Permission to reproduce in this book

BLACK 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!

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.
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
 With swift 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.

OLD JIM

NORMAN SHANNON HALL

in The Stars and Stripes

Permission to reproduce in this book

OUT 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!

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER ARMISTICE DAY AT ARLINGTON

GRANTLAND RICE

in The New York Tribune

Permission to reproduce in this book

THE 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 rusting 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 unreplying,
 As each dreams on through summer dawns or mantling snow.
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.
 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 Soldier sleeps.”

EPITAPH FOR THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

ANNETTE KOHN

in The Washington Star

Permission to reproduce in this book

WITHIN 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!

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, 111
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
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-falutin’ 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 German 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
Let us praise God for the Dead: the Dead who died in our cause, 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, 199
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
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’ ol’ 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, 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:, 17
The sunny streets of Oxford, 115
The war is over, over there, 197
The wind today is full of ghosts with ghostly bugles blowing, 200
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 fighting 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 sunshine, 173
Within this nation-hallowed tomb, 202
Write us your verse, oh, soldier, tell us the grim, red tale, 193
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 Monologues à la Mode

By WALTER BEN HARE

THIRTY-TWO platform selections in prose and verse, ranging from humor to pathos, and affording an excellent repertoire for the versatile entertainer.

Contents.—Amateur Gum Chewer; American Eagle; Am I Your Vife? At the Soda Fountain; Betty at the Baseball 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-l-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!”—Reuben’s impressions of a big city. “Her Busted Romances”—a muchly jilted maiden of uncertain age. “Music à la Carte”—Bobby explains the situation without orchestral aid. “Abie Cohen’s Wedding Day”—a ready conversationalist when 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”—efficiency is his middle name. “Panhandle Pete”—he hands out a piece of free advice. “Tillie Olson’s Romance”—a Swedish queen of the kitchen. “As Tony Tells It”—he has an imported dialect—try it on your vocabulary. “Suffragette Susie”—who might be willing 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 appetite 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 village 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 cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO

Let’s Pretend

A Book of Children’s Plays

By LINDSEY BARBEE

“Come—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 descriptions for producing; easy to costume and “put on.” Clever illustrations showing the appearance of each character. The most charming children’s plays ever written.

Beautiful cloth binding, lettering and
design in two colors, attractive type.
Price, $1.25

T. S. Denison & 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 selections in prose and verse will prove gems for any platform artist. Many moods and shades of sentiment are represented, but the majority are humorous. 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 Conductor’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, $1.25

T. S. Denison & Company, Publishers

623 S. Wabash Ave. CHICAGO