Permission to reproduce in this book

THEY 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.
 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 lovéd 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 correspondent’s description.

HAIL 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.

JOHN DOE—BUCK PRIVATE

ALLAN P. THOMSON

in The Stars and Stripes, A.E.F., France

WHO was it, picked from civil life
 And plunged in deadly, frenzied strife
 Against a devil’s dreadful might?
 Just plain “John 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.”

KNITTING SOCKS

The Boston Transcript reprinted the following poem in 1917, just as it appeared in that paper November 27, 1861.

CLICK, 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,
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

SOME 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.
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

THE 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.)
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.)

SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, 1918

ALMON HENSLEY

in Everybody’s Magazine

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LEAVE 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!

AFTERWARD

CHARLES HANSON TOWNE

in The New York Tribune

THE 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.

THE SONG OF THE GUNS

HERBERT KAUFMAN

From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publisher’s (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

HEAR 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!
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.

TELLING THE BEES

(An old Gloucestershire superstition)

G. E. R.

in The Westminster Gazette

THEY 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
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

ARCHDUKE 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.
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 blindness,
 Horses, dogs, that put their faiths in human loving kindness.
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!

VIVE LA FRANCE!

CHARLOTTE HOLMES CRAWFORD

By permission: From Scribner’s Magazine, copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner’s Sons.

FRANCELINE 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.”
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!”

THE WOES OF A ROOKIE

WILLIAM L. COLESTOCK

I 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;
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 had 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’ve 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.

IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS

LIEUT. ELMER FRANKLIN POWELL

in Adventure Magazine

Permission to reproduce in this book

I 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.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT

(In 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.

IT 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.
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

THE 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!

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.

OH 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 Teuton 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 Captain said.
 “Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead.
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 the ten;
 Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why
 Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children 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.
 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 crucified.”
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 horror by,
 Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful 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 Prussian might.
 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;
 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 twitching 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 Prussian Major dead!

SUDDENLY ONE DAY

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

From The Westminster Gazette