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.

WHEN 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
 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.
 ’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.

OH, 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.”

WORLD SERIES OPENED—BATTER UP!

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

THE 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!
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.

ON 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!

TO SERVE IS TO GAIN

CHARLES H. MACKINTOSH

in Logging, Duluth

“HE 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

THEY 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.

“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 Oxford, 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?”

TIS 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!

VISION

DOROTHY PAUL

in The Saturday Evening Post

Permission to reproduce in this book

ABOVE 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—
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.

THE 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.
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.

THERE ARE CROCUSES AT NOTTINGHAM

Written in the Trenches

Flanders, spring of 1917. Authorship unknown.

OUT 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.
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

I 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.

WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLEY VOOS

PVT. CHARLES DIVINE

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

I 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 I try to yap in French.
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”

I 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.
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.

AN APRIL SONG

GEORGE C. MICHAEL, LANCE CORPORAL, R. E.

(Written on leave at Stratford-on-Avon.)

ORCHARD 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!

A SONG OF THE AIR

GORDON ALCHIN

From “Oxford and Flanders.” B. H. Blackwell, Publishers, Oxford, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.

THIS 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!

VICTORY!

S. J. DUNCAN-CLARK

in The Chicago Evening Post, November 11, 1918

Permission to reproduce in this book

OUT 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.

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.

HIS regiment came home today,
 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.
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

WRITE 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, soldier, then,
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 demands
 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.

OUR SOLDIER DEAD

ANNETTE KOHN

in New York Times

Permission to reproduce in this book

“IN Flanders fields, where poppies blow,”
 In 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 prayer, 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.
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