Chapter II: Part 2

He has listened to the cheering of the splendid folks of France,
And he knows that he's the leader of America's advance,
And he knows his task is mighty and that words will not avail,
So he's standing to his duty, for he isn't there to fail.
And you'll find him cool and steady when the guns begin to flare,
And he'll talk in deeds of glory when his boys get over there.

He has gone to face the fury of the Prussian hordes that sweep
O'er the fertile fields of Freedom, where the forms of heroes sleep,
And it seems no time for talking or for laughter or for cheers,
With the wounded all about him and their moaning in his ears.
He is waiting for to-morrow, waiting there to do his share,
And he'll strike a blow for freedom when his boys get over there.

The Better Thing

It is better to die for the flag,
For its red and its white and its blue,
Than to hang back and shirk and to lag
And let the flag sink out of view.
It is better to give up this life
In the heat and the thick of the strife
Than to live out your days 'neath a sky,
Where Old Glory shall never more fly.

The peace that we long for will be
Far worse than the war that we dread
If never again we're to see
The blue, and the white and the red
Wind-tossed and sun-kissed in the skies.
If ever the Stars and Stripes dies
Or loses its lustre and pride,
We shall wish in our souls we had died.

It is better by far that we die
Than that flag shall pass out of the world;
If ever it ceases to fly,
If ever it's hauled down and furled,
Dishonor shall stamp us with shame
And freedom be naught but a name,
And the few years of dearly-bought breath
Will be filled with worse horrors than death.

To a Lady Knitting

Little woman, hourly sitting,
Something for a soldier knitting,
What in fancy can you see?
Many pictures come to me
Through the stitch that now you're making:
I behold a bullet breaking;
I can see some soldier lying
In that garment slowly dying,
And that very bit of thread
In your fingers, turns to red.
Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow
Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.

It may be some hero daring
Shall that very thing be wearing
When he ventures forth to give
Life that other men may live.
He may braver wield the saber
As a tribute to your labor,
And for that, which you have knitted,
Better for his task be fitted.
When the thread has left your finger,
Something of yourself may linger,
Something of your lovely beauty
May sustain him in his duty.

Some one's boy that was a baby
Soon shall wear it, and it may be
He will write and tell his mother
Of the kindness of another,
And her spirit shall caress you,
And her prayers at night shall bless you.
You may never know its story,
Cannot know the grief or glory
That are destined now and hover
Over him your wool shall cover,
Nor what spirit shall invade it
Once your gentle hands have made it.

Little woman, hourly sitting,
Something for a soldier knitting,
'Tis no common garb you're making,
These, no common pains you're taking.
Something lovely, holy, lingers
O'er the needles in your fingers
And with every stitch you're weaving
Something of yourself you're leaving.
From your gentle hands and tender
There may come a nation's splendor,
And from this, your simple duty,
Life may win a fairer beauty.

A Good Soldier

He writes to us most every day, and how his letters thrill us!
I can't describe the joys with which his quaint expressions fill us.
He says the military life is not of his selection,
He's only soldiering to-day to give the Flag protection.
But since he's in the army now and doing duties humble,
He'll do what all good soldiers must, and he will never grumble.

He's not so keen for standing guard, a lonely vigil keeping,
"But when I must," he writes to us, "they'll never find me sleeping!
I hear a lot of boys complain about the tasks they set us
And there's no doubt that mother's meals can beat the ones they get us,
But since I'm here to do my bit, close to the job I'm sticking;
I'll take whatever comes my way and waste no word in kicking.

"I'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel,
I'd like to get my picture in some illustrated journal;
I don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way,
Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway.
But still I'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one,
For while I am a private here I'm going to be a good one.

"A soldier's life is not the way I'd choose to make my living,
But now I'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it I'm giving.
Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I'd consider finer,
But since I've got this one to do I'll never be a whiner.
I'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter,
They'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better."

His Santa Claus

He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy,
An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy;
Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head,
And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed,
But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance;
This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.

His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay;
Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play;
This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands
That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands.
He is too young to understand his mother's troubled glance,
But he that was his Santa Claus is in a trench in France.

Somewhere in France this Christmas Eve a soldier brave will be,
And all that night in fancy he will trim a Christmas tree;
And all that night he'll live again the joys that once he had
When he was good St. Nicholas unto a certain lad.
And he will wonder if his boy, by any sad mischance,
Will find his stocking empty just because he serves in France.

Show the Flag

Show the flag and let it wave
As a symbol of the brave;
Let it float upon the breeze
As a sign for each who sees
That beneath it, where it rides,
Loyalty to-day abides.

Show the flag and signify
That it wasn't born to die;
Let its colors speak for you
That you still are standing true,
True in sight of God and man
To the work that flag began.

Show the flag that all may see
That you serve humanity.
Let it whisper to the breeze
That comes singing through the trees
That whatever storms descend
You'll be faithful to the end.

Show the flag and let it fly,
Cheering every passer-by--Men
that may have stepped aside,
May have lost their old-time pride,
May behold it there, and then
Consecrate themselves again.

Show the flag! The day is gone
When men blindly hurry on
Serving only gods of gold;
Now the spirit that was cold
Warms again to courage fine.
Show the flag and fall in line!

The Honor Roll

The boys upon the honor roll, God bless them all, I pray!
God watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day.
We've stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows,
Our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes.

Oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true,
The little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew;
We thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games,
And then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names.

We missed their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday
We had them here to walk with us, and now they've marched away.
And here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll;
The absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll.

So quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change,
One day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange,
And when we questioned where they were, the sturdiest of us all,
We saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall.

The laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth
No longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing sombre truth.
No longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls,
For they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls.

The Princess Pats

A touch of the plain and the prairie,
A bit of the Motherland, too;
A strain of the fur-trapper wary,
A blend of the old and the new;
A bit of the pioneer splendor
That opened the wilderness' flats,
A touch of the home-lover, tender,
You'll find in the boys they call Pats.

The glory and grace of the maple,
The strength that is born of the wheat,
The pride of a stock that is staple,
The bronze of a midsummer heat;
A blending of wisdom and daring,
The best of a new land, and that's
The regiment gallantly bearing
The neat little title of Pats.

A bit of the man who has neighbored
With mountains and forests and streams,
A touch of the man who has labored
To model and fashion his dreams;
The strength of an age of clean living,
Of right-minded fatherly chats,
The best that a land could be giving
Is there in the breasts of the Pats.

July the Fourth, 1917

Time was the cry went round the world:
America for freedom speaks,
A new flag is to-day unfurled,
An eagle on the mountain shrieks,
A king is failing on his throne,
A race of men defies his power!
And no one could have guessed or known
The burden of that splendid hour.

A bell rang out that summer day
And men and women stood and heard;
That tongue of brass had more to say
Than could be spoken by a word.
It spoke the thoughts of honest men,
It whispered Destiny's intents
And rang a warning loudly then
To Kings of all the continents.

The old bell in its holy loft
Where pigeons nest, has ceased to swing
And yet through many a day and oft
A weary people hear it sing.
That hour long years ago, when first
America for freedom fought,
The bonds of slavery were burst:
That hour began the reign of thought.

Here comes another summer day:
America is on the sea,
America has dared to say
That other people shall be free.
No selfish stain her banner mars,
Her flag, for truth and right, unfurled,
With every stripe and all its stars
Still speaks its message to the world

Out where the soldiers fight for men,
Out where, for others, heroes die,
Out where they storm the Tyrant's den,
The Starry Banner lights the sky.
And once again the cry goes out
That brings the flush of hope to cheeks
Grown pale by bitter war and doubt:
"America for Freedom speaks."

Spring in the Trenches

It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground,
Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around;
The sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue,
And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war were through.

But it's tramp, tramp, tramp,
And it's never look behind,
And when you see a stranger's kids,
Pretend that you are blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate;
The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate.
And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil,
With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil.

But it's fight, fight, fight,
And it's charge at double-quick;
A soldier thinking thoughts of home
Is one more soldier sick.

Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud;
This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood.
Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be;
To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me.

But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,
And when the bullets hiss,
Don't let the tears fill up your eyes,
For weeping soldiers miss.

Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds?
And who will do the heavy work the little garden needs?
And who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know,
And take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go?

For it's charge, charge, charge,
And it's face the foe once more;
Forget the things you love the most
And keep your mind on war.

Bigger Than His Dad

He has heard his country calling, and has fallen into line,
And he's doing something bigger than his daddy ever did;
He has caught a greater vision than the finest one of mine,
And I know to-day I'm prouder of than sorry for the kid.

His speech is soft and vibrant with the messages of truth,
And he says some things of duty that I cannot understand;
It may be that I'm selfish, but this ending of his youth
Is not the dream I cherished and it's not the thing I planned.

I only know he's bigger in his uniform to-day
Than I, who stand and watch him as he drills, have ever been;
That he sees a greater vision of life's purpose far away,
And a finer goal to die for than my eyes have ever seen.

I wish I felt as he does, wish I had his sense of right;
With the vision he possesses I should be supremely glad;
But I sometimes start to choking when I think of him at night--
The boy that has grown bigger, yes, and better than his dad.

The Boy's Adventure

"Dear Father," he wrote me from Somewhere in France,
Where he's waiting with Pershing to lead the advance,
"There's little the censor permits me to tell
Save the fact that I'm here and am happy and well.
The French people cheered as we marched from our ship
At the close of a really remarkable trip;
They danced and they screamed and they shouted and ran,
And I blush as I write. I was kissed by a man!

"I've seen a great deal since I bade you good-bye,
I have witnessed a battle far up in the sky;
I have heard the dull roar of a long line of guns,
And seen the destruction that's worked by the Huns;
Some scenes I'll remember, and some I'll forget,
But the welcome he gave me! I'm feeling it yet.
Oh, try to imagine your boy if you can,
As he looked and he felt, being kissed by a man!

"'Ah, Meestaire!' he cried in a voice that was shrill,
And his queer little eyes with delight seemed to fill,
And before I was wise to the custom, or knew
Just what he was up to, about me he threw
His arms, and he hugged me, and then with a squeak,
He planted a chaste little kiss on each cheek.
He was stocky and strong and his whiskers were tan.
Now please keep it dark. I've been kissed by a man."

Out of It All

Out of it all shall come splendor and gladness;
Out of the madness and out of the sadness,
Clearer and finer the world shall arise.
Why then keep sorrow and doubt in your eyes?

Joy shall be ours when the warfare is over;
Children shall gleefully romp in the clover;
Here with our heroes at home and at rest,
We shall rejoice with the world at its best.

Not in vain, not in vain, is our bright banner flying;
Not for naught are the sons of our fond mothers dying;
The gloom and despair are not ever to last;
The world shall be better when they shall have passed.

So mourn not his absence, but smile and be brave;
You shall have him again from the brink of the grave
In a wonderful world 'neath a wonderful sun;
He shall come to your arms with his victory won.

The Christmas Box

Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box with ribbons red 'tis tied,
And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside,
But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay
And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day.

He'll spend his Christmas 'neath the Flag; he'll miss each merry face,
Old Glory smiling down on him must take his mother's place,
Yet in the Christmas box we've sent, in fancy he will find
The laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind.

His mother's tenderness is there, his father's kindly way,
And all that went last year to make his merry Christmas Day;
He'll see once more his sister's smile, he'll hear the baby shout,
And as he opens every gift we'll gather round about.

He cannot come to share with us the joys of Christmas Day;
The Flag has called to him, and he is serving far away.
Undaunted, unafraid and fine he stands to duty grim,
And so this Christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him.

A Plea

God grant me these: the strength to do
Some needed service here;
The wisdom to be brave and true;
The gift of vision clear,
That in each task that comes to me
Some purpose I may plainly see.

God teach me to believe that I
Am stationed at a post,
Although the humblest 'neath the sky,
Where I am needed most,
And that, at last, if I do well,
My humble services will tell.

God grant me faith to stand on guard,
Uncheered, unspoke, alone,
And see behind such duty hard
My service to the throne.
Whate'er my task, be this my creed:
I am on earth to fill a need.

Your Country Needs You

The country needs a man like you,
It has a task for you to do.
It has a job for you to face.
Somewhere for you it has a place.
Not all the slackers dodge the work
Of service where the cannon lurk,
Not all the slackers on life's stage
Are boys of military age.
The old, the youthful and unfit
Must also do their little bit.

The country needs a man like you,
'Twill suffer if you prove untrue.
What though you cannot bear a gun?
That isn't all that's to be done.
There are a thousand other ways
To serve your country through the days
Of trial and the nights of storm.
You need not wear a uniform
Or with the men in council sit
To serve the Flag and do your bit.

Somewhere for you there is a place,
Somewhere you have a task to face.
There's none so helpless or so frail
That cannot, when our foes assail,
In some way help our common cause
And be deserving of applause.
Behind the Flag we all must be,
Each at his post, awake to see
That in so far as he has striven,
His best was to his country given.

You can be patient, brave and strong,
And not complain when plans go wrong;
You can be cheerful at your toil,
Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil;
You can encourage others who
Have heavier, greater tasks to do;
You can be loyal, not in creed
Alone, but in each thought and deed;
You can make sacrifices, too.
The country needs a man like you,

A Creed

To keep in mind from day to day
That I'm a soldier in the fray;
That I must serve, from sun to sun,
As well as he who bears a gun
The flag that flies above us all,
And answer well my Country's call.

I must not for one hour forget
Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt.
'Twas spotless on' my day of birth,
And when at last I quit this earth
Old Glory still must spotless be
For all who follow after me.

At some post where my work will fit
I must with courage do my bit;
Some portion of myself I'd give
That freedom and the Flag may live.
And in some way I want to feel
That I am doing service real.

I must in all I say and do
Respect the red, the white and blue',
Nor dim with petty deeds of shame
The splendor of Old Glory's fame;
I must not let my standards drag,
For my disgrace would stain the Flag.

The Struggle

Life is a struggle for peace,
A longing for rest,
A hope for the battles to cease,
A dream for the best;
And he is not living who stays
Contented with things,
Unconcerned with the work of the days
And all that it brings.

He is dead who sees nothing to change,
No wrong to make right;
Who travels no new way or strange
In search of the light;
Who never sets out for a goal
That he sees from afar
But contents his indifferent soul
With things as they are.

Life isn't rest--it is toil;
It is building a dream;
It is tilling a parcel of soil
Or bridging a stream;
It's pursuing the light of a star
That but dimly we see,
And in wresting from things as they are
The joy that should be.

As It Looks to the Boy

His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay,
His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day,
His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride
And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side.
Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad
Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad.

He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street,
He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet;
And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday,
Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way.
He will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night,
His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right.

Oh, I'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go,
And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know,
But the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth,
And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth.
He will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart
Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part.

Have you kept him, gentle mother? Has he lost his old-time cheer?
Is he silent, sad and sullen? Are his eyes no longer clear?
Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong?
Then a secret grief he's nursing and I'll tell you what is wrong.
All his comrades have departed on their country's noblest work,
And he hungers to be with them--it is not his wish to shirk.

Fly a Clean Flag

This I heard the Old Flag say
As I passed it yesterday:
"Months ago your friendly hands
Fastened me on slender strands
And with patriotic love
Placed me here to wave above
You and yours. I heard you say
On that long departed day:
'Flag of all that's true and fine,
Wave above this house of mine;
Be the first at break of day
And the last at night to say
To the world this word of cheer:
Loyalty abideth here.'

"Here on every wind that's blown,
O'er your" portal I have flown;
Rain and snow have battered me,
Storms at night have tattered me;
Dust of street and chimney stack
Day by day have stained me black,
And I've watched you passing there,
Wondering how much you care.
Have you noticed that your flag,
Is to-day a wind-blown rag?
Has your love so careless grown
By the long neglect you've shown
That you never raise your eye
To the symbol that you fly?"

"Flag, on which no stain has been,
'Tis my sin that you're unclean,"
Then I answered in my shame.
"On my head must lie the blame.
Now with patriotic hands
I release you from your strands,
And a spotless flag shall fly
Here to greet each passer-by.
Nevermore shall Flag of mine
Be a sad and sorry sign
Telling all who look above
I neglect the thing I love.
But my Flag of faith shall be
Fit for every eye to see."

To a Kindly Critic

If it's wrong to believe in the land that we love
And to pray for Our Flag to the good God above;
If it's wrong to believe that Our Country is best;
That honor's her standard, and truth is her crest;
If placing her first in our prayers and our song
Is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong.

If it's wrong to wish victory day after day
For the troops of Our Country now marching away;
If it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right
And not by the love and the lure of the fight;
If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong
Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong.

If it's wrong to believe in America's dreams
Of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems;
If it's error to cherish the hope, through and through,
That the Stars in Old Glory's immaculate blue
Shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men,
We pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen.

War's Homecoming

We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France,
And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance,
The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away,
We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray.
We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land,
But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand.

There, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped,
And some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread;
Some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled,
And every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled.
There, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come,
And now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum.

Their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech.
We never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach.
We talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof,
Nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof.
But England's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of France;
Our little boy is on the sea with Death to take his chance.

Next of Kin

I notice when the news comes in
Of one who's claimed eternal glory,
This simple phrase, "the next of kin,"
Concludes the soldier's final story.
This tells the world what voice will choke,
What heart that bit of shrapnel broke,
What father or what mother brave
Will think of Flanders as a grave.

"The next of kin," the cable cold
Wastes not a precious word in telling,
Yet cannot you and I behold
The sorrow in some humble dwelling,
And cannot you and I perceive
The brave yet lonely mother grieve
And picture, when that news comes in,
The anguish of "the next of kin?"

For every boy in uniform,
Another soldier brave is fighting;
A double rank the cannons storm,
Two lines the cables are uniting,
And with the hurt each soldier feels,
At home the other warrior reels;
Two suffer, freedom's cause to win:
The soldier and "the next of kin."

Oh, next of kin, be brave, be strong,
As brave as was the boy that's missing;
The years will many be and long
That you will hunger for his kissing.
Yet he enlisted you with him
To share war's bitter price and grim;
Your service runs through many years
Because your name with his appears.

See It Through

There are many to cheer when the battle begins
There are many to shout for the right;
There are many to rail at the world and its sins
But few have the grit for the fight.
There are thousands to start with a rush for the fray
When the fighting seems easy to do,
But when danger is present and rough is the way,
The few have to see the job through.

It is easy to quit with a battle unwon,
It is hard to press on to success;
It is easy to stop with a purpose undone,
It is hard to encounter distress.
And many will march when the roadway is clear
And the glorious goal is in view,
But the many, too often, when dangers appear,
Aren't willing to see the fight through.

They weaken in spirit when trials grow great,
They flinch at the clashing of steel;
They talk of the strength of the foe at the gate
And whine at the hurts that they feel.
They begin to regret having ventured for right,
They sigh that they dared to be true,
They haven't the heart they once had for the fight,
They don't want to see the job through.

We have set out to battle for justice and truth,
We have fearful disasters to meet;
We shall weep for the best of our manliest youth,
We shall suffer the pangs of defeat.
But let us stand firm for the cause that we plead,
Let the many be brave with the few;
The cry of the quitter let none of us heed
Till we've done what we started to do.

Hope

Mine is a song of hope
For the days that lie before;
For the grander things
The morrow brings
When the struggle days are o'er.
Dark be the clouds to-day,
Bitter the winds that blow,
But falter nor fail,
Through the howling gale--
Comes peace in the afterglow.

Mine is the song of hope,
A song for the mother here,
Who lulls to rest
The babe at breast,
And hopes for a brighter year.
Hope is the song she sings,
Hope is the prayer she prays;
As she rocks her boy,
She dreams of the joy
He'll bring in the future days.

Mine is the song of hope,
A song for the father, too,
Whose right arm swings,
While his anvil sings
A song of the journey through.
Hope is the star that guides,
Hope is the father's sun;
Far ahead he sees,
Through the waving trees,
Sweet peace when his work is done.

Mine is the song of hope,
Of hope that sustains us all;
Be we young or old,
Be we weak or bold,
Do we falter or even fall,
Brightly the star of hope
From the distance is shining still;
And with courage new
We rise to do,
For hope is the God of Will.

The Gold Givers

Oh, some shall stand in glory's light when all the strife is done,
And many a mother there shall say, "For truth I gave my son!"
But I shall stand in silence then and hear the stories brave,
For I must answer at the last that gold is all I gave.

When all this age shall pass away, and silenced are the guns,
When sweethearts join their loves again, and mothers kiss their sons,
When brave unto the brave return, and all they did is told,
How pitiful my gift shall seem, when all I gave is gold.

When we are asked what did you then, when all the world was red,
And some shall say, "I fell in France," and some, "I mourned my dead;"
With all the brave assembled there in glory long to live,
How trivial our lives shall seem who had but gold to give.

The Undaunted

He tried to travel No Man's Land, that's guarded well with guns,
He tried to race the road of death, where never a coward runs.
Now he's asking of his doctor, and he's panting hard for breath,
How soon he will be ready for another bout with death.

You'd think if you had wakened in a shell hole's slime and mud
That was partly dirty water, but was mostly human blood,
And you had to lie and suffer till the bullets ceased to hum
And the night time dropped its cover, so the stretcher boys could come--

You'd think if you had suffered from a fever and its thirst,
And could hear the "rapids" spitting and the high explosives burst,
And had lived to tell that story--you could face our fellow men
In the little peaceful village, though you never fought again.

You'd think that once you'd fallen in the shrapnel's deadly rain,
Once you'd shed your blood for honor, you had borne your share of pain;
Once you'd traveled No Man's country, you'd be satisfied to quit
And be invalided homeward, and could say you'd done your bit.

But he's lying, patched and bandaged, very white and very weak,
And he's trying to be cheerful, though it's agony to speak;
He is pleading with the doctor, though he's panting hard for breath,
To return him to the trenches for another bout with death.

The Discovery of a Soul

_The proof of a man is the danger test_,
_That shows him up at his worst or best_.

He didn't seem to care for work, he wasn't much at school.
His speech was slow and commonplace--you wouldn't call him fool.
And yet until the war broke out you'd calmly pass him by,
For nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye.
He seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn't care--
That's satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear;
That doesn't laugh when others do or cry when others weep,
But seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep;
Then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll,
And suddenly we realized his body held a soul.

We little dreamed how much he loved his Country and her Flag;
About the glorious Stars and Stripes we'd never heard him brag.
But he was first to volunteer, while brilliant men demurred,
He took the oath of loyalty without a faltering word,
And then we found that he could talk, for one remembered night,
There came a preaching pacifist denouncing men who fight,
And he got up in uniform and looked at him and said:
"I wonder if you ever think about our soldiers dead.
All that you are to-day you owe some soldier in his grave;
If he had been afraid to fight, you still would be a slave."

If he had died a year ago beneath a peaceful sky,
Unjust our memory would have been; of him our tongues would lie.
We should have missed his splendid worth, we should have called him frail
And listed him among the weak and sorry men who fail.
But few regrets had marked his end; he would have passed unmourned--
Perhaps by those who knew him best, indifferently scorned.
But now he stands among us all, eyes bright and shoulders true,
A strong defender of the faith; a man with work to do;
And if he dies, his name shall find its place on history's scroll;
The great chance has revealed to men the splendor of his soul.

Here We Are!

Here we are, Britain! the finest and best of us
Taking our coats off and rolling our sleeves,
Answering the thoughtless that once made a jest of us,
Each man a soldier for what he believes.
Here we are, tight little island, in unity!
Tell us the job that you want us to do!
You can depend on us all with impunity.
Give us a task and we'll all see it through.

Here we are, France! every Yankee born man of us
Coming to stand by your side in the fight;
Liberty's cause makes a whole-hearted clan of us.
Here we are, willing to die for the right.
Silently, long from our shores we've admired you,
Secretly proud of the pluck you've displayed.
Brothers we are of the love that inspired you;
Now we are coming, full front, to your aid.

Here we are, Allies! make room in your trenches!
Shoulder to shoulder we'll share in each drive.
Here we are! quitting our lathes and our benches,
Bringing our best that our best shall survive.
Here we are! Liberty's children, red-blooded,
Coming to share in the struggle with you,
Ready to die for the Flag that's star-studded;
Tell us the work that you want us to do.

What is it, fighting or building you're needing?
Boring a mountain or bridging a stream,
Steel work and real work? Your call we are heeding.
Each of us here is a man with a dream.
Here we are! tacklers of tough jobs and dangers,
Any old post where you put us we'll fit;
Coming to serve you as brothers, not strangers;
Here we are, Allies! to offer our bit!

We Who Stay at Home

When you were just our little boy, on many a night we crept
Unto your cot and watched o'er you, and all the time you slept.
We tucked the covers round your form and smoothed your pillow, too,
And sometimes stooped and kissed your cheeks, but that you never knew.
Just as we came to you back then through many a night and day,
Our spirits now shall come to you--to kiss and watch and pray.

Whenever you shall look away into God's patch of sky
To think about the folks at home, we shall be standing by.
And as we prayed and watched o'er you when you were wrapped in sleep,
So through your soldier danger now the old-time watch we'll keep.
You will not know that we are there, you will not see or hear,
But all the time in prayer and thought we shall be very near.

The world has made of you a man; the work of man you do,
But unto us you still remain the baby that we knew;
And we shall come, as once we did, on wondrous wings of prayer,
And you will never know how oft in spirit we are there.
We'll stand beside your bed at night, in silence bending low,
And all the love we gave you then shall follow where you go.

Oh, we were proud of you back then, but we are prouder now;
We see the stamp of splendor God has placed upon your brow,
And we who are the folks at home shall pray the old time prayer,
And ask the God of Mercy to protect you with His care.
And as we came to you of old, although you never knew,
The hearts of us, each day and night, shall come with love to you.

Do Your All

"Do 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;
Do by sacrificing pleasure,
Do by scorning hours of leisure.
Now to God and country give
Every minute that you live.

The Future

"The worst is yet to come:"
So wail the doubters glum,
But here's the better view:
"My best I've yet to do."

The worst some always fear;
To-morrow holds no cheer,
Yet farther on life's lane
Are joys you shall attain.

Go forward bravely, then,
And play your part as men,
For this is ever true:
"Our best we've yet to do."

A Father's Prayer

I sometimes wonder when I read the sorrow in his face
If I shall wear that look of care when time has marched apace?
My little boy is five years old and his is twenty-one;
My little boy is home with me; his boy to war has gone.

And I can laugh and dance with life, and I can gayly jest,
But heavy is the heart to-day that beats within his breast.
Time was, his boy was five years old; time was he smiled as I;
I wonder what awaits for me when youth has journeyed by?

Last night I sat at home and watched my little boy at play,
And all the time I thought of him whose boy has gone away.
And in the joy that I possessed I prayed in silence then
That God would quickly bring him back his little boy again.

The Glory of Age

"What is the glory of age?" I said,
"A hoard of gold and a few dear friends?
When you've reached the day that you look ahead
And see the place where your journey ends,
When Time has robbed you of youthful might--
What is the secret of your delight?"

And an old man smiled as he answered me:
"The glory of age isn't gold or friends,
When we've reached the valley of Soon-To-Be
And note the place where our journey ends;
The glory of age, be it understood,
Is a boy out there who is making good.

"The greatest joy that can come to man
When his sight is dim and his hair is gray;
The greatest glory that God can plan
To cheer the lives of the old to-day,
When they share no more in the battle yell,
Is a boy out there who is doing well."

Beautifying the Flag

To us the Flag has little meant.
Each glorious stripe of red
Was woven there to represent
The blood of heroes dead.
On some dim, distant battle line
By other men were gained
The glories that have made it fine,
And idle we've remained.
But now the Flag shall finer grow
And ages yet to be
Shall find the courage that we show
To-day for liberty.

Of other men the Flag has told;
It flies for others' deeds;
Its pride is born of heroes bold
Who served its by-gone needs.
But now our blood shall mingle there
With blood of patriots dead,
And through the years each stripe shall wear
A deeper, truer red.
The splendor of the flag shall gleam
In every radiant star,
And finer shall the banner seem
Because of what we are.

To-day new glory for the Flag
We give our best to build;
Of us shall future ages brag,
By us their blood be thrilled;
And as to us the flag has meant
The greatness of the past,
The Stars and Stripes shall represent
Our courage to the last.
The children in the years to be
Our trials shall discuss,
And cheer the emblem of the free,
In part, because of us.

To the Men at Home

No war is won by cannon fire alone;
The soldier bears the grim and dreary role;
He dies to serve the Flag that he has known;
His duty is to gain the distant goal.
But if the toiler in his homeland fair
Falter in faith and shrink from every test,
If he be not on duty ever there,
Lost to the cause is every soldier's best.

The men at home, the toiler in the shop,
The keen-eyed watcher of the spinning drill
Hear no command to vault the trench's top;
They know not what it is to die or kill,
And yet they must be brave and constant, too.
Upon them lies their precious country's fate;
They also serve the Flag as soldiers do,
'Tis theirs to make a nation's army great.

You hold your country's honor in your care.
Her glory you shall help to make or mar;
For they, who now her uniforms must wear
Can be no braver soldiers than you are.
From day to day, in big and little deeds,
At bench or lathe or desk or stretch of soil,
You are the man your country sorely needs!
Will you not give to her your finest toil?

No war is won by cannon fire alone.
The men at home must also share the fight.
By what they are, a nation's strength is shown,
The army but reflects their love of right.
Will you not help to hold our battle line,
Will you not give the fullest of your powers
In sacrifice and service that is fine
That victory shall speedily be ours?

From Laughter to Labor

We have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure,
We have scorned the soul's duty to gather up treasure;
We have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning
And paid little heed to the soul's simple sinning.
But light were the burdens that freighted us then,
God and country, to-day let us prove we are men!

We have idled and dreamed in life's merriest places,
The years have writ little of care in our faces;
We have brought up our children, expectant of gladness,
And little we've taught them of life and its sadness.
For distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong,
God and country, to-day let us prove we are strong!

We have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming,
We have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war's drumming.
We have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled,
And now we must show that our souls are unspoiled.
We must work that our Flag shall in honor still wave,
God and country, to-day let us prove we are brave!

United

Forgotten petty difference now,
The larger purpose glows,
The storm is here, a common fear
Its deadly lightning shows.
The Ship of State must bear us all
And danger makes us kin,
As one, we all shall rise or fall,
So shall we strive to win.

Our banner's flying at the mast,
Our course lies straight ahead;
The ocean's trough is deep and rough,
The waves are stained with red.
The bond of danger tighter grows,
We serve a common plan;
Send o'er the sea the word that we
Are all American.

One hundred million sturdy souls
Once more united stand,
As one, you will find them all behind
The banner of our land.
And side by side they work to-day
In silken garb or rag,
And once again our troops of men
Are brothers of the flag.

And from the storm that hovers low,
And from the angry sea
Where dangers lurk and hate's at work.
Shall come new victory.
The flag shall know not race nor creed,
Nor different bands of men;
A people strong round it shall throng
To ne'er divide again.

April Thoughts

Listen to the laughter of the brook that's racin' by!
Listen to the chatter of the black-birds on the fence!
Stand an' see the beauties of the blue that's in the sky--
Then ask of God why mortals haven't any better sense
Than to quarrel an' to battle
Where the guns an' cannon rattle
An' to slaughter one another an' to fill the world with hate.
God brings the buds to blossom
Where the gentle breezes toss 'em
An' the soul is blind to beauty that takes anger for its mate.

Listen to the singin' of the robins in the trees!
See the sunbeams flashin' where they're mirrored by the stream!
Hear the drowsy buzzin' of the honey-seekin' bees,
Then draw a little closer to your God the while you dream.
When the world is dressed to cheer you
Don't you feel Him standin' near you?
When your soul drinks in the beauty of the wonders in His plan,
An' you've put away your passions,
Don't you think the works He fashions
In their beauty an' their bigness mock the littleness of man?

Oh, I never walk an orchard nor a field with daisies strewn,
An' I never stand bare-headed gazin' everywhere about
At the living joys around me, be it morning, night or noon,
But I ask God to forgive me that I ever held a doubt.
Surely men must walk in blindness,
With the whole world tuned to kindness,
An' all dumb an' feathered creatures fairly bubblin' o'er with glee
To devote themselves to madness
That can only end in sadness
An' to think that they are being what God put them here to be.

The Chaplain

He was just a small church parson when the war broke out, and he
Looked and dressed and acted like all parsons that we see.
He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked his vest behind,
But he had a man's religion and he had a strong man's mind,
And he heard the call to duty, and he quit his church and went,
And he bravely tramped right with 'em everywhere the boys were sent.

He put aside his broadcloth and he put the khaki on;
Said he'd come to be a soldier and was going to live like one.
Then he refereed the prize fights that the boys pulled off at night,
And if no one else was handy he'd put on the gloves and fight.
He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the soldiers' needs,
And he said: "I'm done with preaching; this is now the time for deeds."

He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell the size of shell
From the shriek it make above him, and he knew just where it fell.
In the front line trench he labored, and he knew the feel of mud,
And he didn't run from danger and he wasn't scared of blood.
He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered them with his jokes,
And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes.

Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt beside a lad
Who was "going west" right speedy, and they both seemed mighty glad,
'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he smiled and whispered low,
"Now you needn't fear the journey; over there with you I'll go."
And they both passed out together, arm in arm I think they went.
He had kept his vow to follow everywhere the boys were sent.

My Part

I may never be a hero, I am past the limit now,
There are pencil marks of silver Time has left upon my brow;
I shall win no service medals, I shall hear no cannons' roar,
I shall never fight a battle higher up than eagles soar,
But I hope my children's children may recall my name with pride
As a man who never whimpered when his soul was being tried.

For the fighting and the dying for the everlasting truth
Are the labors designated for the strongest of our youth,
And the man that's nearing forty isn't asked to march away,
For there is no place in battle for the head that's turning gray.
His test is one of patience till the bitter work is done,
He must back his country's leaders till the victory is won.

When this bitter time is ended I don't want to have it said
That I faltered in my courage and I never looked ahead,
I don't want it told I added to the burdens and the woe,
By preaching dismal doctrines that were cheering to the foe;
I want my children's children to respect me and to find
That my soul was out there fighting, though my body stayed behind.

When this cruel test is over and the boys come back from France
I'd not have them say I hindered for a moment their advance;
That they found their duty harder than 'twas needful it should be
Because of the complaining of a lot of men like me.
Though I'll win no hero's medals and deserve no wild applause,
I want to be of service, not a hindrance to the cause.

The Call