-JO x°°„. '•■ % v *$' kc % o. $> : "oo % *r & *- ■*> A * >^SJ%* '• A* "fie, ,A- '■ x°^< THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Between the hedges of the centuries A thousand phantom armies go and come, While Reason whispers as each marches past, "This is the last of wars — this is the last!" — Lieut. Gilbert Waterhouse. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Edited, With Introduction, Notes and Original Matter, By W. D. EATON CHICAGO T. S. DENISON & COMPANY PUBLISHERS $ $8> COPYRIGHT, 1918 EBEN H. NORRIS DEC 26 1918 "The War in Verse and Prose" ©C1.A508677 THE REASON FOR THIS BOOK <^> o -f ARCH, march, men of America! Resolute army to ease the world's fettering. March, march, men of America! Millions united to win the world's bettering. Ours is a high estate, ours is a duty great, Making the future, the hosts in one band ; Ours is a high estate, ours a great faith to keep; This the arena vast — this is the land. March, march, farmer and artisan. Brothers with brothers, in peace or in war; March, march, thinker and partisan; Destiny calls and we follow our star. Tramp, tramp, this is the later world; Noble the heritage time has so brought to us; Tramp, tramp, this is the greater world; Who would be laggard now is but as naught to us. Ours are the mountains and ours the fair meadow land, Ours the blue spread of the sweet-water seas, Ours the swift rivers' pride, ours are the harbors wide, Ours the vast forests and far-stretching leas. 13 14 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Tramp, tramp, mountain and valley come, Ocean to ocean reechoes the call; Tramp, tramp, prompt to the rally come. We are the warders and guarders of all. March, march, seeking the newer thing, All of the continent's manhood that's vigorous; March, march, seeking the truer thing, Stern to attain the aim, earnest and rigorous. Here the old strivings end, here all conditions blend, Here is the blood of humanity one; Here all the races melt, Saxon and Norse and Celt, Here is the best for humanity done. March, march, birth is a little thing. Weak are the legends which burden the past; March, march, creed is a brittle thing; Here is the lot of humanity cast. Tramp, tramp, buoyant and glorious, Leading the swing of the world to sodality. Tramp, tramp, ever victorious, Changing the hope of the world to reality. Mark where Old Glory flies ! Blue are the bending skies, Fair is the promise and certain the goal; God will award the fight ; He will promote the right. Hark to the summons! It is the Long Roll! Tramp, tramp, easily, gallantly, This is America — here is the van! Tramp, tramp, jauntily, valiantly — March of the ages and march of the Man! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 15 THE LITTLE HOME PAPER CHARLES HANSON TOWNE in The American Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book '"PHE little home paper comes to me, As badly printed as it can be; It's ungrammatical, cheap, absurd — Yet, how I love each intimate word! For here am I in the teeming town, Where the sad, mad people rush up and down, And it's good to get back to the old lost place, And gossip and smile for a little space. The weather is hot; the corn crop's good; They've had a picnic in Sheldon's Wood. And Aunt Maria was sick last week; Ike Morrison's got a swollen cheek, And the Squire was hurt in a runaway — More shocked than bruised, I'm glad they say. Bert Wills — I used to play with him — Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim. The Red Cross ladies gave a tea, And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee Has sold his house on Lincoln Road — He couldn't carry so big a load. The methodist minister's had a call From a wealthy parish near St. Paul. And old Herb Sweet is married at last — He was forty-two. How the years rush past! But here's an item that makes me see What a puzzling riddle life can be. "Ed Stokes," it reads, "was killed in France When the Allies made their last advance." 16 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes As blue as the early-summer skies! He wouldn't have killed a fly — and yet, Without a murmur, without a regret, He left the peace of our little place, And went away with a light in his face; For out in the world was a job to do, And he wouldn't come home until it was through! Four thousand miles from our tiny town And its hardware store, this boy went down. Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap — But he's put East Dunkirk on the map! NO MAN'S LAND CAPT. JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN in The Spectator "M"0 Man's Land is an eerie sight At early dawn in the pale gray light. Never a house and never a hedge In No Man's Land from edge to edge, And never a living soul walks there To taste the fresh of the morning air. Only some lumps of rotting clay, That were friends or foemen yesterday. What are the bounds of No Man's Land? You can see them clearly on either hand, A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun, Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run From the Eastern hills to the Western sea, Through field or forest, o'er river and lea; No man may pass them, but aim you well And Death rides across on the bullet or shell. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 17 But No Man's Land is a goblin sight When patrols crawl over at dead o' night ; Boche or British, Belgian or French, You dice with death when you cross the trench. When the "rapid," like fire-flies in the dark, Flits down the parapet spark by spark, And you drop for cover to keep your head With your face on the breast of the four months' dead. The man who ranges in No Man's Land Is dogged by the shadows on either hand When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'erhead, Scares the great gray rats that feed on the dead, And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch May answer the click of your safety-catch. For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand, Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land. THE GOLD STAR EDGAR A. GUEST Copyright, 1918, by Edgar A. Guest. Special permission to repro- duce in this book. 'T'HE star upon their service flag has changed to gleam- A ing gold ; It speaks no more of hope and life, as once it did of old, But splendidly it glistens now for every eye to see And softly whispers: "Here lived one who died for liberty. "Here once he walked and played and laughed, here oft his smile was known ; Within these walls today are kept the toys he used to own. Now I am he who marched away and I am he who fell ; Of service once I spoke, but now of sacrifice I tell. 18 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE "No richer home in all this land is there than this I grace, For here was cradled manhood fine; within this humble place A soldier for the truth was born, and here, beside the door, A mother sits and grieves for him who shall return no more. "Salute me, stranger, as you pass! I mark a soldier who Gave up the joys of living here, to dare and die for you! This is the home that once he knew, who fought for you and fell; This is a shrine of sacrifice, where faith and courage dwell." WATCHIN' OUT FOR SUBS U. A. L. From Bert Leston Taylor's column, "A Line o' Type or Two," in The Chicago Tribune "DOSUN'S whistle piping, "Starboard watch is on" Sleepy army officer, waked at crack o' dawn ; In the forward crow's nest, watchin' out for subs ; If they show a peeper, shoot the bloomin' tubs. Ocean black and shiny, silly little moon ; Transports fore and aft of us — daylight comin' soon ; Sleeping troopers sprawling on the deck below ; Something in the water makes the spindrift glow. In the forward crow's nest — ah! the day is here! Transports and destroyers looming far and near. Ours the great adventure — gone is old romance ! Wake, ye new Crusaders! Look! — the shores of France ! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 19 FRENCH IN THE TRENCHES WILLIAM J. ROBINSON in The San Francisco Argonaut Permission to reproduce in this book T HAVE a conversation book; I brought it out from home. It tells you the French for knife and fork and likewise brush and comb; It learns you how to ask the time, the names of all the stars, And how to order oysters and how to buy cigars. But there ain't no stores to buy in; there ain't no big hotels, When you spend your time in dugouts doing a wholesale trade in shells; It's nice to know the proper talk for theatres and such, But when it comes to talking, why, it doesn't help you much. There's all them friendly kind o' things you'd naturally say When you meet a feller casual like and pass the time o' day. Them little things that breaks the ice and kind of clears the air. But when you use your French book, why, them things isn't there. I met a chap the other day a-rootin' in a trench. He didn't know a word of ours, nor me a word of French ; And how we ever managed, well, I cannot understand, But I never used my French book though I had it in my hand. I winked at him to start with ; he grinned from ear to ear; An' he says, "Bong jour, Sammy," an' I says "Souvenir"; He took my only cigarette, I took his thin cigar, 20 THE WA R IN VERSE AND PROSE Which set the ball a-rollin', and so — well, there you are! I showed him next my wife and kids ; he up and showed me his, Them funny little French kids with hair all in a frizz ; "Annette," he says, "Louise," he says, and his tears begin to fall; We was comrades when we parted, though we'd hardly spoke at all. He'd have kissed me if I'd let him. We had never met before, And I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the way of war; And though we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the same If he'll ever see them kids of his — I never asked his name. LITANY ALLENE GREGORY in Harriet Monroe's Poetry Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book C AINT GENEVIEVE, whose sleepless watch Saved threatened France of old, Above the ship that carries him Your sacred vigil hold. Where all the fair green fields you loved Are scarred with bursting shell, Joan, the Maid who fought for France — Oh, guard your young knight well. But if by sea or if by land God set death in his way — Then, Mother of the Sacrificed, Teach me what prayer to pray! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 21 RAGNAROK The Twilight of the Gods arthur guiterman in The Bellman, Minneapolis Permission to reproduce in this book XJO! Heimdal sounds the Gjallar-horn: The hosts of Hel rush forth And Fenris rages redly From his shackles in the North; Unleashed is Garm, and Lok is loosed, And freed is Giant Rime; The Rainbow-bridge is broken By the hordes of Muspelheim. The wild Valkyries ride the wind With spear and clanging shield Where all the Hates embattled Are met on Vigrid-field ; For there shall fall the Mighty Ones By valiant men adored — Great Odin, Tyr the fearless, And Frey that sold his sword. And Thor shall slay the dragon Whose breath shall be his bane. The gods themselves shall perish; The sons of the gods shall reign ! Old Time shall sound the boding horn Again and yet again, To rouse the warring passions That swell the hearts of men. Revolt shall wake, and Anarchy, With all their horrid throng — Revenge, Destruction, Rapine, 22 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE The spawn of ancient Wrong, With all the hosts of slaughter That our own sins must breed — Cold Hate, Oppression's daughter, And Rage, the child of Greed. Then, though we stand to battle As men have ever stood, Down, down shall crash our temples, The Evil and the Good; Yea, all that now we cherish Must pass — but not in vain. The gods we love shall perish ; The sons of the gods shall reign! So, strong in faith, or weak in doubt, Or berserk-mad, we range Our spears in that long battle Which means not Death, but Change. Our highest with our lowest Must own the grim behest, And Good shall yield for Better — Else how should come the Best? Yet if we win our portion How dare we crave the whole? And if we still press forward, Why need we know the goal? But those whose hearts are constant And those whose souls are wise Have said that from our ashes A nobler race shall rise From shreds of shattered altars To rear the Perfect Fane. Our little gods must perish That God Himself shall reign! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 23 THE KID HAS GONE TO THE COLORS WILLIAM HERSCHELL in The Indianapolis News Permission to reproduce in this book 'T'HE Kid has gone to the Colors And we don't know what to say; The Kid we have loved and cuddled Stepped out for the Flag today. We thought him a child, a baby, With never a care at all, But his country called him man-size And the Kid has heard the call. He paused to watch the recruiting Where, fired by the fife and drum, He bowed his head to Old Glory And thought that it whispered: "Come!" The Kid, not being a slacker, Stood forth with patriot-joy To add his name to the roster — And God, we're proud of the boy! The Kid has gone to the Colors; It seems but a little while Since he drilled a schoolboy army In a truly martial style. But now he's a man, a soldier, And we lend him listening ear, For his heart is a heart all loyal, Unscourged by the curse of fear. His dad, when he told him, shuddered, His mother — God bless her! — cried; Yet, blest with a mother-nature, THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE She wept with a mother-pride. But he whose old shoulders straightened Was Granddad — for memory ran To years when he, too, a youngster, Was changed by the Flag to a man! A SCRAP OF PAPER HERBERT KAUFMAN From Mr. Kaufman's book of poems, "The Hell-Gate of Soissons." T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book. "Just for a word, 'neutrality' . . just for a scrap of paper, Great Britain was going to make war." — The German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin. JUST for a "scrap of paper," Just for a Nation's word, Just for a clean tradition, Just for a treaty slurred ; Just for a pledge defaulted, Just for a dastard blow, Just for an ally's summons, Just for a friend struck low ; Just for the weal of progress, Just for a trust held dear, Just for the rights of mankind, Just for a duty clear; Just for a Prussian insult, Just for a splendid cause, Just for the hope of progress, Just for the might of laws ; Just for the kingdom's peril, Just for a deed of shame, Just for defense of honor, Just for the British name! / THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 25 WAR PROPHECY Biblical, Poetic and Prose "V/TEN in all ages have accepted signs and omens, some- times with caution, often with faith. If Prophecy be conceded genuine power as demonstrated in the Hebrew scriptures, it cannot be denied to ages other than theirs. It is explicable upon the understanding that time, being a figment of man to fit his own limits of compre- hension, disappears when conscious intelligence pierces higher levels of perception and all becomes an everlasting Now. This being so, the future is disclosed as fixed, like the past; and prophecy shows itself as a property of nat- ural law. There needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us this. It is certain that vast calamities have troubled the souls of men long before they came to pass. Without stopping to argue the matter at large, it may be permis- sible to cite instances foreboding the present time, begin- ning with John in his Revelation of Jesus Christ. In that Revelation he prophesied the Battle of Armageddon. The battle was given ostensibly as the symbol of the overthrow of Pagan Rome by force of arms. It comes into the Roman theme of Revelation thus: "For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty. "And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon." (Revelation xvi, 14, 16.) The battle is not described — probably it was too big for that — but its results are given : "And the beast was taken, and with him the false prophet that wrought miracles before him, with which he 26 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE deceived them that had received the mark of the beast, and them that worshipped his image. These both were cast alive into a lake of fire burning with brimstone." (Rev- elation xix, 20.) Exegetes allow that the beast here is Caesar, and the false prophet Paganism. The connection between the first paragraph and the second can be shown from the Greek text. If the Roman application is right (and there is no rea- son for a contrary view) , the battle of Armageddon appears to have been an affair of centuries, and to have included all the wars and all the battles that led to the dissolution of the empire. St. John seems to have taken the name of Armageddon for a symbol because it had a battle history well known to the Jews. There, by the torrent of Kison, Barac defeated Sisera (Judges iv, 6-16). The kings came and fought the kings of Canaan in Taanach, by the waters of Megiddo (Judges v, 19). Jehu, King of Israel, fought with Ahaziah, King of Judah, who fled to Megiddo, and died there (II Kings, ix, 27). King Josiah was slain at Megiddo by Pharaoh-nechoh, King of Egypt (II Kings xxiii, 29). The city of Megiddo stood in the plain of Esdraelon, somewhere near the river Kison ("the waters of Megid- do"). It was a very old place, said to have been besieged by Thothmes III eighteen centuries B. C. In the face of its relation to Rome the prophecy has for about five hundred years been accepted by Christendom as unfulfilled, awaiting a last conflict between the powers of earth. Every approach to a great war has been accom- panied by tremors of expectation among the righteous, who saw in it the shadow of Armageddon cast before. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 27 The idea of a millennium has been bound up with it, for later in the Revelation (xx, 2-3) we are told that "He laid hold on the dragon, that old serpent, which is the Devil, and Satan, and bound him a thousand years, "And cast him into the bottomless pit, and shut him up, and set a seal upon him, that he should deceive the nations no more, till the thousand years should be ful- filled : and after that he must be loosed a little season." A comforting assurance to this vext world, but very bad for Germany's recent kaiser, who is welcome to such comfort as he may find in the indeterminate parol indi- cated by the rather grudging clause at the close. For if the prophecy did not exactly fit Caesar and the false prophet Paganism, it does in every particular fit the case of the kaiser and the false prophet Kultur, that "wrought miracles before him, with which he deceived them that had received the mark of the beast and them that worshipped his image." Prophecy and poesy are akin, both being of pure in- spiration, differing only in degree. All prophets may not be poets ; but all poets are prophets in one or another way, sometimes in ways quite open and direct. Prophecy relating to a final tempest of war was not pe- culiar to St. John, nor local to Patmos. Men of imagina- tion, writers for the most part, have often glimpsed such a tempest as sure to come. Some have seen it vaguely, some clearly — as lightning on a summer night may split the dark and for a flaming instant show a vivid picture. Thus Tennyson in a rapt moment ". . dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; 28 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails ; Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales ; Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm ; Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. And to others came voices, as to Whitman, listening in his solitude to a ghostly Trumpeter: "A SHUDDERING hum like distant thunder rolls. Lo, where the armed men hasten — lo, 'mid the clouds of dust the glint of bayonets. I see the grime-faced cannoneers, I mark the rosy flush amid the smoke, I hear the crackling of the guns ; Nor war alone — thy fearful music-song, wild player, brings every sight of fear, The deeds of ruthless brigands, rapine, murder — I hear the cries for help ! I see ships foundering' at sea, I behold on deck and below deck the terrible tableaux. "O trumpeter, methinks I am myself the instrument thou playest. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 29 Thou melt'st my heart, my brain — thou movest, drawest, changest them at will; And now thy sullen notes send darkness through me. Thou takest away all cheering light, all hope. I see the enslaved, the overthrown, the hurt, the opprest of the whole earth. I feel the measureless shame and humiliation of my race, it becomes all mine. Mine too, the revenges of humanity, the wrongs of ages, baffled feuds and hatred. Utter defeat upon me weighs — all lost — the foe victorious. (Yet 'mid the ruin Pride colossal stands unshaken to the last, Endurance, resolution to the last.) "O glad, exulting, culminating song! A vigor more than earth's is in thy notes. Marches of victory — man disenthralled — the conqueror at last! Hymns to the universal God from universal man — all joy! A reborn race appears — a perfect world, all joy! Riotous bacchanals filled with joy! War, sorrow, suffering, gone — the rank earth purged — nothing but joy left! The ocean filled with joy — the atmosphere all joy! Joy! joy! in freedom, worship, love! joy in the ecstasy of life! Enough to merely be ! Enough to breathe !" Jules Verne, prophet and prose poet, projected into the world's mind the first submarine, and gave it a fancied voyage of twenty thousand leagues under the sea, long before Holland, our American inventor, made the work- ing model from which came all those various forms of 30 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE submarine vessels that figured so largely in the war. Verne also, in his "Experiment of Doctor Ox," brought deadly gases into warfare. That book was published in the eighteen-seventies. Mother Shipton was not the first to see ships sailing the sky. The germ of that idea is found in Greek myth- ology. It did not take palpable form until Professor Langley of the Smithsonian Institution made and flew the first heavier-than-air machine. The accident that de- stroyed the machine and the ridicule that most unjustly followed were too much for Langley. He died of a broken heart. The Wright brothers approached the problem from a different direction, so that practical avia- tion may be dated from their production of a gas motor of low weight and high power. Their first flight in a power machine was the beginning of Tennyson's "airy navies, grappling in the central blue." Yet an old fellow, Owen Cambridge, in 1751 (a hun- dred and sixty-seven years ago), described an air contest between a Briton and a German, in most essentials like many such things that were going on every day, just a little while ago. ET brisker "youths their active nerves prepare Fit their light silken wings and skim the buxom air. Mov'd by my words, two youths of equal fire Spring from the crowd and to the prize aspire. The one a German of distinguish'd fame; His rival from projecting Britain came. They spread their wings and with a rising bound Swift at the word together quit the ground. The Briton's rapid flight outstrips the wind; The lab'ring German urges close behind. As some light bark, pursu'd by ships of force, THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 31 Stretches each sail to swell her swifter course, The nimble Briton from his rival flies And soars on bolder pinions to the skies. Sudden the string which bound his plumage broke: His naked arms in yielding air he shook: His naked arms no more support his weight, But fail him sinking from his airy height. Yet as he falls, so chance or fate decreed, His rival near him urg'd his winged speed. Not unobserv'd (despair suggests a thought), Fast by the foot the heedless youth he caught And drew th' insulting victor to the ground; While rocks and woods with loud applause resound. Technically, Cambridge was a little off, but not so far, either, when you remember that his data were drawn from his fancy. When he had a Briton and a German go to it in the air with the decision in favor of the Briton, he rang the bell — prophetically speaking. In the same poem Cambridge had a submersible: A BARK emergent rose : with oars well tim'd, Cut the smooth wave, and o'er the surface skim'd, Then sunk again, but still her course pursu'd. Clear was the stream and all beneath we view'd. Not much like Holland's self-contained vessel, but a pretty good shot, considering the time of writing. The poem was called "Scriblerius." Its hero was Martinus Scrib- lerius, Pope's satirical creation, who read everything but learned nothing. Back of Cambridge, away back as far as the middle of the fifteenth century, Giambatesta Dunte, a mathematic- ian, invented a set of artificial wings and with them made a flight over Lake Thrasemene. Afterward he went to 32 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Russia and gave an exhibition which terminated his avia- tory career, for an iron joint in one of the wings gave way while he was up, and he fell on the roof of a church, breaking a leg. He returned to Italy and obscurity and mathematics, at Venice. His case is well attested, for he had become widely known as "The Second Daedalus." A prophet in act, though not in words. Walter Besant in a book published over forty years ago — St. Katherine's by the Tower — wrote a review of Napoleon's wars that could be taken as from a "young man" looking back over our war. In effect it was a prophecy, for the broadest survey of those wars would show no such desolation as the desolation wrought by this one. "Our young men," he said, "have witnessed a gigantic war — a war which covered the whole of Europe — all the continent; which destroyed millions of men, overturned the proudest monarchies and the most solid institutions. It has been a war the like of which has never before been seen in the history of the world, and its conse- quences I verily believe will never end in the remaining history of the world." Transpose dates and you have an advance description squarely entitled to prophetic class- ification. About thirty years back, a prominent New York pub- lishing house issued a book called Beitigheim, a story of an imagined war in Europe in which England, France, Italy and the United States are allied against Germany, Austria and Russia, a tremendous conflict, in which America, in a four days' battle at Beitigheim, in Germany, decisively defeats Germany and puts an end to German imperialism — for all time. The Russian alignment may not turn out so asymetric as it seems now ; but otherwise, and in many minor features, the forecast is remarkably accurate. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 33 About fifteen years ago H. G. Wells wrote a story that appeared in The Strand magazine (London) in which the now familiar battle tank was described about as well as any good writer could describe one now, after an inspection. In a war between Great Britain and Ger- many (the Germans are not called so directly, but they are not to be mistaken) a British army, perfect in every way, is made helpless and thoroughly beaten by monster machines, armor protected, that come lumbering along, blazing away with heavy guns, rolling over the regi- ments with no more trouble than though they had been so much standing wheat, and paying not the slightest attention to any form of assault. When it is all over the machines stop, doors open at their sides, and from these doors emerge not soldiers, but professional look- ing men wearing spectacles and oilstained overalls, who leisurely eat sandwiches while they make notes and compare computations. Mr. Wells is a bit of a prophet anyway, as everyone knows. In this case he has been absolutely borne out with the sole yet transcendently happy difference that the Germans, not the British, take the licking. Is it impossible that thought may diffuse itself in some etheric plane and somewhere find lodgment in a human brain and set in action there a train of newer thoughts from which fresh marvels may ensue? People have a way of saying "the thing's in the air." Maybe the saying is truer than they wot. For experience has shown that when a new great thing is due to come into the world many minds, each una- ware of the others, minds separated by wide distances, are found trying to give it form. Out of these separated 34 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE gropings comes eventually a form that will work. This is especially true of mechanical inventions. May not prophecy by subtle modes of its own cause its own ful- fillment? Is it to consider too curiously to consider so, at least in things mechanical? The other and higher forms of prophecy would not be touched at all by such consideration. And the one higher prophet of later days was Count Tolstoi. Count Tolstoi died some time before the war. About a year before his death, the Czar requested his views upon the European situation as it then was, and the probable course of world events. By way of answer Tolstoi went into what spiritists would call a trance — a state of self-induced hypnosis; and in that state de- livered a prophecy. A young woman, a member of the family, took down what he said, as he said it. Not long after, but while he still lived, it was made public and attracted wide though cynically amused attention. Then it dropped out of sight and did not reappear until after the invasion of Belgium. Here is a translation in full: "This is a Revelation of events of a Universal charac- ter which must shortly come to pass: "Their spiritual outlines are now before my eyes. I see floating upon the surface of the sea of human fate the huge silhouette of a nude Woman. She is, with her beauty, poise, her smile, her jewels, a super- Venus. Na- tions rush madly after her, each of them eager to attract her especially. But she, like an eternal courtesan, flirts THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 35 with all. In her Crown of diamonds and rubies is en- graved her name, 'Commercialism.' As alluring and bewitching as she seems, much destruction and agony fol- low in her wake. Her breath, reeking of sordid trans- actions, her voice of metallic character like gold, and her look of greed are so much poison to the Nations who fall victims to her charms. "And behold, she has three gigantic arms with three torches of universal corruption in her hands. The first torch represents the flame of War, that the beautiful courtesan carries from city to city and country to country. Patriotism answers with flashes of honest flame, but the end is a roar of guns and murderous explosives which destroy the countries and slaughter the patriots. "The second torch bears the flame of Bigotry and Hypocrisy. It lights the lamps only in Temples and on the altars of sacred institutions. It carries the seed of Falsity and Fanaticism. It kindles the Minds that are still in cradles and follows them to their graves. "The third torch is that of the Law, that dangerous foundation of all unauthentic traditions, which first does its fatal work in the Family, then sweeps through the larger world of Literature, Art and Statesmanship. "The great Conflagration will start about 1912, set by the torch of the first arm in the countries of South- eastern Europe. It will develop into a destruction and calamity in 1914. In that year I see all Europe in flames and bleeding. I hear the lamentations from huge bat- tlefields. But after 1915 a great Napoleonic Leader enters upon the stage of the bloody Drama. He is a man of little militaristic training, a writer or a journalist, but in his grip most of Europe will remain until 1925. 36 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE "The end of the great calamity will mark a new polit- ical era for the Old World. There will be left no em- pires or kingdoms, but the world will form a Federation of the United States of Nations. There will remain only four great giants — the Anglo-Saxon, the Latins, the Slavs and the Mongolians. "After the year 1925 I see a change in religious sen- timent. The second torch of the Courtesan has brought about the fall of the Church. The Ethical idea has almost vanished. Humanity is without moral feeling. Then shall come a great Reformer. He will clear the World of the relics of Monotheism and lay the corner- stone of the Temple of Pantheism. God, Soul, Spirit and Immortality will be molten in a new regenerating furnace, the peaceful beginning of an ethical era! The Man destined for this mission is a Mongolian Slav. He is already walking the Earth — a man of active affairs. He himself does not now realize the mission assigned to him by Superior Powers. "And, behold, I see the Law, the third torch, which has already begun to destroy the Family relations, our standards of Art and Morals. The relation between Woman and Man is accepted as a prosaic Partnership of the Sexes. Art has become Realistic Degeneracy. Po- litical and religious disturbances have shaken the Spiritual foundations of all Nations. "Only small spots here and there have remained un- touched by those Three destructive flames. The anti- National Wars in Europe, the Class War of America and the Race Wars in Asia have strangled Progress for half a century. In the year 1950, I see a heroine of Literature and Art rising from the ranks of the Latins and Persians — the languorous World — Tedious and ple- beian. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 37 "It is the light of Symbolism that shall outshine the light of the torches of the Siren, 'Commercialism.' In place of Polygamy and Monogamy of today, there will come a 'Poet-ogamy,' relations of the Sexes based fun- damentally on the poetic conceptions of life. And I see the Nations growing larger and realizing that the allur- ing Woman of their destiny is after all but an illusion. "There will come a time when the World will have no use for armies, hypocritical Religions, and degenerate Art. "Life is Evolution, and Evolution is development from the simple to the sublimer forms of Mind and Body. I see the passing show of the World-Drama, in its pres- ent form, as it fades like the glow of evening upon the mountains. One motion of the hand of Commercialism and a new history begins." That is big writing, broad in the sense of literary art, and in every way impressive. It has been justified by events thus far: The Balkan War of 1912 led up to the shattering explosion of 1914. "All Europe" was "in flames," a thing undreamable at the time of fore- telling, unrealized until it had come; and even then inadequately. The new man who is to be master of Europe has not yet been identified, if he exists at all — but he was not to come until "after 1915." It is unnecessary to accept or reject the Messianic passage, but it derives significance from the fact that all the great message bearers within our scope of history rose in the orient. Moses, Zarathrusta, Confucius, Gau- tama, Jesus, Mohammed, were orientals. In things of the spirit, the western world has given us no Messiah, but many prophets, all false, all meretri- cious. Christianity has reached such a pass as that in which John Baptist cried that unless God spake again, religion 38 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE must die. Through the night that has covered us we approach a new dawn, a herald of gentler days. If that dawn break and that herald rise in the East, who shall wonder? Let us wait, our faces turned that way — and hope. THE OLD TOP SERGEANT BERTON BRALEY From Mr. Braley's book, "In Camp and Trench," published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special per- mission to reproduce in this bpok. "Shavetail" is a name applied by enlisted men in the regular army to lieutenants fresh from West Point. '"TWENTY years of the army, of drawing a sergeant's pay And helping the West Point shavetails, fresh from the training school, To handle a bunch of soldiers and drill 'em the proper way (Which isn't always exactly according to book and rule). I've seen 'em rise to Captains and Majors and Colonels, too, And me still only a sergeant, the same as I used to be, And I knew that some of them didn't know as much as a sergeant knew, But I stuck to my daily duty — there wasn't a growl from me. Twenty years of the army, Serving in peace and war, Standing the drill of the army mill, For that's what they paid me for. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 39 Twenty years with the army, which wasn't so much for size, But man for man I'd back it to lick any troops on earth. 'Twas a proud little classy army, as good as the flag it flies, And it takes an old top sergeant to know what the flag is worth. Then — a shot at Sarejevo, and hell burst over there And the kaiser dragged us in it, and the bill for the draft was passed And — they handed me my commission, and some shoulder straps to wear, And the crazy dream of my rooky days had changed to a fact at last. Twenty years with the army, And it's great to know they call On the guys like me for what will be The mightiest job of all. Twenty years of the army, of doing what shavetails bid, And I know I haven't the polish that fellows like that will show, And I hold a high opinion of the brains of a West Point kid, But I think I can make him hustle when it comes to the work I know. But who cares where we come from, Plattsburg, ranks, or the Guard, This isn't a pink tea-party, but a War to be fought and won; There's a serious job before us, a job that is huge and hard, 40 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE And the social register don't count until we've got it done! Twenty years in the army, And now I've got my chance. Have I earned my straps? Well, you watch the chaps That I've trained for the game in France! FLAG EVERLASTING A. G. RIDDOCH "CLAG of our Faith: lead on — Across the sand-blown plain, The deep and trackless main, When duty's trumpets blow, Where frowns the freeman's foe, And right crushed to the sod Lifts soul to righteous God. Flag of our Faith: lead on — Flag of our Hope : lead on — When stormy clouds hang low And chilling north-winds blow And days are long and drear. When nights breed grief and fear; A rainbow lights the sky Whene'er its colors fly. Flag of our Hope: lead on — Flag of our Love: lead on — In loyal hearts supreme, Fairer than love's first dream, Our first choice and our last, Brightened by every blast. Oh, emblem pure and sweet, THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 41 Thou can'st not know defeat. Flag of our Love: lead on — Flag of our Home: lead on — Beneath thy folds we rest, We live and love our best, The fairest roses blow, The richest harvests grow, And care-free children play And gladden every day. Flag of our Home: lead on — l'envoi — Flag of our Faith, our Hope, our Love, Flag of our Home, wave on above. We'll live, we'll fight, we'll die for you — Flag Everlasting, Red, White and Blue. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY IN FRANCE GEORGE M. MAYO XJERE'S to the Blue of the wind-swept North, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of Grant be with you all As the sons of the North advance. And here's to the Gray of the sun-kissed South, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of Lee be with you all As the sons of the South advance. And here's to the Blue and the Gray as one, When we meet on the fields of France; May the spirit of God be with us all As the sons of the Flag advance. 42 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE A LITTLE TOWN IN SENEGAL WILL THOMPSON in Everybody's Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book HEAR the throbbing music down the lanes of Afric rain: The Afric spring is breaking, down in Senegal again. little town in Senegal, amid the clustered gums, Where are your sturdy village lads, who one time danced to drums? At Soissons, by a fountain wall, they sang their melodies; And some now lie in Flemish fields, beside the northern seas; And some tonight are camped and still, along the Marne and Aisne; And some are dreaming of the palms that bend in Afric rain. The music of the barracks half awakes them from their dream ; They smile and sink back sleepily along the Flemish stream. They dream the baobab's white buds have opened over- night ; They dream they see the solemn cranes that bask in morn- ing light. 1 hear the great drums beating in the square across the plain. Where are the tillers of the soil, the gallant, loyal train? O little town in Senegal, amid the white-bud trees, At Soissons, in Picardy, went north the last of these! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 43 A LITTLE GRIMY-FINGERED GIRL LEE WILSON DODD in The Outlook Permission to reproduce in this book In sending his permission to use this sharp flash of the spirit of France, Mr. Dodd wrote: "It may interest you to know that the little grimy-fingered girl is real, and that I bought 'L'Intrans' from her every evening for many months during the dark days of last spring in Paris." The spring referred to being that of 1918, when the Germans were only a few miles from the city. A LITTLE grimy-fingered girl In stringy black and broken shoes Stands where sharp human eddies whirl And offers — news: News from the front. " 'L'Intransigeant' ', ' M'sieUj comme d' ordinaire?" Her smile Is friendly though her face is gaunt; There is no guile, No mere mechanic flash of teeth, No calculating leer of glance . . . You wear your courage like a wreath, Daughter of France. Back of old sorrow in tired eyes Back of endurance, through the night That wearies you and makes you wise, I see a light Unshaken, proud, that does not pale, — And you are nobody, my dear; "Une vraie gamine," who does not quail, Who knows not fear. Rattle your sabers, Lords of Hate, Ye shall not force them to their knees! A street-girl scorns your God, your State The least of these. . . . Place du Theatre Francais, Paris, February, 1918. 44 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL EVERARD JACK APPLETON By permission of Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Publishers of "With the Colors," by Everard Jack Appleton. Copyright, 1917. TT'S a high-falutin' title they have handed us; It's very complimentary and grand; But a year or so ago they called us "hicks," you know — An' joshed the farmer and his hired hand! Now it's, "Save the country, Farmer ! Be a soldier of the soil! Show your patriotism, pardner, By your never ending toil." So we're croppin' more than ever, An' we're speedin' up the farm. Oh, it's great to be a soldier — A sweatin' sun-burnt soldier, — A soldier in the furrows — Away from "war's alarm!" While fightin* blight and blister, We hardly get a chance To read about our "comrades" A-doin' things in France. To raise the grub to feed 'em Is some job, believe me — plus! And I ain't so sure a soldier — A shootin', scrappin' soldier, That's livin' close to dyin' — Ain't got the best of us! But we'll harrer and we'll harvest, An' we'll meet this new demand Like the farmers always meet it — THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 45 The farmers — and the land. An' we hope, when it is over An' this war has gone to seed, You will know us soldiers better — Th' sweatin', reapin' soldiers, Th' soldiers that have hustled To raise th' grub you need! It's a mighty fine title you have given us, A name that sounds too fine to really stick; But maybe you'll forget (when you figure out your debt) To call th' man who works a farm a "hick." THE CROSS AND THE FLAG CARDINAL WILLIAM HENRY O'CONNELL in The Catholic School Journal "LTAIL, banner of our holy faith, Redemption's sacred sign, Sweet emblem thou of heavenly hope And of all help divine, We bare our heads in reverence As o'er us is unfurled The standard of the Cross of Christ Whose blood redeemed the world. Hail, banner of our native land, Great ensign of the free, We love thy glorious Stars and Stripes, Emblem of liberty; Lift high the cross, unfurl the flag; May they forever stand United in our hearts and hopes, God and our native land. 46 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE THE ROAD TO FRANCE DANIEL M. HENDERSON Permission to reproduce in this book The 1917 prize of the National Arts Club of New York wu awarded to Mr. Henderson's poem. It was chosen out of more than four thousand that were submitted. 'T'HANK God, our liberating lance Goes flaming on the way to France! To France — the trail the Gurkhas found; To France — old England's rallying-ground ! To France — the path the Russians strode! To France — the Anzacs' glory road! To France — where our Lost Legion ran To fight and die for God and man! To France — with every race and breed That hates Oppression's brutal creed! Ah, France, how could our hearts forget The path by which came Lafayette? How could the haze of doubt hang low Upon the road of Rochambeau? How was it that we missed the way Brave Joffre leads us along today? At last, thank God ! At last, we see There is no tribal Liberty! No beacon lighting just our shores, No Freedom guarding but our doors. The flame she kindled for our sires Burns now in Europe's battle-fires. The soul that led our fathers west Turns back to free the world's opprest. Allies, you have not called in vain ; We share your conflict and your pain. "Old Glory," through new stains and rents. Partakes of Freedom's sacraments. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 47 Into that hell his will creates We drive the foe — his lusts, his hates. Last come, we will be last to stay, Till Right has had her crowning day. Replenish, comrades, from our veins The blood the sword of despot drains, And make our eager sacrifice Part of the freely rendered price You pay to lift humanity — You pay to make our brothers free. See, with what proud hearts we advance To France! NAZARETH "L" in the Chicago Tribune On the capture of the city by the British under General Allenby, September 21, 1918. A CROSS the sands by Mary's well Along the shores of Galilee, The paths are pitted deep with shell And drab with marching infantry. Perhaps upon the self-same spot Where He first lifted His head, In cellar straw and manger cot, Now Freedom's hosts are billeted. Then 'twas a life — now myriad death. The Allied troops win Nazareth. 48 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE THE CRIMSON CROSS ELIZABETH BROWN DU BRIDGE in The Daily News, Sault Ste. Marie (~\UTSIDE the ancient city's gate Upon Golgotha's crest Three crosses stretched their empty arms, Etched dark against the west. And blood from nail-pierced hands and feet And tortured thorn-crowned head And thrust of hatred's savage spear Had stained one dark cross red. Emblem of shame and pain and death It stood beside the way, But sign of love and hope and life We lift it high today. Where horror grips the stoutest heart, Where bursting shells shriek high, Where human bodies shrapnel scourged By thousands suffering lie; Threading the shambles of despair, Mid agony and strife, Come fleetest messengers who wear The crimson cross of life. To friend and foe alike they give Their strength and healing skill, For those who wear the crimson cross Must "do the Master's will." Can we, so safely sheltered here, Refuse to do our part? When some who wear the crimson cross Are giving life and heart To succor those who bear our flag, THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 49 Who die that we may live — Shall we accept their sacrifice And then refuse to give? Ah, no! Our debt to God and man We can, we will fulfill, For we, who wear the crimson cross, Must "do the Master's will." PIERROT GOES CHARLOTTE BECKER in Everybody's Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book | TP among the chimneys tall Lay the garret of Pierrot. Here came trooping to his call Fancies no one else might know; Here he bade the spiders spin Webs to hide his treasure in. Here he heard the night wind croon Slumber-songs for sleepyheads; Here he spied the spendthrift moon Strew her silver on the leads ; Here he wove a coronet Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette. But the bugles blew him down To the fields with war beset; Marched him past the quiet town, Past the window of Pierrette ; Comrade now of sword and lance, Pierrot gave his dreams to France. 50 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE A SERBIAN EPITAPH V. STANIMIROVIC After the retreat of the Serbian Army across the mountains of Albania in 1915, the survivors who reached the coast were shipped to Corfu. Here, and in the neighboring island of Vido, many of them died — to begin with, at the rate of hundreds a day. Some of them were buried at sea. Others lie in common graves. In the midst of the mounds which mark their resting-place, and which vary in size, there stands a cross. On it is a Serbian inscription, written by the poet, V. Stanimirovic, and translated for the London Westminster Gazette by Mr. L. F. Waring: "VTEVER a Serbian flower shall bloom In exile on our far-off tomb. Our little ones shall watch in Vain : Tell them we shall not come again. Yet greet for us our fatherland, And kiss for us her sacred strand. These mounds shall tell the years to be Of men who died to make her free. THE NIGHTINGALES OF FLANDERS GRACE HAZARD CONKLING in Everybody's Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book. "Le rossignol n'est pas mobilise." — A French Soldier 'T'HE nightingales of Flanders, They had not gone to war; A soldier heard them singing Where they had sung before. The earth was torn and quaking, The sky about to fall; The nightingales of Flanders, They minded not at all. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 51 At intervals he heard them Between the guns, he said, Making a thrilling music Above the listening dead. Of woodland and of orchard And roadside tree bereft, The nightingales of Flanders Were singing "France is left!" TO THE HUN GEORGE STERLING From Mr. Sterling's book of poems "The Binding of the Beast." Published by A. M. Robertson, San Francisco. Special permission to reproduce in this book. "^TOT for the love of conquest do we blame Thy monstrous armies, nor the blinded rage That holds thee traitor to this gentler age, Nor yet for cities given to the flame; For changing Europe finds thy heart the same And as of old thy bestial heritage. The Light is not for thee. The war we wage Is less on thee than on thy deathless shame. Lo! this is thy betrayal — that we know, Gazing on thee, how far Man's footsteps stray From the pure heights of love and brotherhood — How deep in undelivered night we go — How long on bitter paths we shall delay, Held by thy bruteship from the Gates of Good. 52 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE PERSHING AT THE TOMB OF LAFAYETTE AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR From Amelia Josephine Burr's book of poems, "The Silver Trum- pet." Published and copyright, 1918, by George H. Doran Company, New York. Special permission to reproduce in this book. 'T'HEY knew they were fighting our war. As the months grew to years Their men and their women had watched through their blood and their tears For a sign that we knew, we who could not have come to be free Without France, long ago. And at last from the threat- ening sea The stars of our strength on the eyes of their weariness rose And he stood among them, the sorrow-strong hero we chose To carry our flag to the tomb of that Frenchman whose name A man of our country could once more pronounce without shame. What crown of rich words would he set for all time on this day? The past and the future were listening what he would say — Only this, from the white-flaming heart of a passion austere, Only this — ah, but France understood! "Lafayette, we are here." THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 53 TRAINS LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE From Lieutenant Roche's book of poems, "Rimes in Olive Drab." Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book. Lieutenant Roche has deftly caught and preserved in words the strange vision of unannounced trains that flash now and then past towns and villages bearing American troops from unknown camps to unknown ports of embarkation — the flash of faces of men about whom it is known only that they came from the shops and fields of home and are going across the seas to fight somewhere, for those who stand and gaze as they whirl by. The mystery, the roar of wheels, the eddying dust and the silence that follows infuse these lines with picture and sound that will stay in the minds of any who have seen such trains go hurrying away. fWER thousands of miles Of shining steel rails, Past green and red semaphores And unheeding flagmen, Trains are running, Trains, trains, trains. Rattling through tunnels And clicking by way stations, Curving through hills, past timber, Out into the open places, Flashing past silos and barns And whole villages, Until finally they echo Against the squat factories That line the approach to the cities. Trains, trains, trains With the fire boxes wide open, Giant Moguls and old-time Baldwins And oil-burners on the Southern Pacific, Fire boxes wide open Flaring against the night, Like a tremendous watch fire 54 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Where the sentries cluster at their post. Trains, trains, trains Serpentine strings of cars Loaded with boys and men — The legion of the ten-year span To whom has been given the task Of seeking the Great Adventure. Swaying through the North and South, And East and West, Freighted with the Willing And the Unwilling; Packed with the Thinking And the Unthinking, Pushing on to the Unknown Away from the shelter and security Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. Trains, trains, trains With their coach sides scrawled With chalked bravado and, sometimes, With their windows black With yelling boys, In open-mouthed exultation That they do not feel, Rushing farther and farther From the known into the unseeable. Trains, trains, trains With sky-larking boys in khaki, Munching sandwiches and drinking pop; Or, tired and without their depot swagger, Curled up on the red-plush seats; Or asleep, with a stranger, in the Pullmans. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 55 They rush past our camp, Which lies against the railroad, With the crossing alarm jangling caution, And fade into the dust or night. Leaving us to conjecture where, As they have left others to wonder — As they must wonder themselves When they are done With the shouting and hand-shaking And kissing and hat-waving and singing. Trains, trains, trains Clicking on into unforecast days — Away from the shelter and security Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. CHRIST IN FLANDERS L. W. In The Spectator "VW" E had forgotten You, or very nearly — You did not seem to touch us very nearly — Of course we thought about You now and then; Especially in any time of trouble — We knew that You were good in time of trouble — But we are very ordinary men. And there were always other things to think of — There's lots of things a man has got to think of — His work, his home, his pleasure, and his wife; And so we only thought of You on Sunday — Sometimes, perhaps, not even on a Sunday — Because there's always lots to fill one's life. 56 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE And, all the while, in the street or lane or byway — In country lane, in city street, or byway — You walked among us, and we did not see. Your feet were bleeding as You walked our pavements- How did we miss Your Footprints on our pavements ?- Can there be other folk as blind as we? Now we remember; over here in Flanders — (It isn't strange to think of You in Flanders) — This hideous warfare seems to make things clear. We never thought about You much in England — But now that we are far away from England — We have no doubts, we know that You are here. You helped us pass the jest along the trenches — Where, in cold blood, we waited in the trenches — You touched its ribaldry and made it fine. You stood beside us in our pain and weakness — We're glad to think You understand our weakness — Somehow it seems to help us not to whine. We think about You kneeling in the Garden — Ah! God! the agony of that dread Garden — We know You prayed for us upon the Cross. If anything could make us glad to bear it — 'T would be the knowledge that You willed to bear it- Pain — death — the uttermost of human loss. Though we forgot You — You will not forget us — We feel so sure that You will not forget us — But stay with us until this dream is past. And so we ask for courage, strength, and pardon — Especially, I think, we ask for pardon — And that You'll stand beside us to the last. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 57 AN AMERICAN CREED EVERARD JACK APPLETON By permission of Stewart & Kidd Company, Cincinnati, Publishers of "With the Colors," by Everard Jack Appleton. Copyright, 1918. CTRAIGHT thinking, Straight talking, Straight doing, And a firm belief in the might of right. Patience linked with patriotism, Justice added to kindliness, Uncompromising devotion to this country, And active, not passive, Americanism. To talk less, to mean more, To complain less, to accomplish more, And to so live that every one of us is ready to look Eternity in the face at any moment, and be unafraid! RUNNER McGEE (Who had "Return if Possible" Orders.) EDGAR A. GUEST From Edgar A. Guest's book of war time rhymes, entitled "Over Here." Published and copyright, 1918, by The Reilly & Britton Company, Chicago. Special permission to insert in this book. TyTOU'VE heard a good deal of the telephone wires," He said as we sat at our ease, And talked of the struggle that's taking men's lives In these terrible days o'er the seas, "But I've been through the thick of the thing And I know when a battle's begun It isn't the 'phone you depend on for help. It's the legs of a boy who can run. 58 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE "It isn't because of the 'phone that I'm here. Today you are talking to me Because of the grit and the pluck of a boy. His title was Runner McGee. We were up to our dead line an' fighting alone ; Some plan had miscarried, I guess, And the help we were promised had failed to arrive. We were showing all signs of distress. "Our curtain of fire was ahead of us still, An' theirs was behind us an' thick, An' there wasn't a thing we could do for ourselves — The few of us left had to stick. You haven't much chance to get central an' talk On the 'phone to the music of guns; Gettin' word to the chief is a matter right then That is up to the fellow who runs. "I'd sent four of 'em back with the R. I. P. sign, Which means to return if you can, But none of 'em got through the curtain of fire; My hurry call died with the man. Then Runner McGee said he'd try to get through. I hated to order the kid On his mission of death ; thought he'd never get by, But somehow or other he did. "Yes, he's dead. Died an hour after bringing us word That the chief was aware of our plight, An' for us to hang onto the ditch that we held; The reserves would relieve us at night. Then we stuck to our trench an' we stuck to our guns; You know how you'll fight when you know That new strength is coming to fill up the gaps. There's heart in the force of your blow. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 59 "It wasn't till later I got all the facts. They wanted McGee to remain. They begged him to stay. He had cheated death once, An' was foolish to try it again. 'R. I. P. are my orders,' he answered them all, 'An' back to the boys I must go; Four of us died comin' out with the news. It will help them to know that you know.' " THE SOLDIER'S FOLKS AT HOME From The Christian Herald "VW"E often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights, When fireflies out upon the lawn are soft enchanted lights From Fairyland; when, far away, a vagrant nightingale Is sobbing from a bursting heart his tragic untold tale. We often sit upon the porch, quite silently, for we Are seeing golden wonder-worlds that no one else may see. My mother sighs; I feel her hand upon my ruffled hair, The while I know she thinks of one, of one who is not there. . . . And grandma, with her down-bent head, is dreaming of the day When to the strains of "Dixie Land" her sweetheart marched away. And brother stares into the dusk, with vivid eyes aflame, And hears the stirring call to arms, to battle and to fame ! My little sister, half asleep, holds tight against her breast A battered doll with china eyes that she herself has dressed ; 60 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE And baby brother holds my hand, and thinks of cakes and toys That grow on trees in some fair land for perfect little boys. And auntie holds her head erect, and seems to dare the fates With eyes that hold the glowing look of one who hopes and waits. We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights When fireflies out upon the lawn are vague enchanted lights, And no one speaks, for each one dreams and plans, per- haps, and strays, A wanderer through years to come, a ghost through bygone days, And as the stars far in the sky come shining softly through, My heart and soul are all one prayer — one silver prayer for you. THREE HILLS EVERARD OWEN From Mr. Owen's book, "Three Hills and Other Poems." Sidgwick & Jackson. Ltd., Publishers, London, England. Special permission to insert in this book. HPHERE is a hill in England, Green fields and a school I know, Where the balls fly fast in summer, And the whispering elm-trees grow, A little hill, a dear hill, And the playing fields below. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 61 There is a hill in Flanders, Heaped with a thousand slain, Where the shells fly night and noontide And the ghosts that died in vain — A little hill, a hard hill, To the souls that died in pain. There is a hill in Jewry, Three crosses pierce the sky, On the midmost He is dying To save all those who die — A little hill, a kind hill To souls in jeopardy. MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE From Lieutenant Roche's book of poems, "Rimes in Olive Drab." Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book. "Doughboy" is an old nickname for a United States infantryman. When our army went into what is now New Mexico, Arizona and California to quiet the Mexicans hostilities that preceded the war of 1846, the infantry fell into a way of camping in houses built by the natives with sun-dried bricks of adobe mud. The cavalry, having to lie in the open with the horses, were joked thereat and came back by calling the infantry dobie boys. The name stuck and by an easy slide arrived at the present form. TyTIKE DILLON was a doughboy And wore the issue stuff; He wasn't much to look at — In fact, was rather rough; He served his time as rookie — At drilling in the sun, And cleared a lot of timber And polished up his gun. Mike Dillon was a private With all the word entails; 62 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE He cussed and chewed tobacco And overlooked his nails. You never saw Mike Dillon At dances ultra nice; In fact, inspection found him Enjoying body lice. If Mike had married money Or had a little drag, He might have got a brevet And missed a little "fag"; But as a social figure He simply wasn't there — So Mike continued drilling And knifing up his fare. In course of time they shipped 'em And shipped 'em over where A man like Mike can sidestep The frigid social stare, And do the job of soldier Without the fancy frills, And keep a steady footing In the pace that really kills. Now Mike did nothing special ; He only did his best: He stuck and "went on over" — And got it in the chest ; He played it fair and squarely Without a social air, And Mike is now in heaven And at least a corporal there! THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 63 EPYLLIA POLEMIA "GALVIN O'CLAIRE" in B. L. T.'s column, The Chicago Tribune /"1EORGE was a man of nigh fifty years, With hair of a grizzly gray, And he either wore specs when reading a book, Or held it a yard away. His porcelain teeth all shiny and white Took root in the snags of his prime, And a little blond down still clung to his crown, Suggesting an earlier time. A farmer was George, and a "pote" on the side, He shocked both the public and wheat; Blank verse for a mule he could tell by the rule Of just counting the number of feet. Now the War was to George a terrible blow, And he often got low in his mind As he thought of the panic the Junkers Germanic Had caused unsuspecting mankind. "Alas, I can't write any more," he would moan. "Inspiration has utterly fled; I plant and I hoe, I tread the long row With a heart that is heavy as lead. The grass and the grain, the flowers and birds — Ah, the birds! — are now but a name; My stream has run dry, my time has gone by, I'll never again be the same. "Time was when at night I could pick up my quill And skim the high heaven's expanse ; But it's all I can do now to follow the coups 64 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE Of the armies that struggle in France." One day George's boy blew in like a breeze, A Lieutenant on leave from Camp Custer. Now George is no babe, but he fell to his knees In the grip of this Brobdingnag Buster. "Oh, Pop, ain't it great! Next week we are off! It's the Greatest Adventure of hist'ry; How the world can be blue when it's being made new Is to me a mysterious myst'ry! Keep *er going while we're gone with your plow and your pen, Give us wheat, give us meat by the ton ; Then tell the whole earth what a wonderful birth Awaits it when we shall have done!" George felt so much better when son went away That he sped him with never a tear, Came home with a grin running right off his chin, And wrote what you see written here. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 65 THE SOUL OF AMERICA "CROM the earliest hour of our history, when the thought of nationhood was forming, the greatest Americans have held one concept of what we were to be, and are, and shall be. Devotion to the vital principle of liberty, a jealous care for the rights of man, a passionate readiness for war in defense of that principle and those rights, runs through all their utterances, from those of Wash- ington and Patrick Henry to those of Woodrow Wilson. When he was urging union among the colonies and resistance to the German monarch then occupying the throne of England, Patrick Henry declared that "All dis- tinctions are thrown down; all America is thrown into one mass. The distinctions between Virginians, Penn- sylvanians, New Yorkers and New Englanders are no more. I am not a Virginian, but an American." Washington warned us that "A free people ought not only to be armed but disciplined ; to which end a uniform and well-digested plan is requisite; and their safety and interest require that they should promote such manufac- tories as tend to render them independent of others for essential, particularly military, supplies." And in his speech of July 13, 1798, accepting from President Adams the office of Commander-in-Chief of the American Armies, Washington said this: "Satisfied, therefore, that you have sincerely wished and endeavored to avert the war, and exhausted to the last drop the cup of reconciliation, we can with pure hearts appeal to heaven for the justice of our cause, and may confidently trust the final result to that kind Prov- idence who has heretofore and so often signally favored the people of the United States." 66 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE President Adams in 1798 stated a position that might have been profitably reoccupied by the nation before we had to declare war on Germany: "In demonstrating by our conduct that we do not fear war in the necessary protection of our rights and honor, we shall give no room to infer that we abandon the desire for peace. An efficient preparation for war can alone in- sure peace." President Madison, in the grave crisis of 1813, set up the same obligation that carried us into war in 1917. "It is fortunate for the United States," said he, "that they have it in their power to meet the enemy in this deplor- able contest, as it is honorable to them that they do not join in it but under the most imperious obligations, and with the humane purpose of effectuating a return to the established usages of war." And again in that same year, President Madison said that "Although among our blessings we cannot number an exemption from the evils of war, yet these will never be regarded as the greatest evils by the friends of liberty and the rights of nations." President Andrew Jackson in 1832 asked the people to "Contemplate the condition of that country of which you form an important part. Consider its Government, unit- ing in one bond of common interest and general protec- tion so many different States, giving to all their inhab- itants the proud title of American Citizen. Behold it as an asylum where the wretched and oppressed find a refuge and support. Look on this picture of happiness and honor and say, 'We, too, are citizens of America.' " President Jackson might have been speaking in our own day when on March 4, 1833, he said, "The eyes of all nations are fixed on our Republic. Great is the stake placed in our hands ; great is the responsibility which THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 67 must rest upon the people of the United States. Let us realize the importance of the attitude in which we stand before the world." Robert C. Winthrop, one of the most active influences in shaping American policies before the war with Mexico, in a Fourth of July speech in 1845 keyed the people up to meet the trouble that threatened our borders: "Our country — whether bounded by the St. John's and the Sabine, or however otherwise bounded or described, and be the measurements more or less: — still Our Coun- try, to be cherished in all our hearts, and to be defended by all our hands." And that sentiment is good for all time. Abraham Lincoln, in one of the most simple yet noble of all orations, said these memorable things at Gettys- burg, in 1863: "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. "Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great bat- tlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a por- tion of that field as a final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. "But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate — we cannot consecrate — we cannot hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have conse- crated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It 68 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not per- ish from the earth." General Grant in his inaugural speech; March 4, 1869, with the memory of a vast war still fresh, said what if he were with us he would say to the young men who have gone forth to war for their country on European battlefields : "The young men of the country — those who from their age must be its rulers twenty-five years hence — have a peculiar interest in maintaining the national honor. A moment's reflection as to what will be our commanding influence among the nations of the earth in their day if they are only true to themselves, should inspire them with national pride." Franklin K. Lane, of President Wilson's cabinet, car- ries forward the thought of the Fathers: "We came into this war for ourselves. It is a war to save America, to preserve self-respect, to justify our right to live as we have lived, not as some one else wishes us to live. It is more precious that this America shall live than that we Americans should live. . . . We cannot forget Liege, Louvain and Cardinal Mercier. Translated into terms of American history these names stand for Lexington, Bunker Hill and Patrick Henry. We still THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 69 hear piteous cries of children coming up out of the sea where the Lusitania went down. And Germany has never asked forgiveness of the world." President Wilson himself, in his declaration of war, took up the theme in very solemn tones: "We have no selfish ends to serve," he said. "We desire no conquest, no dominion. We seek no indemnities for ourselves and no material compensation for the sacri- fices we shall freely make. . . . We fight for the things we have always carried nearest to our hearts, for the right of those who submit to authority to have a voice in their own government, for the rights and liberties of small nations, for a universal dominion of right by such concert of free peoples as shall bring peace and safety to all nations and make the world itself free. "To such a task we dedicate our lives and our for- tunes — everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness, and the peace which she has treasured. "God helping her, she can do no other!" TO SOMEBODY HAROLD SETON in Munsey's Magazine Permission to reproduce in this book. 'T'HEY'VE put us through our paces; They say we're doing fine; We'll soon go to our places Upon the firing-line. Some chaps will fight for mothers, And some for wives so true; 70 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE For sweethearts many others, And I will fight for you! Through all these months of training We've cherished hopeful thoughts And drilled without complaining, Like soldiers and good sports. We're warring for a reason, We've sworn to see this through ; To falter would be treason, And I will fight for you! Your presence will be near me, Your voice will call my name ; You'll comfort me and cheer me, Your love, behold, I claim ! 'Twould take more than an ocean To separate us two ; I'll hold unto this notion, And I will fight for you! WAR COL. WILLIAM LIGHTFOOT VISSCHER in The Scoop, the Chicago Press Club's Magazine "D Y blazing homes, through forests torn And blackened harvest fields, The grim and drunken god of war In frenzied fury reels. His breath — the sulph'rous stench of guns — That death and famine deals And Pity, pleading, wounded falls Beneath his steel-shod heels. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 71 A MARCHING SOLILOQUY BY A MEMBER OF THE S. A. T. C, NORTHWESTERN COLLEGE, NAPERVILLE, ILL. "Left! Left!" Had a good girl when I "Left! Left!" Mighty good pal when I "Left!" "One! Two! Three! Four!" How many miles more? "Left! "Left! Left!" Booked for a wife when I "Left! Left!" That was my life when I "Left!" "One! Two! Three! Four!" Hear old Lieutenant roar "Left!" 72 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE WHILE SUMMERS PASS ALINE MICHAELIS in The Enterprise, Beaumont, Texas CUMMER comes and summer goes, Buds the primrose, fades the rose; But his footfall on the grass, Coming swiftly to my door, I shall hear again no more, Though a thousand summers pass. Once he loved the clovers well, Loved the larkspur and bluebell-. And the scent the plum-blooms yield; But strange flowers his soul beguiled, Pallid lilies, laurels wild, Blooming in a crimson field. So he plucked the laurels there, And he found them sweet and fair In that field of blood-red hue; And, when on a summer night Moonlight drenched my clovers white, Lo! He plucked Death's lilies, too. It may be that e'en to-night, In the Gardens of Delight, Where his shining soul must dwell, He has found some flowers more sweet Than the clovers at my feet, Some celestial asphodel. But while summer comes and goes, With the primrose and the rose Comes his footfall on the grass — Gladly, lightly to my door — I shall hear it echo o'er, Though a thousand summers pass. THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 73 THE MARINES ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE of The Vigilantes Permission to reproduce in this book "PARDON! he has no Engleesh, heem, II ne parle que Franchise, I spile it leetle some Monsieur, Vaire bad, j'en suis fache — Marines? Mais oui! I fight wiz zem At Chateau Thierry An' on ze Ourcq an' Marne in grand Bon camaraderie. I see zem fight at bois Belleau, Like sauvage make ze yell, — Sacre nom de Dieu! zoze sailor man Eez fightin' like ze hell! All time zey smile when make ze push, Magnifique zaire elan, Zey show ze heart of lion For delight our brav Franchman. An' in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop From ze Etats Unis Queeck make ze good frien' of poilu Wiz beeg slap on ze knee! Zey make ze song an' joke, si drole An' pass ze cigarette; Zey call us goddam good ol' scout Like Marquis La Fayette. Next day, mebbee, again ze taps — Ze volley in ze air. — Adieu! some fightin' sailor man Eez gone West. C'est la guerre! No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand Queeck wiz ze cigarette; 74 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE C'est vrai, at funerall of heem Ze poilu's eye eez wet. But, every day like tidal wave, — Like human avalanche, — Ze transport bring more Yankee troop, To get ze beeg revanche! Zen from ze heart Americaine Come milliards of monnaie; Eet eez ze end ! Your countree bring Triomphant liberte. So, au revoir! I mus' go on But first I tell to you What some high Officier remark Zat day at bois Belleau. He say, our great Napoleon Wiz envy would turn green Eef he could see zoze sailor man, — Zoze Oncle Sam Marines!" THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE 75 NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT T. C. HARBAUGH in The Chicago Ledger "VTY name Is Danny Bloomer and my age is eighty- three, Years ago I went with Sherman to the ever sunny sea. I stood my ground at Gettysburg, that bloody summer day, When gallant Pickett rushed the hill and lost his boys in gray; And now our starry banner is insulted and defied, The kaiser tears it into shreds and glories in his pride; Just pass the word across the sea to his stronghold of might, And say that Danny Bloomer's here and not too old to fight. I gave my youth to Uncle Sam in years I'll ne'er forget, In mem'ry of those stirring times my old blood tingles yet. With four score years upon me I can lift the same old gun, And to face our Flag's insulter will be everlasting fun. Please say that Danny Bloomer is ready for the fray, Cry "Forward, march!" and see him in the good old ranks today. I love the flag of Washington because it stands for Right, And that is why I tell you I am not too old to fight. 'Tis true I'm somewhat crippled, but I do not care for that, I feel as young as when I saw the tilt of Sherman's hat ; I want to do my duty again before I die, And see Old Glory proudly in the streets of Berlin fly. 16 THE WAR IN VERSE AND PROSE I do not know the kaiser, but I hope within a year Amid the roar of cannon he will say, "Old Bloomer's here!" Yes, hand me down a rifle and I will use it right, Your Uncle Danny Bloomer isn't yet too old to fight. We've borne their insults long enough — they make me long to go. I want to squint along my gun and aim it at the foe; I'll eat the same old rations that I ate in '64, And feel the blood of youth again amid the battle's roar. I haven't long to tarry here until my work is done, But I want to show the kaiser we're not in it for fun ; So give me marching orders and I'll disappear from sight, For I am Danny Bloomer, and I'm not too old to fight. A WAYSIDE IN FRANCE ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE in The New York Herald Permission to reproduce in this book '