the bridge; we greet him with hurrahs; 
 
 But some one says, "Not he the glory won; 
 Not he alone who wears the braid, deserves the loud 
 
 applause, 
 
 Oh, don't forget the man behind the gun!" 
 'Tis said that to embattled seas our ship sailed forth at 
 
 dawn, 
 
 Unheeding shot, unheeding hidden mine ; 
 And through the thunders of the fight went steaming 
 
 bravely on, 
 
 The nation's floating fortress on the brine. 
 And never throbbing engine stopped, nor parted plate or 
 
 seam 
 
 In all that bloody day from sun to sun ; 
 The good ship sang her battle cry in hissing clouds of 
 
 steam 
 
 To cheer anew the man behind the gun. 
 I look upon her shining bore, her engine's pulsing heart, 
 
 I look upon her bulwarks shaped of steel; 
 I know there is another art, as great as gunner's art, 
 
 That makes the world at arms in homage kneel. 
 This ship, defying shot and shell, defying winds and seas, 
 
 Is fruit of honest labor, rightly done; 
 The man who built the ship, my lads, remember him, for 
 
 he's 
 The man behind the man behind the gun ! 
 
167 
 
 HERE AT VERDUN 
 
 CHESTER M. WRIGHT 
 
 T STAND on a peak at Verdun a scarred, torn peak 
 
 of hope and death. 
 
 Far under my feet run the mystic passages of Fort Sou- 
 ville. 
 
 I strain my eyes to look over a great field where men 
 have swayed in the death lock with eternity. 
 
 Ahead and to the right and left stretch fifteen kilometres 
 gaping with wounds, each shell hole a pit of death, a hid- 
 eous mark left by the scourge of despotism. 
 
 Ahead is that foul stretch from which came and still 
 come the hordes of tyranny, with breath of poison and 
 sting of contamination. 
 
 Behind is ruin. Never was such ruin. A blight, a 
 torture, a world pain, piercing and cruel. 
 
 And yet behind is hope. Behind are the legions of lib- 
 erty, the soldiers of our children's freedom. 
 
 Behind are the endless legions, coming, coming, com- 
 ing. Behind are the veteran legions of France and Britain. 
 Behind are the countless legions of America, coming, com- 
 ing, coming a brown ribbon of promise stretching across 
 the sea to the shrine of Liberty ! 
 
 Here where these jagged slashes in the yellow earth 
 have formed a glorious tomb for three hundred thousand 
 gallant French here is the testing ground of our destiny. 
 Here they have held for us our heritage ! Here they have 
 perished in the eternal splendor of self-sacrifice for us! 
 Here is their borderland and ours! 
 
 Here they have written with their ebbing blood the 
 slogan that has thrilled the world "They shall not pass!" 
 
 The gaunt and sinister craters, one merging into the 
 ragged rim of another, the bits of shell, the battered hel- 
 
168 
 
 mets, broken guns, ill-assorted refuse of combat each 
 shattered particle a marker for some valiant soul "gone 
 west" in service of humanity. 
 
 Here, over this land glorified by a nobility of deed 
 than which there has been no more exalted, must our war 
 be waged. Out of this hallowed ground comes the call 
 of those who have given of their best the call to our 
 great land for Old Glory's best! 
 
 There will come to us wounds that will rack our bodies 
 and drain the coursing blood of our vibrant veins. There 
 will come to us the aching pain of suffering and loss 
 here on these red fields of France. But we will save 
 our souls and our nation's soul! And we will save our 
 heritage and give to the billions of the world the right 
 to theirs. 
 
 So the brown ribbon of youth winds across the sea to 
 Verdun and to the long, thin lines on either side. Here 
 will we prove our right to life and liberty! 
 
 Brown ribbon of promise! 
 
 Hoping, longing, wounded France ! 
 
 Brown ribbon of youth and high resolve! 
 
 Brown ribbon of Liberty! 
 
 Here at Verdun! 
 
169 
 
 THE ANXIOUS ANTHEMIST 
 
 GUY FORRESTER LEE 
 IN THE CHICAGO SUNDAY TRIBUNE 
 
 Written when the Allied armies were chasing the Germans across 
 the fields of France and Flanders, in the summer of 1918. 
 
 T SIT down to write a poem of our fighting men's 
 
 renown, 
 And I scarce get fairly started when they take another 
 
 town. 
 
 A British commentator's praise I versify, and then 
 A Frenchman up and multiplies the happy words by ten. 
 The cable service headlines say the Yankees swat the Hun, 
 But ere I get a jingle framed they've got more on the run. 
 I'd like to be their Boswell in a khaki-lauding gem, 
 But darn those doughboys' peppy hides I can't keep up 
 
 with them ! 
 It tickles me quite some to hear of how they're spreading 
 
 Teuts 
 Around the landscape, and I'll say their ways and means 
 
 are beauts ; 
 
 The Fritzian din of "Kamerad" is drowning out the shells 
 As U. S. shockers shock the shockers with their own pet 
 
 hells. 
 
 I want the good work to go on, but I have one request 
 To make of them before they lay the kaiser out to rest, 
 And that is this: Don't stop your war; continue till 
 
 you've won, 
 But kindly take a lay-off till I get this anthem done! 
 
170 
 
 A RIDE IN FRANCE 
 
 "O. C. PLATOON" 
 
 IN THE MANCHESTER (ENGLAND) GUARDIAN 
 
 'T'ROTTING the roan horse 
 
 Over the meadows, 
 Purple of thistles, 
 
 Purple of dover; 
 Over the clay-brown path, 
 
 All through the grass-lands, 
 Glory of meadow flowers, 
 
 Over! Come over! 
 
 On to the highway winding o'er the hill, 
 White willow-bordered, grassy-banked; 
 On through a village ruined and broken. 
 Grass grows in the rubble-heaps, 
 Poppies fill the courtyards, 
 Swallows build in broken walls, 
 And everything is still. 
 
 While at the corner walk, O horse of mine, 
 
 A Christ hangs from a crucifix beside a broken shrine. 
 
 On to the path at the side of the white road, 
 Cantering, galloping, breasting the rise ; 
 
 Any road, every road, each is the right road, 
 Facing the east, the sun in my eyes. 
 
 Trotting the roan horse 
 Over the meadows, 
 
171 
 
 Purple of thistles, 
 
 Purple of clover; 
 Over the clay-brown path, 
 
 Back through the grass-lands, 
 All through the meadow flowers; 
 
 Over! Come over! 
 
 THERE WILL BE DREAMS AGAIN 
 
 MABEL HILLYER EASTMAN 
 
 IN MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 INHERE will be dreams again! The grass will spread 
 
 Her velvet verdure over earth's torn breast; 
 By ragged shard, half-hid, where rust runs red, 
 The soaring lark in spring will build her nest. 
 
 There will be dreams again! The primrose pale 
 
 Will shelter where the belching guns plowed deep; 
 
 The trees will whisper, and the nightingale 
 Chant golden monodies where heroes sleep. 
 
 There will be dreams again ! The stars look down 
 On youthful lovers oh, first love, how sweet! 
 
 And men will wed, and childish laughter crown 
 Life's awe-compelling miracle complete. 
 
 There will be dreams again ! Oh, thou forlorn 
 That crumbling trench or the slow heaving sea 
 
 Hath snatched thy dead oh, pray thee, do not mourn! 
 There will be dreams thy loved shall come to thee! 
 
THE BOY NEXT DOOR 
 
 S. E. RISER 
 
 IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 r T'HERE used to be a boy next door 
 
 Whom I often have longed to throttle; 
 I've wished % a thousand times and more 
 
 That he had died while "on the bottle"! 
 Oft in the past it has been hard 
 
 For me to check my inclination, 
 When he had cluttered up our yard, 
 
 To hand him heavy castigation. 
 
 With freckles on his tilted nose 
 
 And ears that far in space' protruded, 
 He was not one, as heaven knows, 
 To whom I in my prayers alluded. 
 
 Derisively he showed his tongue 
 
 And scorned the warnings w r hich I gave him, 
 
 But now I list myself among 
 
 The ones who pray the Lord to save him. 
 
 How vividly I can recall 
 
 Him at the window, making faces ; 
 I used to think that in him all 
 
 The impish traits had lurking places. 
 He stole the green fruit from my trees, 
 
 Not caring how it might affect him; 
 Today he's fighting overseas, 
 
 And may the God of hosts protect him! 
 
 From childhood into youth he passed, 
 And then my little garden flourished; 
 
 And still his friendship was not classed 
 Among the treasures which I nourished. 
 
 He tortured first a slide trombone, 
 
173 
 
 And next he tried a squeaky fiddle ; 
 His voice took on a raucous tone 
 
 That used to rasp me down the middle. 
 
 How soldierly our lad appeared 
 
 When with his comrades he departed! 
 I wonder if he knew I cheered, 
 
 Or guessed that I was heavy-hearted. 
 If I have damned him heretofore 
 
 I now retract each foul aspersion ; 
 God bless the boy who lived next door, 
 
 And used to be my pet aversion! 
 
 THE FLAG 
 
 EDWARD A. MORTON 
 IN POPULAR EDUCATOR 
 
 Y do I love our flag? Ask why 
 Flowers love the sunshine. Or, ask why 
 The needle turns with eager eye 
 Toward the great stars in northern sky. 
 
 I love Old Glory, for it waved 
 
 Where loyal hearts the Union saved. 
 
 I love it, since it shelters me 
 
 And all most dear, from sea to sea. 
 
 I love it, for it bravely flies 
 
 In freedom's cause, 'neath foreign skies. 
 
 I love it for its blessed cheer, 
 Its starry hopes and scorn of fear; 
 For good achieved and good to be 
 To us and to humanity. 
 
 It is the people's banner bright, 
 Forever guiding toward the light ; 
 Foe of the tyrant, friend of right, 
 God give it leadership and might! 
 
174 
 
 THE WAR HORSE 
 
 LIEUT. L. FLEMING, B. E. F., FRANCE 
 
 Shortly after the verses here following were received from France 
 by the American Red Star Animal Relief, Lieutenant Fleming fell in 
 action. His voice, coming to us as from a plane of life where dumb 
 creatures do not suffer, is a call to civilization to do its duty by the 
 animals whose kind were silent heroes of the war. 
 
 HEN the shells are bursting round, 
 
 Making craters in the ground, 
 And the rifle fire's something awful cruel, 
 When you 'ear them in the night 
 (My Gawd! it makes you fight!) 
 An' yer thinks of them poor souls agoing 'ome, 
 When you 'ear the Sergeant shout 
 "Get y'r respirators out," 
 Then you looks and sees a cloud of something white. 
 
 The gas is coming on 
 
 An' yer knows before it's gone 
 
 That the 'orse wots with you now won't be by then ; 
 Yer loves him like yer wife 
 An' yer wants to save 'is life, 
 
 But there ain't no respirators, not for them. 
 I was standing by 'is side 
 On the night my old 'orse died. 
 
 An' I shan't forget 'is looks towards the last. 
 'E was choking mighty bad, 
 An' 'is eyes was looking mad, 
 
 An' I seed that 'e was dying dying fast. 
 
 An' I want to tell yer 'ow 
 It's the 'orses gets us through, 
 
 For they strains their blooming 'earts out when 
 
 they're pressed. 
 We was galloping like 'ell 
 
175 
 
 When a bullet 'its old Bill, 
 
 I c'd see the blood a-streaming down 'is face. 
 It 'ad got 'im in the 'ead, 
 But 'e stuck to it and led 
 Till we comes to "Action right," 
 An' then 'e fell. 
 
 I 'adn't time to choose 
 I 'ad to cut 'im loose, 
 
 For 'e'd done all 'e c'd afore a gun. 
 When I looks at 'im again 
 'E was out of all 'is pain, 
 
 An' I 'opes 'is soul will rest for wot 'e .done. 
 If it 'adn't been for Bill 
 We should all 'ave been in 'ell, 
 
 For we only got in action just in time. 
 Ain't it once occurred to you 
 Wot the 'orses there go through ? 
 
 They 'elps to win our fight an' does it fine. 
 
 When 'is blood is flowing 'ot 
 From a wound what 'e's just got 
 
 An' 'is breath is coming 'ard an' short an' thin, 
 'E can see the men about, 
 Getting water dealed out, 
 
 But not a drop is brought to comfort 'im ; 
 Tho 'is tongue is parched and dry, 
 'E can see the water by, 
 But 'is wounds are left to bleed, 
 An' 'e can't tell us 'is need, 
 So 'e's just got to bear 'is pain an' think. 
 
 There are 'eroes big and small, 
 But the biggest of them all 
 
 Is the 'orse wot lays a-dying on the ground, 
 
176 
 
 'E doesn't cause no wars, 
 An' 'e's only fighting yours, 
 
 An' 'e gives 'is life for you without a sound. 
 'E doesn't get no pay, 
 Just some oats, and p'r'aps some hay ; 
 
 If 'e's killed, no one thinks a bit of 'im. 
 'E's just as brave an' good 
 As any men wot ever stood, 
 
 But there's mighty little thought or 'elp for 'im. 
 
 PARENTHETICALLY SPEAKING. 
 
 FROM THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE 
 
 This delightful whimsy will serve to keep in mind the positively 
 affectionate exchange of greetings between the late President Carranza 
 and his friend Wilhelm, when Wilhelm was celebrating what he did not 
 know was the last glorious birthday in his life. 
 
 , Carranza sent a cable- (on the kaiser's birthday) 
 
 gram 
 To the kaiser there at Pots- (that's a German palace) 
 
 dam, 
 And it said, "Look out for Uncle (that's my northern 
 
 neighbor) Sam, 
 For he's coming after you!" 
 
 Then the kaiser waved his iron (as the papers have it) 
 
 hand, 
 And he danced a little sara- (that's a Turkish tango) 
 
 band, 
 And he said: "I'm safe in Heli- (in the German sea) 
 
 goland, 
 But I thank my friend Carranza." 
 
177 
 
 WORLD SERIES OPENED BATTER UP! 
 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A. E. F., FRANCE 
 
 outfield is a-creepin' in to catch the kaiser's pop, 
 And here's a southpaw twirler with a lot of vim 
 
 and hop! 
 
 He's tossed the horsehide far away to plug the hand- 
 grenade; 
 
 What matter if on muddy grounds this game of war is 
 
 played ? 
 He'll last through extra innings and he'll hit as well as 
 
 pitch ; 
 His smoking Texas leaguers'll make the Fritzies seek the 
 
 ditch! 
 
 He's just about to groove it toward a ducking Fritzie's 
 
 bean; 
 
 His crossfire is the puzzlingest that ever yet was seen ; 
 His spittle is a deadly thing; his little inshoot curve 
 Will graze some Heinie's heaving ribs and make him lose 
 
 his nerve. 
 
 Up in the air he never goes; he always cuts the plate, 
 No matter if the bleachers rise and start "The Hymn 
 
 of Hate;" 
 
 And pacifistic coaching never once has got his goat. 
 Just watch him heave across the top the latest Yankee 
 
 note! 
 
 The Boches claim the Umpire is a-sidin' with their nine, 
 But we are not the boobs to fall for such a phony line ; 
 We know the game is fair and square, decisions on the 
 
 level; 
 The only boost the kaiser gets is from his pal, The Devil ! 
 
178 
 
 The series now is opened, and the band begins to play; 
 The batteries are warming up; the crowd shouts, "Hip- 
 Hurray!" 
 
 The catcher is a-wingin' 'em to second, third and first, 
 And if a Heinie tries to steal, he's sure to get the worst. 
 
 So watch the southpaw twirler in his uniform O. D. 
 Retire to the players' bench the Boches one, two, three! 
 He'll never walk a bloomin' one, nor let 'em hit it out. 
 Just watch him make 'em fan the air and put the Hun 
 to rout ! 
 
 EDITH CAVELL 
 
 McLANDBURGH WILSON 
 
 From Miss Wilson's book entitled "The Little Flag On Main Street," 
 published and copyright, 1917, by The Macmillan Company, New York. 
 Special permission to insert in this book. 
 
 law and love and mercy 
 Was laid the German curse 
 When to her execution 
 Was led the British nurse. 
 
 In brutal might they thought her 
 
 Of help and friendship shorn ; 
 John Brown, Jeanne d'Arc, all martyrs, 
 
 Companioned her that morn. 
 
 A harmless, tender woman, 
 
 They took her to her doom; 
 A dread, resistless spirit 
 
 She rises from the tomb. 
 
 Still Germany shall fear her, 
 
 For since that bloody dawn 
 Through all the earth that trembles 
 
 Her soul goes marching on! 
 
179 
 
 TO SERVE IS TO GAIN 
 
 CHARLES H. MACKINTOSH 
 IN LOGGING, DULUTH 
 
 T-JE profits most who serves us best!" 
 
 Let each who labors,, lives and dies 
 Beneath these star-bespangled skies 
 Go write that motto on his breast! 
 
 "He profits most" Here is no call 
 
 To selfish ease or sordid gain; 
 
 Who serves himself will serve in vain; 
 Who profits most must serve us all. 
 
 And he has most who gives the most, 
 Since what is kept can but decay 
 And Death still treads his sleepless way 
 
 Among our myriad human host. 
 
 THEY SHALL RETURN 
 
 J. LEWIS MILLIGAN 
 IN THE TORONTO GLOBE 
 
 'T'HEY shall return when the wars are over, 
 * When battles are memories dim and far ; 
 Where guns now stand shall be corn and clover, 
 Flowers shall bloom where the blood-drops are. 
 
 They shall return with laughing faces, 
 Limbs that are lithe and hearts new-born; 
 
 Yea, we shall see them in old home-places, 
 Lovelier yet in the light of morn. 
 
180 
 
 "TO THE IRISH DEAD" 
 
 BY ESSEX EVANS 
 
 The author of these heart-touching lines is a Queenslander of Welsh 
 derivation. Sir Herbert Warren, K. C. V. O., of the University of Ox- 
 ford, had this to say of him and of the Toast : "They say that no one 
 but an Irishman understands Ireland, that she will listen to no one but 
 an Irishman. Wales is near to her in geography and in race. I have 
 thought she perhaps might listen to a Welsh voice. She has one today, 
 now whispering, now ringing, across St. George's Channel. Will she 
 heed it? Who knows?" 
 
 nniS a green isle set in a silver water, 
 
 A fairy isle where the shamrock grows, 
 Land of Legend, the Dream-Queen's daughter 
 
 Out of the Fairies' hands she rose. 
 They touched her harp with a tender sighing, 
 
 A spirit-song from a world afar, 
 They touched her heart with a fire undying 
 
 To fight and follow her battle-star. 
 
 Too long, too long thro' the grey years growing 
 
 Feud and faction have swept between 
 The thistledown and the red rose blowing, 
 
 And the three-fold leaf of the shamrock green; 
 But the seal of blood, ye shall break it never: 
 
 With rifles grounded and bare of head 
 We drink to the dead who live forever 
 
 A silent toast To the Irish dead! 
 
181 
 
 VISION 
 
 DOROTHY PAUL 
 IN THE SATURDAY EVENING POST 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 A BOVE the broken walls the apple boughs 
 * ^ Are murmurous with bees ; 
 
 Again the slumbrous breeze 
 Eddies the snow of drifted chestnut flowers, 
 And little ruffling winds go silverly 
 
 Along the poplar trees. 
 They never speak of it to me, 
 
 My comrades. Awkward-kind 
 I hear their voices roughen and grow dumb, 
 
 Remembering I am blind 
 
 But through the dark, I know I know the spring has 
 come 
 
 To France! 
 
 What matter I'll not see beneath the wheat 
 
 Red poppies burn again; 
 
 The gleam of April rain 
 Along the boulevards ; the flower girls 
 With mignonette and pinks and clematis; 
 
 Not see again the Seine 
 Slip under the silver bridges to Rouen? 
 
 Ah, no ; nor see 
 The pale gold smile of buttercups, that glorifies 
 
 Gray ruins with bravery 
 
 Heartbreaking, valiant the smile that lights the eyes 
 Of France! 
 
 For through the sightless mercy of my days 
 
 White visions come to me 
 
 Beyond the dark I see. 
 
 Not this worn, steadfast France, wan, gallant, spent, 
 With eyes burned haggard by the spirit of the Maid 
 
 And Charlotte of Normandy 
 
182 
 
 But France triumphant, high of heart, 
 
 Smiling through throbbing drums 
 On Rheims restored, Nancy, Alsace, Lorraine, 
 
 In that new spring that comes 
 
 The spring we halt and blind and dead bring back again 
 To France! 
 
 RAIN ON YOUR OLD TIN HAT . 
 
 LIEUT. J. H. WICKERSHAM 
 
 Written at the battle front in France and sent to his mother, 
 Mrs. W. E. Damon. Lieutenant Wickersham was killed in action 
 September 14, 1918. 
 
 HTHE mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of 
 
 hills, 
 
 There's a whispering of wind across the flat; 
 You'd be feeling kind of lonesome if it wasn't for one 
 
 thing 
 The patter of the raindrops on your old tin hat. 
 
 An' you just can't help a-figuring sitting here alone 
 About this war and hero stuff and that, 
 
 And you wonder if they haven't sort of got things 
 
 twisted up, 
 While the rain keeps up its patter on your old tin hat. 
 
 When you step off with the outfit to do your little bit, 
 You're simply doing what you're s'posed to do 
 
 And you don't take time to figure what you gain or what 
 
 you lose, 
 It's the spirit of the game that brings you .through. 
 
183 
 
 But back at home she's waiting, writing cheerful little 
 
 notes, 
 
 And every night she offers up a prayer 
 And just keeps on a-hoping that her soldier boy is safe 
 . The mother of the boy who's over there. 
 
 And, fellows, she's the hero of this great big ugly war, 
 And her prayer is on that wind across the flat; 
 
 And don't you reckon maybe it's her tears, and not the 
 
 rain, 
 That's keeping up the patter on your old tin hat? 
 
 THE ARMED LINER 
 
 H. SMALLEY SARSON 
 IN THE POETRY REVIEW 
 
 The dull gray paint of war 
 
 Covering the shining brass and gleaming decks 
 
 That once re-echoed to the steps of youth. 
 
 That was before 
 
 The storms of destiny made ghastly wrecks 
 
 Of peace, the Right of Truth. 
 
 Impromptu dances, colored lights and laughter, 
 
 Lovers watching the phosphorescent waves, 
 
 Now gaping guns, a whistling shell; and after 
 
 So many wandering graves. 
 
184 
 
 THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE TRENCHES 
 Flanders, spring of 1917. Authorship unknown. 
 
 here the dogs of war run loose, 
 Their whipper-in is Death ; 
 Across the spoilt and battered fields 
 
 We hear their sobbing breath. 
 The fields where grew the living corn 
 
 Are heavy with our dead ; 
 Yet still the fields at home are green 
 And I have heard it said: 
 
 That 
 
 There are crocuses at Nottingham ! 
 Wild crocuses at Nottingham! 
 Blue crocuses at Nottingham ! 
 Though here the grass is red. 
 
 There are little girls at Nottingham 
 
 Who do not dread the boche, 
 Young girls at school at Nottingham 
 
 (Lord! how I need a wash!) 
 There are little boys at Nottingham 
 
 Who never hear a gun ; 
 There are silly fools at Nottingham 
 
 Who think we're here for fun. 
 
 When 
 
 There are crocuses at Nottingham! 
 Young crocus buds at Nottingham! 
 Thousands of buds at Nottingham 
 Ungathered by the Hun. 
 
 But here we trample down the grass 
 
 Into a purple slime ; 
 There lives no tree to give the birds 
 
 House room in pairing time. 
 
185 
 
 We live in holes, like cellar rats, 
 
 But through the noise and smell 
 I often see those crocuses 
 Of which the people tell. 
 
 Why- 
 There are crocuses at Nottingham! 
 Bright crocuses at Nottingham! 
 Real crocuses at Nottingham ! 
 Because we're here in Hell. 
 
 THE WAR ROSARY 
 
 NELLIE HURST 
 IN THE WESTMINSTER GAZETTE 
 
 T KNIT, I knit, I pray, I pray. 
 
 My knitting is my rosary. 
 And as I weave the stitches gray, 
 
 I murmur pray'rs continually. 
 Gray loop, a sigh, gray knot, a wish, 
 
 Gray row a chain of wistful pray'r, 
 For thus to sit and knit and pray 
 
 This is of war the woman's share. 
 
 And so I knit, and thus I pray, 
 
 And keep repeating night and day, 
 May God lead safely those dear feet 
 
 That soon shall wear the web of gray. 
 Now and again a selfish strain? 
 
 But surely woman heart must yearn, 
 And pray sometimes that she may hear 
 
 The footsteps that return. 
 
 But if, O God, Not that. 
 
 But if it must be sacrifice complete, 
 Then I will trust that afterward 
 
 Thou wilt guide home those precious feet. 
 
186 
 
 WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLEY VOOS 
 
 PVT. CHARLES DIVINE 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE 
 
 f" CAN count my francs an' santeems 
 * If I've got a basket near 
 An' I speak a wicked "bon jour," 
 
 But the verbs are awful queer, 
 An' I lose a lot o' pronouns 
 
 When I try to talk to you, 
 For your eyes are so bewitchin' 
 
 I forget to parlay voo. 
 
 In your pretty little garden, 
 
 With the bench beside the wall, 
 An' the sunshine on the asters, 
 
 An' the purple phlox so tall, 
 I should like to whisper secrets 
 
 But my language goes askew 
 With the second person plural 
 
 For the' old familiar "too." 
 
 In your pretty little garden 
 
 I could always say "juh tame," 
 But it ain't so very subtle, 
 
 An' it ain't not quite the same 
 As "You've got some dandy earrings," 
 
 Or "Your eyes are nice an' brown" 
 But my adjectives get manly 
 
 Right before a lady noun. 
 
 Those infinitives perplex me; 
 
 I can say you're "tray jolee," 
 But beyond that simple statement 
 
 All my tenses don't agree. 
 I can make the Boche "comprenney" 
 
 When I meet 'em in a trench, 
 But the softer things escape me 
 
 When T try to vm in French. 
 
187 
 
 In your pretty little garden 
 
 Darn the idioms that dance 
 On your tongue so sweet and rapid, 
 
 Ah, they hold me in a trance! 
 Though I stutter an' I stammer, 
 
 In your garden, on the bench, 
 Yet my heart is writin' poems 
 
 When I talk to you in French. 
 
 MULES 
 
 C. FOX SMITH 
 IN LONDON PUNCH 
 
 Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of "Punch" 
 
 T NEVER would 'ave done it if I'd known what it 
 
 would be. 
 
 I thought it meant promotion and some extra pay for me ; 
 I thought I'd miss a drill or two with packs an' trenchin' 
 
 tools, 
 So I said I'd 'andled horses an' they set me 'andlin' 
 
 mules. 
 
 Now 'orses they are 'orses, but a mule, 'e is a mule 
 
 (Bit o' devil, bit o' monkey, bit o' bloomin' boundin' 
 
 fool!) 
 
 Oh, I'm usin' all the adjectives I didn't learn at school 
 On the prancin', glancin', rag-time dancin' army transport 
 
 mule. 
 
 If I'd been Father Noah when the cargo walked aboard, 
 I'd 'ave let the bears an' tigers in, an' never spoke a word; 
 But I'd 'ave shoved a placard out to say the 'ouse was 
 
 full, 
 An' shut the ark up suddent when I saw the army mule. 
 
188 
 
 They buck you off when ridden, they squish your leg when 
 
 led; 
 They're mostly sittin' on their tail or standing on their 
 
 'ead ; 
 They reach their yellow grinders out an' gently chew 
 
 your ear, 
 An' their necks is indiarubber for attackin' in the rear. 
 
 They're as mincin' when they're 'appy as a ladies' ridin' 
 
 school, 
 But when the fancy takes 'em they're like nothin' but a 
 
 mule 
 With the off wheels in the gutter an' the near wheels in 
 
 the air, 
 An' a leg across the traces, an' the driver Lord knows 
 
 where. 
 
 They're 'orrid in the stables, they're worse upon the road ; 
 They'll bolt with any rider, they'll jib with any load; 
 But soon we're bound beyond the seas, an' when we cross 
 
 the foam 
 I don't care where we go to if we leaves the mules at 'ome. 
 
 For 'orses they are 'orses, but a mule 'e is a mule 
 
 (Bit o' devil, bit o' monkey, bit o' bloomin' boundin' 
 
 fool!) 
 
 Oh, I'm usin' all the adjectives I never learnt at school 
 On the rampin', rawboned, cast-steel-jawboned army 
 
 transport mule. 
 
189 
 
 AN APRIL SONG 
 
 GEORGE C. MICHAEL, LANCE CORPORAL, R. E. 
 (Written on leave at Stratford-on-Avon. ) 
 
 QRCHARD land! Orchard land! 
 ^^ Damson blossom, primrose bloom: 
 Avon, like a silver band 
 
 Winds from Stratford down to Broome: 
 
 All the orchards simmer white 
 
 For an April day's delight: 
 
 We have risen in our might, 
 
 Left this land we love, to fight, 
 Fighting still, that these may stand, 
 Orchard land! Orchard land! 
 
 Running stream! Running stream! 
 Ruddy tench and silver perch: 
 
 Shakespeare loved the water's gleam 
 Sparkling on by Welford church : 
 Water fay meets woodland gnome 
 Where the silver eddies foam 
 Thro' the richly scented loam: 
 We are fain to see our home, 
 
 See again thy silver gleam, 
 
 Running stream! Running stream! 
 
 Silver throats! Silver throats! 
 
 Piping blackbird, trilling thrush: 
 
 Shakespeare heard your merry notes; 
 
 Still you herald morning's blush: 
 
 You shall sing your anthems grand 
 
 When we've finished what He planned. 
 
 God will hear and understand. 
 
 God will give us back our land 
 Where the water-lily floats, 
 Silver throats! Silver throats! 
 
190 
 
 A SONG OF THE AIR 
 
 GORDON ALCHIN 
 
 From "Oxford and Flanders." B. H. Blackwell, Publishers, Oxford, 
 England. Special permission to reproduce in this book. 
 
 HT HIS is the song of the Plane 
 * The creaking, shrieking plane, 
 
 The throbbing, sobbing plane, 
 
 And the moaning, groaning wires: 
 
 The engine missing again! 
 
 One cylinder never fires! 
 
 Hey ho! for the Plane! 
 
 This is the song of the Man 
 The driving, striving man, 
 The chosen, frozen man: 
 The pilot, the man-at-the-wheel, 
 Whose limit is all that he can, 
 And beyond, if the need is real! 
 Hey ho! for the Man! 
 
 This is the song of the Gun 
 The muttering, stuttering gun, 
 The maddening, gladdening gun : 
 That chuckles with evil glee 
 At the last, long drive of the Hun, 
 With its end in eternity! 
 Hey ho! for the Gun! 
 
 This is the song of the Air 
 The lifting, drifting air, 
 The eddying, steadying air, 
 The wine of its limitless space: 
 May it nerve us at last to dare 
 Even death with undaunted face! 
 Hey ho ! for the Air ! 
 
191 
 
 VICTORY! 
 
 S. J. DUNCAN-CLARK 
 
 IN THE CHICAGO EVENING POST, NOVEMBER 11, 1918 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 UT of the night it leaped the seas 
 
 The four long years of night ! 
 "The foe is beaten to his knees, 
 
 And triumph crowns the fight!" 
 It sweeps the world from shore to shore, 
 
 By wave and wind 'tis flung, 
 It grows into a mighty roar 
 
 Of siren, bell and tongue. 
 Where little peoples knelt in fear, 
 
 They stand in joy today; 
 The hour of their redemption here, 
 
 Their feet on Freedom's way. 
 The kings and kaisers flee their doom, 
 
 Fall bloody crown and throne! 
 Room for the people! Room! Make room! 
 
 They march to claim their own! 
 Now God be praised we lived to see 
 
 His Sun of Justice rise, 
 His Sun of Righteous Liberty, 
 
 To gladden all our skies! 
 And God be praised for those who died, 
 
 Whate'er their clime or breed, 
 Who, fighting bravely side by side, 
 
 A world from thraldom freed! 
 And God be praised for those who, spite 
 
 Of woundings sore and deep, 
 Survive to see the Cause of Right 
 
 O'er all its barriers sweep! 
 God and the people This our cry! 
 
 O, God, thy peace we sing! 
 The peace that comes through victory, 
 
 And dwells where Thou art King. 
 
192 
 
 THE HOMECOMING 
 
 LEROY FOLGE 
 
 Grief for a brother, an American who was killed in France, 
 brought about the suicide of the author of this poem. The manuscript 
 was found beside his body. The lines were published in THE CHICAGO 
 TRIBUNE. 
 
 1LJIS regiment came home today, 
 -*-- 1 - But Jim, old Jim, he's still away. 
 I know, I know, he's sleeping there 
 Out on the fields of France somewhere. 
 And yet, I stood out in the rain, 
 To watch the boys come home again, . 
 Just wishing that it wasn't true, 
 And that Jim would be coming, too. 
 Yet, all the while, I knew, I knew 
 
 Old Jim, he's gone. They tell me how 
 
 He fell against the Huns, and now, 
 
 He's gained a sort of dignity 
 
 That somehow seems could never be; 
 
 For Jim, he was so gay and free, 
 
 With never a thought of greater weight 
 
 Than just to keep an evening date, 
 
 Or get some cigarets, perhaps, 
 
 Or shoot a game or two of craps, 
 
 Or dance all night, then drive all day 
 
 His roadster down the speeding way. 
 
 But, now, Jim's gone, the folks will say, 
 
 He was a wonder in his day. 
 
 Old Jim he wasn't old, you know 
 
 I say that for I love him so 
 
 Grew up with me, and he and I 
 
 Would never let a day go by 
 
 That I did not see some plan begun 
 
 In which we both would have some fun. 
 
193 
 
 And then, there comes that fateful day, 
 When our men go to join the fray; 
 And Jim can go, but I must stay. 
 "Good-by, old top, if I'm not dead, 
 I'll give the Kaiser hell," he said. 
 I think he meant it, but . Oh, well, 
 He didn't give the Kaiser hell. 
 
 Folks always said that Jim was light, 
 And stayed out much too late at night, 
 Frivolous and never would, 
 Whatever else he did, make good. 
 
 Why, no one ever thought to take 
 Jim seriously, the reckless rake! 
 But when the time to charge had come, 
 Jim left the trench, along with some 
 More daring chaps, and crawling, spanned 
 The hell that they call "No Man's Land." 
 
 They cut the tangled wires away, 
 
 Then our men charged, but there Jim lay 
 
 What is it that the Scriptures say 
 
 About the chap that offers up 
 
 His all, and drinks the bitter cup 
 
 That's how I like to think of Jim, 
 
 The glory that is left of him. 
 
 THE CROWN 
 
 HELEN COMBES 
 IN LESLIE'S WEEKLY 
 
 RITE us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, 
 red tale, 
 
 Learned on the field of battle, where bullets fell like hail. 
 
 Pen us the ghastly story, of thousands of slaughtered 
 men, 
 
 Till our souls are sick with horror. And then, oh, sol- 
 dier, then, 
 
194 
 
 Tell us in tender accents, how men with hearts of gold 
 Succored their wounded brothers; stripped in the biting 
 
 cold 
 
 To cover the dead and dying. Give us our faith again, 
 Our belief in a God Almighty, in a Brotherhood of Man. 
 
 Paint us a canvas, soldier, a picture of fire and flame! 
 
 Men, mad* with the lust of killing, playing their grisly 
 game! 
 
 Show us the dead-strewn hillsides, guarding the blood- 
 drenched plain, 
 
 A picture of war's grim horrors. And then, oh, soldier, 
 then, 
 
 Draw us the white-capped nurses, doctors with skilful 
 hands, 
 
 Counting their lives as nothing when human need de- 
 mands 
 
 All that they have to offer. Paint us the women and 
 men 
 
 Who bring the joy of living back to our hearts again. 
 
 Sing us a song, oh, soldier, chant in a martial strain, 
 Those who have died in battle, those .who come home 
 
 again. 
 
 Call us the mothers of heroes, call us the mothers of men, 
 Till our hearts are torn and bleeding. And then, oh, 
 
 soldier, then, 
 
 Play us in minor cadence, a harp with a tautened string, 
 
 Set to a heavenly music, the songs the angels sing, 
 
 Of a world by Love safeguarded, where wars shall ever 
 
 cease, 
 Sing us at last oh, soldier, the Song of Eternal Peace. 
 
195 
 
 OUR SOLDIER DEAD 
 
 ANNETTE KOHN 
 
 IN NEW YORK TIMES 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "TN Flanders fields, where poppies blow," 
 Mo France where beauteous roses grow, 
 There let them rest forever sleep, 
 While we eternal vigil keep 
 With our heart's love with our soul's pray'r, 
 For all our Fallen "Over There." 
 
 The sounding sea between us rolls 
 And in perpetual requiem tolls 
 Three thousand miles of cheerless space 
 Lie 'twixt us and their resting place; 
 'Twas God who took them by the hand 
 And left them in the stranger land. 
 
 The earth is sacred where they fell 
 
 Forever on it lies the spell 
 
 Of hero deeds in Freedom's cause, 
 
 And men unborn shall come and pause 
 
 To say a pra)^er, or bow the head, 
 
 So leave these graves to hold their dead. 
 
 Let not our sighing nor our tears 
 Fall on them through the coming years 
 Who on the land, on sea, in air, 
 With dauntless courage everywhere, 
 Their homes and country glorified 
 Stood to their arms and smiling died. 
 
 Great France will leave no need nor room 
 That we place flowers on their tomb- 
 And proudly o'er their resting place, 
 Will float forever in its grace, 
 O'er cross, and star, and symbol tag, 
 Their own beloved country's flag. 
 
196 
 
 The morning sun will gild with light, 
 The stars keep holy watch at night, 
 The winter spread soft pall of snow, 
 The summer flowers about them grow, 
 The sweet birds sing their springtime call 
 God's love and mercy guard them all. 
 
 LET THERE BE LIGHT! 
 
 RUTH WRIGHT KAUFFMAN 
 
 IN THE RED CROSS MAGAZINE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 "DLACK with the blackness of hell and despair 
 
 Village and village and village lay there; 
 Never a candle and never a lamp 
 Four hundred miles of the enemies' camp. 
 
 Trains of munitions that creak with their loads, 
 Supplies, horses, soldiers engulfed by the roads; 
 An ambulance crawling, a password, and then 
 Through the shell-shattered houses the marching of men. 
 
 Black with the blackness of wounds and of death 
 The villages huddled there holding their breath ; 
 Black till there rang this new order to "Cease" 
 "It is over! all over! the war! there is peace! 
 
 Come, dance on the ruins Look, No Man's Land there, 
 "Verboten" for years, is a world's thoroughfare; 
 And village and village, remember the night, 
 But turn it to day and let there be light. 
 
 The sorrow unburied, destruction how much! 
 Four hundred long miles for the taper to touch ! 
 The shades are undrawn, the lamps shining bright; 
 It is dawn in the darkness; again There Is Light! 
 
197 
 THE PRESENT BATTLE-FIELD 
 
 WRIGHT FIELD 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES 
 
 "THE war is over, over there, 
 * And Peace has made her bow 
 But the Battle of Verdun is on 
 At Jenkins' Corners now! 
 
 All's still along the rippling Somme, 
 
 Likewise at Belleau Wood 
 But the Jenkins' Corners Battle now 
 
 Is merely going good ! 
 
 Now beaten into plowshares are 
 
 The swords once dripping wet 
 With human gore but Heinies fall 
 
 At Jenkins' Corners yet! 
 
 The smoke of cannon floats away 
 
 In France, a fading cloud 
 But the war at Jenkins' Corners is 
 
 Attracting quite a crowd! 
 
 Pop Snider had a navvy there, 
 
 And old Zeke Wade a son, 
 And since the boys are home again, 
 
 They've waded in like fun. 
 
 The checker-board is moved away, 
 
 A gas-mask takes its place; 
 The floor is neatly sanded, so 
 
 The campaign they may trace. 
 
 Pop Snider knows what he'd have done, 
 
 And Zekiel has his say 
 On where they made the great mistake 
 
 And nearly lost the day. 
 
198 
 
 They fight it o'er from A to Z, 
 And slay full many a Hun 
 
 For out at Jenkins' Corners now 
 The war is just begun! 
 
 NOVEMBER ELEVENTH 
 
 ELIZABETH HANLY 
 IN POPULAR EDUCATOR 
 
 A THOUSAND whistles break the bonds of sleep 
 A x "\yjth sw ift exultant summons wild and shrill ; 
 Impassioned tongues of flames toward heaven leap 
 To tell us peace has come. The guns are still. 
 
 A thousand flags have blossomed in the air 
 
 Like poppies in a garden by the sea. 
 Beyond the eastern hills a golden flare 
 
 Foretells the day that broke on Calvary. 
 
 Long-darkened Liberty uplifts once more 
 Her torch on Belgium, Poland and Alsace 
 
 And Flanders on each desecrated shore, 
 
 Slow dawns the sun ; and on my mother's face 
 
 The look, I think, that Mary must have worn 
 
 In Galilee on Resurrection morn. 
 
199 
 
 OLD JIM 
 
 NORMAN SHANNON HALL 
 
 IN THE STARS AND STRIPES 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 in that vague, vast "somewhere" of The Line 
 They killed Old Jim, a proven friend of mine. 
 Killed him at night, while he was on patrol ; 
 All the company found was just a hole 
 A damned boche shell had dug out where he'd gone. 
 The outfit passed the place just after dawn 
 And saw some bodies; but they couldn't tell 
 Which one was which. They all were smashed to hell! 
 They put Jim on the list, "Reported Dead"; 
 "Missing in Action," the home papers said. 
 
 I wasn't in The Line when Jim went out. 
 
 A piece of shrapnel had hit me a clout 
 
 Which kept me pretty quiet for a while 
 
 Gray days when it was mighty hard to smile. 
 
 And when I learned Old Jim had topped the ridge 
 
 I fell to thinking what a privilege 
 
 It was to know him. Jim was just the kind 
 
 That stops to pet a dog or help the blind. 
 
 The sort you turn to when things don't go right, 
 
 And then forget when all the world is bright. 
 
 Jim had a kindly eye that seemed to see 
 
 The best in men. What could he see in me? 
 
 I never knew ; but Jim was always glad 
 
 To give me half of everything he had. 
 
 That's why, you see, it cut me mighty deep 
 
 To know Old Jim was Out There in a heap. 
 
 I've said Old Jim was not identified. 
 
 All the outfit ever knew was he died! 
 
 And though there is no way to prove it's so 
 
 This Unknown Soldier is Old Jim. I know! 
 
 The Congress Medal and the D. S. C., 
 
 Have been given this Lost Identity; 
 
 And knowing that they both were earned by him, 
 
 I know the Unknown Soldier is Old Jim! 
 
200 
 
 THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER 
 ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON 
 
 GRANTLAND RICE 
 
 IN THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 HTHE wind to-day is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles 
 
 blowing, 
 Where shadows steal across the world, as silent as the 
 
 dew. 
 Where golden youth is yellow dust, by haunted rivers 
 
 flowing 
 Through valleys where the crosses grow, as harvest wheat 
 
 is growing, 
 And only dead men see the line that passes in review. 
 
 The gripping clay once more gives way before the Mighty 
 
 Mother 
 Who waits with everlasting arms to guard her sleeping 
 
 sons. 
 
 And lonely mates in silent fields call out to one another 
 The story of an empty grave, where each has lost a 
 
 brother, 
 
 Who takes the long, long trail at last beyond the rust- 
 ing guns. 
 
 Gently the east wind brought him home to meet the south 
 
 wind sighing. 
 Softly the north wind breathes his name that none of 
 
 us may know. 
 For only those who fell with him, out in the darkness 
 
 lying, 
 
 Can tell his company or rank, and they are un replying, 
 As each dreams on through summer dawns or winter's 
 mantling snow. 
 
201 
 
 Nameless and yet how gallantly he faced the roaring 
 
 thunder 
 Where names were less than star-dust as the crashing 
 
 steel swept by 
 To take its endless toll of those the night squad spaded 
 
 under, 
 Clod upon clod, beneath the sod that time alone may 
 
 sunder, 
 Held where the wind-blown grasses stir beneath an 
 
 alien sky. 
 
 He'll miss, perhaps, the poppy blooms that sway above 
 
 the clover, 
 But rose-red wreaths of Arlington bend low above his 
 
 dreams. 
 
 The reveille at dawn is done, the slogging hikes are over, 
 Where out the friendly lanes of home, a gay and careless 
 
 rover, 
 
 His wild, free spirit* seeks the hills and haunts the 
 singing streams. 
 
 No more he moves by Meuse or Aisne, some shell-swept 
 
 river wading, 
 No marching orders call him from his rough-hewn 
 
 granite grave. 
 And when at dusk we hear far off the eerie drum-taps 
 
 fading, 
 What hallowed spot holds more than this, with spectral 
 
 lines parading 
 Blood of our blood, dust of our dust, "the ashes of our 
 
 brave"? 
 
 There will be tears from watching eyes, where rain and 
 
 mist are blended, 
 
 There will be heartache in the lines where gold-starred 
 mothers wait. 
 
202 
 
 But where the great shells fall no more, what vision is 
 
 more splendid 
 Than peace along the once-scarred fields, the last red 
 
 battle ended, 
 Peace that he helped to bring again above the twilight 
 
 gate? 
 
 Let valor's minstrel voices sing his fame for future pages, 
 But when the starless darkness comes and the long 
 
 silence creeps, 
 When blossom mists of spring return or winter torrent 
 
 rages, 
 Write this above his nameless dust, to last beyond the 
 
 ages, 
 
 "Safe in the Mighty Mother's arms an Unknown Sol- 
 dier sleeps." 
 
 EPITAPH FOR THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER 
 
 ANNETTE KOHN 
 IN THE WASHINGTON STAR 
 
 Permission to reproduce in this book 
 
 VUTTHIN this nation-hallowed tomb 
 ^ An unknown soldier lies asleep, 
 Symbolic comrade of all those 
 Who, on the land, on sea, in air, 
 In that red death across the seas, 
 Sealed with their blood the sacred truths 
 For which our country ever stands: 
 That righteousness is all the law 
 That justice is true government 
 Man's liberty the gift of God. 
 In memory of the faith they kept, 
 Here through the ages all the land 
 As honor guard on watch will stand! 
 
203 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 Above the broken walls the apple boughs 181 
 
 Absolute knowledge I have none 86 
 
 Across the sands by Mary's well 47 
 
 Against the shabby house I pass each day. Ill 
 
 A little grimy-fingered girl 43 
 
 Archduke Francis Ferdinand, Austrian heir-apparent 137 
 
 A thousand whistles break the bonds of sleep 198 
 
 Athwart that land of bloss'ming vine 65 
 
 Black with the blackness of hell and despair 196 
 
 Bosun's whistle piping, "Starboard watch is on" ; 18 
 
 Boy in khaki, boy in blue 82 
 
 By all the glories of the day, 13 
 
 By blazing homes, through forests torn 70 
 
 Click, click ! how the needles go 128 
 
 Come ! Says the drum 67 
 
 Come shake hands, my little peach blossom 76 
 
 Dear little flag in the window there 154 
 
 Down in the street, with a lilting swing 108 
 
 Down toward the deep-blue water, marching to throb of 
 
 drum 112 
 
 "Do your bit !'* How cheap and trite 152 
 
 'E's a sportsman is our Padre 36 
 
 Far and near, high and clear 106 
 
 Flag of our Faith : lead on 40 
 
 Float thou majestically, proudly, triumphantly 153 
 
 Franceline rose in the dawning gray. . . . 139 
 
 God, the Master Pilot 68 
 
 Gone is the spire that slept for centuries 92 
 
 Hail and farewell 126 
 
 Hail, banner of our holy faith 45 
 
 Hear the guns, hear the guns ! 134 
 
204 
 
 INDEX Continued 
 
 He profits most who serves us best ! 179 
 
 Here in the long white ward I stand 14 
 
 Here's to the Blue of the wind-swept North 41 
 
 He was a French Boy Scout a little lad 83 
 
 He woke: the clank and racket of the train 121 
 
 His regiment came home today, 192 
 
 Ho ! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn : 21 
 
 I can count my francs an' santeems 186 
 
 I enlisted in the infantry last summer ; 141 
 
 If I should die, think only this of me : 102 
 
 I have a conversation book; I brought it out from home 19 
 
 I have a rendezvous with Death 99 
 
 I hear the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric rain:. . . 42 
 
 I knit, I knit, I pray, I pray 185 
 
 I never would 'ave done it if I'd known what it would be. . 187 
 
 In Flanders' fields the poppies blow 101 
 
 In Flanders fields, where poppies blow 195 
 
 In this last hour, before the bugles blare 120 
 
 I saw the spires of Oxford 114 
 
 I sit down to write a poem of our fighting men's renown 169 
 
 I stand on a peak at Verdun a scarred, torn peak of hope 
 
 and death 167 
 
 It is long since knighthood was in flower 85 
 
 It is portentous, and a thing of state 144 
 
 I tried to be a doughboy, but they said my feet were flat. . . . 143 
 
 It's a high-f alutin' title they have handed us ; 44 
 
 It's Spring at home ; I know the signs 123 
 
 It was high midsummer and the sun was shining strong. . 34 
 
 It was only a little river ; almost a brook ; 159 
 
 It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with Ger- 
 man guns 29 
 
 I've heard a half a dozen times 113 
 
 I was an exile from my own country 93 
 
 I wonder what the trees will say 118 
 
 Just for a "scrap of paper," 24 
 
 Leave me alone here, proudly, with my dead 132 
 
 Left! Left! Had a good girl when I Left! Left 71 
 
INDEX Continued 
 Let us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died in our 
 
 cause 
 
 205 
 
 119 
 
 'Mid blinding rain this inky night 74 
 
 Mike Dillon was a doughboy 61 
 
 My heart is numb with sorrow ; 51 
 
 My house that I so soon shall own 110 
 
 My name is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty-three. ... 75 
 
 My son, at last the fateful day has come 87 
 
 Never a Serbian flower shall bloom 50 
 
 No beauty could escape his loving eyes, 14 
 
 No bugle is blown, no roll of drums 86 
 
 No Man's Land is an eerie sight 16 
 
 Not with vain tears, when we're beyond the sun 102 
 
 Now, Mr. Wall of Wall St., he built himself a yacht 89 
 
 O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear 109 
 
 Oh, Carranza sent a cable- (on the kaiser's birthday) gram. 176 
 
 Oh, Land of Ours, hear the song we make for you 161 
 
 Oh, the General with his epaulets, leadin' a parade; 37 
 
 Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance 146 
 
 One. star for all she had 116 
 
 On law and love and mercy 178 
 
 On the battlefields of Flanders men have blessed you in 
 
 their pain 69 
 
 Orchard land ! Orchard, land ! 189 
 
 Our little hour how swift it flies 103 
 
 Out here the dogs of war run loose 184 
 
 Out in that vague vast "somewhere" of The Line IS 9 
 
 Out of the night it leaped the seas 191 
 
 Outside the ancient city's gate 48 
 
 Over thousands of miles 53 
 
 Pardon ! he has no Engleesh, heem 73 
 
 Past the marching men, where the great road runs 162 
 
 Perched upon an office stool, neatly adding figures 94 
 
 Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France. . 25 
 
206 
 
 INDEX Continued 
 
 Ribbons of white in the flag of our land 105 
 
 Saint Genevieve, whose sleepless watch 20 
 
 Say, pa ! What is a service flag ?. 158 
 
 She stands alone beside the gate 157 
 
 She wasn't much to brag about, she wasn't much to see. ... 30 
 
 Some day the fields of Flanders shall bloom in peace again. 129 
 
 Somewhere is music from the linnets' bills 104 
 
 Song of the west wind whispering listen 163 
 
 Son o' oP Miz McAuliffe, the widder o' Box-Car Jack 155 
 
 Standin' up here on the fire-step 80 
 
 Still breaks the Holy morn, to soothe the care 117 
 
 Straight thinking, Straight talking 57 
 
 Suddenly one day the last ill shall fall away 151 
 
 Summer comes and summer goes 72 
 
 Thank God, our liberating lance 46 
 
 The band is on the quarter-deck, the starry flag unfurled;. . 166 
 
 The Colonel has a job to do 32 
 
 The dull gray paint of war. . 183 
 
 The evening star a child espied 81 
 
 The herdman wandering by the lonely rills, 27 
 
 The Kid has gone to the Colors 23 
 
 The Kings are dying! In blood and flame 145 
 
 The little home paper comes to me t 15 
 
 The magpies in Picardy 130 
 
 The mist hangs low and quiet on a ragged line of hills 182 
 
 The nightingales of Flanders 50 
 
 The old flag is a-doin' her very level best 151 
 
 The Old Gang on the Corner! What an arrant tribe 
 
 they were 64 
 
 The outfield is a-creepin' in to catch the kaiser's pop 177 
 
 The rivers of France are ten score and twain 79 
 
 The sick man said: "I pray I shall not die 133 
 
 The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door; 78 
 The star upon their service flag has changed to gleaming 
 
 gold: 
 
 The sunny streets of Oxford 115 
 
 The war is over, over there 197 
 
 The wind today is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blow- 
 ing 200 
 
207 
 
 INDEX Continued 
 
 There are some that go for love of a fight 96 
 
 There is a hill in England 60 
 
 There's a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons.. 63 
 There's a rumble an' a jumble an' a humpin' an' a thud,. . 26 
 
 There used to be a boy next door 172 
 
 There will be dreams again ! The grass will spread 171 
 
 They dug no grave for our soldier lad, who fought and who 
 
 died out there: 136 
 
 They knew they were righting our war. As the months grew 
 
 to years 52 
 
 They 'shall not pass, While Britain's sons draw breath 125 
 
 They shall return when the wars are over 179 
 
 They've put us through our paces ; 69 
 
 This is the song of the Plane 190 
 
 Thou art no longer here 90 
 
 Through the dark night and the fury of battle 84 
 
 'Tis a green isle set in a silver water 180 
 
 Trotting the roan horse 170 
 
 Twenty years of the army, of drawing a sergeant's pay. ... 38 
 
 Unfurl the flag of Freedom 98 
 
 Up among the chimneys tall 49 
 
 Was there ever a game we did not share 91 
 
 We had forgotten You, or very nearly 55 
 
 We never were made to be seen on parade 66 
 
 We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights 59 
 
 West to the hills, the long, long trail that strikes 123 
 
 We whom the draft rejected 160 
 
 What are we fighting for, men of my race 165 
 
 When I return, let us be very still 33 
 
 When the shells are bursting round 174 
 
 Who was it, picked from civil life 127 
 
 Why do we love our flag? Ask why flowers love the sun- 
 shine 173 
 
 Within this nation-hallowed tomb 202 
 
 Write us your verse, oh, so-ldier, tell us the grim, red tale. 193 
 
208 
 
 I NDEX Co ntinued 
 
 Yes, back at home I used to drive a tram ; 97 
 
 You're a funny fellow, poilu, in your dinky little cap 95 
 
 You see that young kid lying there 124 
 
 "You've heard a good deal of the telephone wires" 57 
 
Readings and Monologi 
 a la Mode 
 
 By WALTER BEN HARE 
 
 THIRTY-TWO platform 
 selections in prose and 
 verse, ranging from humor to 
 pathos, and affording an ex- 
 cellent repertoire for the ver- 
 satile entertainer. 
 
 CONTENTS. Amateur Gum 
 Chewer ; American Eagle ; Am 
 I Your Vife? At the Soda 
 Fountain; Betty at the Base- 
 ball Game; Billy Keeps a Secret; Black Blue- 
 Grass Widow ; Bridget's Disappointments ; 
 Brudder Rastus' Sermon on the World War; 
 Cullud Lady at the Phone ; Free Years Old ; 
 Glory Car ; Hallowe'en Witch ; High School 
 Tact ; How to Get Married ; Humoresque ; 
 Kid's Complaint ; Lodge Goat ; Men Who 
 Died ; Minnie at the Skating Rink ; Mrs. Santa 
 Claus; Newlyweds; Practisin' ; Sin of Steve 
 Audaine ; S-m-i-1-e ; Sonny Meets the Smiths ; 
 Traumerei ; Turkey in the Straw ; When I'm 
 All Dressed Up; Willie, the Angelic Child. 
 
 Beautiful cloth binding. lettering and 
 
 design in two colors, attractive type. 
 
 Price. $1.25 
 
 T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 
 
 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 
 
Some Vaudeville Monologues 
 
 By HARRY L. NEWTON 
 
 RIGHT up to the minute 
 and covers a wide range 
 of characters. Thirteen for 
 men and five for women. 
 
 CONTENTS. "People I Have 
 Met" Cholly has a perfect batting 
 average in the laugh league. "Well, 
 I Swan 1" Reuben's impressions of 
 a big city. "Her Busted Ro- 
 mances" a muchly jilted maiden 
 of uncertain age. "Music a la 
 Carte" Bobby explains the situ- 
 ation without orchestral aid. "Abie Cohen's Wedding 
 Day" a ready conversationalist zt'hcn his hands are 
 free. "Sorrows of Sadie" a chorus girl confides to 
 a sympathetic companion. "Tipperary Tips" Barney 
 prescribes a laugh tonic. "Kissing as an Art" effi- 
 ciency is his middle name. "Panhandle Pete" he 
 hands out a piece' of free advice. "Tillie Olson's Ro- 
 mance" a Swedish queen of the kitchen. "As Tony 
 Tells It" he has an imported dialect try it on your 
 vocabulary. "Suffragette Susie" ivho might be will- 
 ing to change her name and pay the parson as well. 
 "A Sad Lover" elucidations of a colored Romeo. 
 "Chatter" Nat has a jitney income, a limousine appe- 
 tite and a six cylinder conversation. "My Father 
 Says" Elisabeth does a bit of advertising. "I'm a 
 Tellin' You" a small town guy distributes some vil- 
 lage information. "The Precinct Politician" as a 
 political speech maker he is a good plumber. "Yon 
 Yonson, Yanitor" he turns on the steam: Unique 
 illustrations of each character. 
 
 Beautiful oloth binding, lettering and 
 
 design in two colors, attractive type. 
 
 Price, SI. 25 
 
 T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 
 
 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 
 
Let's Pretend 
 
 A Book of Children's Plays 
 
 By LINDSEY BARBEE 
 
 let's pretend!" 
 has been the slogan of 
 all childhood. A few gay 
 feathers have transformed an 
 everyday lad into a savage 
 warrior ; a sweeping train has 
 given a simple gingham frock 
 the dignity of a court robe ; 
 the power of make-believe has 
 changed a bare attic into a 
 gloomy forest or perhaps into a royal palace. 
 These six plays will appeal to the imagination, 
 to the fun-loving nature and to the best ideals 
 of all children. 
 
 CONTENTS. The Little Pink Lady (6 
 Girls); The Ever-Ever Land (16 Boys, 17 
 Girls); When the Toys Awake (15 Boys, 5 
 Girls) ; The Forest of Every Day (5 Boys, 
 7 Girls) ; A Christmas Tree Joke (7 Boys, 7 
 Girls) ; "If Don't-Believe Is Changed Into 
 Believe" (21 Boys, 15 Girls). Full descrip- 
 tions for producing; easy to costume and 
 "put on." Clever illustrations showing the ap- 
 pearance of each character. The most charm- 
 ing children's plays ever written. 
 
 Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and 
 
 design in two colors, attractive type. 
 
 Price, $1.25 
 
 T. S. Den i son & Company, Publishers 
 
 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 
 
Jolly Monologues 
 
 By MARY MONCURE PARKER 
 
 ANOTHER superb group 
 of readings by the author 
 of "Merry Monologues." The 
 twenty-eight original selec- 
 tions in prose and verse will 
 prove gems for any platform 
 artist. Many moods and shades 
 of sentiment are represented, 
 but the majority are humor- 
 ous. The original work of 
 this author is in increasing demand. 
 
 CONTENTS. At the Bridge Party ; A Free 
 Lunch ; You Have the Same Old Smile ; Signs 
 'of Spring; Mr. Daniel and the Lions; At the 
 Telephone ; You's Mah Lil' Coal Black Baby ; 
 The Ghost of Annie Flanigan ; The Club 
 Luncheon; The New Baby; The Kisses of 
 Life; What George Thinks of the Movies; 
 Isn't Art Absorbing ; Her Valentine ; Maggie 
 McCarty Talks About Receptions ; Hiram and 
 the Bolshevists ; Jimmy's Prayer ; What Mary 
 Thinks of Boys; From the Street Car Con- 
 ductor's Point of View; The Eater; The 
 Peach Blossom Princess ; One Minute to Eat ; 
 A Chop Suey Love Tale ; Converting John 
 the "Blaptist"; To Him That Overcometh ; 
 When We Went In; Who Says Woman's 
 Place Is at Home? Red Charley One Credit. 
 
 Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and 
 
 design in two colors, attractive type. 
 
 Price, SI. 25 
 
 T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 
 
 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 
 
Merry Monologues 
 
 By MARY MONCURB PARKER 
 
 ^~T~AHESE selections are wholly 
 original and sufficiently var- 
 ied in character and senti- 
 ment to enable the reader to make 
 up a well-rounded program in 
 which high comedy mingles with 
 farce and pathos in a manner suit- 
 able for all occasions. Nineteen 
 monologues and nine short poems 
 which are especially adapted to 
 that particular form of enter- 
 tainment called the pianologue, 
 
 viz., reading to music. 
 
 Some of the selections are new but most of them 
 
 are the pick from the author's wide repertoire, which 
 
 she has used throughout this country and in England. 
 
 They bear the stamp of enthusiastic public approval 
 
 and are now first offered to the public. 
 
 Contents: On the Street Car; The Renaissance 
 of the Kiss; Husbands Is Husbands; Oh, Friend of 
 Mine; George's First Sweetheart; Bobby and the 
 New Baby; Lucile Gets Ready for a Dance; 
 Mandy's Man and Safety First; Maggie McCarthy 
 Goes on a Diet; Mrs. Climber Doesn't Like Notori- 
 ety; Lucindy Jones Expects a Legacy; Grown Folks 
 Is so Awful Queer; At the Movies; The Gingie Boy; 
 Ode to a Manikin; Isaacstein's Busy Day; Like Pil- 
 grims to the Appointed Place; Mrs. Bargain 
 Counter Meets a Friend; Mother Mine; Maggie 
 McCarthy Has Her Fortune Told; In Vaudeville; 
 Uncle Jim and the Liniment; The Funny Story; In 
 the Milliner Shop; Mrs. Trubble's Troubles; 
 George's Cousin Willie; When Lucindy Goes to 
 Town; A Question. 
 
 Beautiful cloth binding, lettering: and 
 design in two colors, clear, attractive 
 type. Price, $1.25 
 
 T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers 
 
 623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO 
 
THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE 
 STAMPED BELOW 
 
 AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS 
 
 WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN 
 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
 WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH 
 DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY 
 OVERDUE. 
 
 -Wf- 
 
 -*fa 
 
 REC'D LD 
 
 14 1345 
 
 JUN5 '64 -8 .AM 
 
 MM 9. 7 
 
 
542101 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY