CROSSES OF WAR POEMS BY A'AKY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS Class, " ?^ dS^ L Book. J\L£i B C ? ■ cjoexright DEPOsm BOOKS BY MARY R. S. ANDREWS Published bt CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS The Eternal Feminine. Illustrated net $1.50 August First net $1.00 The Eternal Masculine. Illustrated. net $1.50 The Militants. Illustrated". . . net $1.50 Bob and the Guides. Illustrated net $1.50 Crosses of War net .75 Her Country net .50 Old Glory net .50 The Counsel Assigned net .50 The Courage of the Commonplace net .50 The Lifted Bandage net .50 The Perfect Tribute net .50 CROSSES OF WAR Somewhere in France [Page 13] CROSSES OF WAR BY Mary Raymond Shipman Andrews Author of " The Perfect Tribute," " Her Country," etc. NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1918 ^\.u^ 4^0 \ t2> COPTEIGHT, 1917, 1918, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published October, 1918 Copyright, 1917, by THE NEW YORK TIMES COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO. COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO. OCT 30 1918 © CI. A 5 6 8 9 5 'VvO I THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO MY GENTLEST READER MARCIA SHANKLAND ANDREWS CONTENTS BAM A Godspeed 3 Vigil 4 A Call to Akms 5 Flower of the Land 8 The Baby and the Baby 10 Playmates 16 Camping 17 America Victorious . 19 The Boy in France 21 CROSSES OF WAR A GODSPEED God speed Old Glory when she takes the road to France ! Through the thundering of the legions where the bugles play advance God speak: "The fight is mine. Carry you my con- quering lance." God speed Old Glory on! God send Old Glory first and foremost in the fight! Fling her far, O God of battles, in the van, for the right. Lift our hearts up to our freedom's flag of red-and-blue- and-white. God fling Old Glory far ! God guard Old Glory clean through battle grime and sweat ! Consecrate the men who serve her so that none may e'er forget How the honor of the colors lies within his keeping yet. God guard Old Glory clean! God bring Old Glory home in honor, might, and pride ! Battle-black and bullet-slashed and stripes streaming wide. Gorgeous with the memories of men who greatly died — God bring Old Glory home! THE VIGIL Like some young squire who watched his armor bright. Kneeling upon the chapel floor all night — Where glimmering candles on the altar glowed. And moonlight through the Gothic windows flowed — And prayed, with folded hands, that God would bless His sword, and keep him true, and give success — So, kneeling, Lord, before Thine altar light A nation asks for help before the fight. Grant us the prayer of that boy knight of old — Strength to be steadfast, courage to be bold. Such passionate love for the dear flag we fly That each who serves it holds its honor high — Simple, large gifts that soldiers need, O, Lord, Grant the young nation for its unsheathed sword; And for our captains in the perilous way A vision widened to an unknown day. We keep our vigil; send to-morrow glorious; Let not the world go down; bring right victorious. Kneeling in prayer before Thine altar light The nation asks Thy help to fight Thy fight. 4 A CALL TO ARMS /» memory of Captain Philip Killburn Lighthall, who offered to his country, on the deck of the " Tuscania," " the last full measure of devotion." It is I, America, calling ! Above the sound of rivers falling. Above the whir of the wheels and the chime of bells in the steeple — Wheels, rolling gold into the palms of the people. Bells ringing silverly clear and slow To church-going, leisurely steps on pavements below — Above all familiar sounds of the life of a nation I shout to you a name. And the fliame of that name is sped Like fire into hearts where blood runs red — The hearts of the land burn hot to the land's salvation As I call across the long mUes, as I, America, call to my nation Tuscania! Tuscania! Americans, remember the Tuscania! Shall we not remember how they died In their young courage and loyalty and pride. Our boys — ^bright-eyed, clean lads of America's breed, Hearts of gold, limbs of steel, flower of the nation indeed ? How they tossed their years to be Into icy waters of a winter sea That we whom they loved — ^that the world which they loved should be free? Ready, ungrudging they went, each one thinking, likely, as the moment was come Of the dear, starry flag, worth dying for, and then of dear faces at home; Going down in good order, with a song on their lips of the land of the free and the brave Till each young, deep voice stopped, under the rush of a wave. Was it like that? And shall their memory ever grow pale ? Not ever, till the stars in the flag of America fail. It is I, America, who swear it, calling Over the sound of that deep ocean's falling, Tuscania! Tuscania! Arm, arm, Americans! Remember the Tuscania! 6 Very peacefully they are sleeping In friendly earth, unmindful of a nation's weeping. And the kindly, strange folk have honored the long, full graves, we know; And the mothers know that their boys are safe, now, from the hurts of a savage foe; It is for us who are left to make sure and plain That these dead shall not have died in vain; So that I, America, young and strong and not afraid, I set my face across that sea which swallowed the bodies of the sons I made, I set my eyes on the still faces of boys washed up on a distant shore And I call with a shout to my own to end this horror forevermore ! In the boys' names I call a name. And the nation leaps to fire in its flame And my sons and my daughters crowd, eager to end the shame — It is I, America, calling. Hoarse with the roar of that ocean falling, Tuscania! Tuscania! Arm, arm, Americans! And remember, remember the Tuscania! FLOWER OF THE LAND The land is like a garden with a blossoming of boys. All across a continent, from the wide Atlantic's boom- ing, To the hoarse Pacific breakers, shouting deep trium- phant noise; All across a thousand prairies; from the Rocky Moun- tains* looming; From the farms and from the cities, out of villages like toys Pour the boys! Everywhere — oh, my country, everywhere The flower of America has sprung to sudden blooming. Steady flowing, never-ending, never heeding rank or races. Eager faces set and sober, toward the cloud of battle lowering — Hear the swinging of battalions, see the young, unfear- ing faces. Thousands upon crowding thousands, iron muscles, steady faces, 8 Out of snows and out of bayous, out of fields and cities towering. Rich and poor, from lordly mansions, out of tiny homes like toys Stream the boys ! Everywhere — oh, my country, everywhere The harvest of the land we love has ripened to its flower- ing. For the God of Hosts has lifted up our soul to be a na- tion; He has silenced them who doubted that we knew his trumpet voice; He has set us on a mountain top to suffer for salvation. Has crowned us and has cleaned us with suffering and salvation. And — to answer if our hearts are fixed on riches and on toys- Lord, the boys! Not for gain — God Almighty, not for gaining We are offering our flowering for a bulwark to crea- tion — Lord — our boys! 9 THE BABY AND THE BABY SOMEWHERE IN AMERICA I AM The Baby. I own this room and everything that's in sight. I own the pink blankets and all the pillows and this brass crib that's so shiny and bright. I'd like to suck the crib, but I can't, because it doesn't come close to my mouth Like bottles and woolly blankets; anyhow it's mine, east to west and north to south. That couple of old persons around twenty who refer to themselves as "father" and "mother" — They're mine, too, and when I'm engaged with impor- tant thoughts they're a bother. Yet there's a dreamy satisfaction in owning them, and in seeing them make fools of themselves to amuse me. The Person in Skirts assures me often that nobody shall abuse me Because I'm her owny-wowny lamby-petty — I wonder why she thinks that sort of asininity Is appropriate to me, fresh from the stars and the whirl of infinity? 10 I fix her with a cold stare, but she only says: "Look, Teddy ! He acts as if he knew us, and owned us, and scorned us already ! " Yet I'm getting used to their queer games, and they be- gin to appeal to me. It seems it's they who soak me in pink blankets and adoration and every day deal to me Through my nurse and my minions in general the sundry warm bottles and such Which are the real facts of the universe and please me very much. The Person in Trousers — one day he was left alone with me And I stared up and he stared down, frowning hard, as if he'd pick a bone with me. So after a while I remarked: "Bh!" and he laughed, and he said: "You little cuss. Suppose we seize this chance for an interview, just us." And he bent over my crib and to my astonishment lifted me. Though I knew that, after he'd once gripped, not for worlds would he have shifted me. But he got me up safe in his huge claws, and held me, and, you know, it was nice. Though his hands were so gentle and terrified, they were comfy, and strong as a vise; XI Then he looked at me, very much as the Person in Skirts looks, which I didn't know he knew how. And he whispered straight at me: "Little cuss, there's going to be one horrid big row If you don't get all that's coming to you, love and care and food and chances. If you don't, it's your father will know the reason why, and such are the circumstances." Then he laid me down, as if I were trinitrotoluol at least. And I googled up at him, and laughed, much like a fish at a feast. And since then I like him to come, and to touch me, and I rather Am inclined to consider it's a good asset to have a father. Anyhow he's mine. And the Person in Skirts, which is perhaps the best thing I own, she's mine, too. And the nurse, and the half nurse, and the nursery and — ^you see that blue silk shoe.'^ I just kicked it off — that's mine; I'd so like it to chew. And all these woolly and silk things lying around, I own them and everything — the Person in Skirts said so — all the house down to the ground. I'm fat and rosy and stuffed and pampered and happy, and maybe There's anything you can think of better to be than an American baby. n n SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE I am The Baby. The Person in Skirts that I own says it that way when she comes home at night; She says it in French, and hugs me, and then for a min- ute I'm warm, and things seem right. And I gurgle and goo at her, but soon I begin to whimper a scrap. For I've been cold and lonely and hungry all day, and I want to tell her about it, as I lie in her lap. And she understands, for she rubs me nicely awhile, and holds me close. And then she puts me down and fusses about and cooks me the nastiest dose! Now what do you think ? Instead of a warm bottle of milk, white and delicious, She boils grass and such stuff — ^yes, she does — in water, and I hear her whispering; "It isn't nutritious." And she feeds it to me, and I hate it, and howl and kick and squeal. And then she cries into it, and I get tired — ^for it doesn't give a fellow strength, that meal. IS I get so tired I can't howl or kick any more, and so I lie still. And make a small whimpering noise, and try to beg with my eyes to be fed my fill — Which is what a baby's entitled to, else why did he have to come? Heaven knows I didn't ask to start living in this land of gun and drum. So the Person in Skirts — she says she's my mother, and she's thin and sad and white — She puts me to bed and lies down beside me, but neither of us sleeps much all night. ■■ Next morning she kisses me, and wraps me in a shawl, and steals out of the door and away. And then I'm alone, and vaguely scared, and it seems like a week long, all day. Maybe two or three times a kind person comes in and takes me up and comforts me and then tries to cram down me That nasty grass tea, till I wish I were an extra puppy and they'd drown me. I really can't drink that stuff. And the only reason I keep on going. Which I sometimes think is a mistake in a country where grass tea is growing. 14 Is because I'm glad, nights, when the Person in Skirts comes back, And also because, once in a blue moon, there's a large, deep-voiced Person in Black Called the Cure, who brings me real milk — ^just a little, but oh, isn't it fine! And when I see it coming, warm and white, I'm in such a hurry that I whimper and whine For pure joy, and the Cure smiles a bit, watching me, and says I'm the hope of France; But how can a chap be the hope of France when he can't get enough food to have a chance? And the Person in Skirts whispers things about my father, whom she calls her lost hero so sadly — Somehow I've gathered that a father's a thing that gives babies what they need badly. I wish I had a father. If I couldn't have that, then I wish some other babies' fathers would give me a place to stay — A warm, light place, with persons in it while the Person in Skirts is gone all day. And maybe they'd let me have some food that wasn't as bad as grass tea. Do you think, if their babies have plenty and some left over, the other babies' fathers would do that for me ? 15 PLAYMATES Time was when you were comrade to the old, Friend to the sorrowful, grown tired of breath; Now all the buoyant hearts and heads of gold Run to your arms, O Death! Time was when you could terrify the bold. When seasoned warriors shivered at your breath; Now boys go singing down into the cold Seas where you wait them. Death! Time was when loss and grief and dust and mold Were all the message of the parting breath; Now youth and gladness of the world enrolled Laugh through your veil, Death! Time was life seemed at end, the story told When the dear clay was emptied of dear breath; Now sudden vision lights a wisdom old — Life but begins with death. O grave, how may your ancient victory hold These bright, unconquered ones, careless of breath? playmate Death, whose hand they rush to fold. Where is your sting, O Death! 16 CAMPING Queer — three old pals like you and Bill and me, Who've camped so many summer moons together. Should get our camping half the earth apart. This August weather. Odd — when our tastes are very much alike. We've picked such widely different situations — ^Though Bill and I have hit the same old trail Among the hills which seem like close relations. You know the lake, the long, low house of logs; To every querying leaf you know the answer In light and shadow on these forest walls; You — off in France, sir! You know the AlUe Verte, the Golden Pool, The sunny sand-bar where your moose was standing; You know the way the boats lie up the bank Under the birch and alders 'round the landing. But Bill and I don't even know the town Where "A. E. F." means You, across the billow; Yet know it's home — because Old Glory waves Over your pillow. 17 A gray old port that Julius Csesar saw; Transports all brown with singing warriors, hailing From shores that Caesar never heard of; thus, — It's all I know — imagination's failing. I picture lines of barracks on a hill— Or is it in a valley? Horses tramping, Mighty guns rumbling, regiments at drill. Hoarse orders shouted — is that like your camping? Ours is another sort; the peaceful days. The smiling mountains; yet at any minute We'd leave this heaven for that hell, to be With you, and in it. We two can't fight. Though Bill, at fifty odd. Hankers to be an Ace, through clouds a-kiting; But War Departments scorn the likes of us; You'll do our fighting. We think it safe with you; we think Fow'll win The war, and personally nab the Kaiser; Yet — only come back home! We'll never ask Medals and honors — ^just your lifted visor. But if the Great Adventure calls you, lad. Cutting you free of Life's uncertain tether. You'll wait a while, beyond, for Bill and me? — And then, sometime again, we'll camp together. 18 AMERICA VICTORIOUS We shall go down at length to the gates of the sea. We who have waited and watched and prayed from afar, To welcome our fighting-men who have made earth free. Our boys, home from the war. Crowded the transports there, at the gates of the sea. Pouring out rushing figures, khaki-clad. Men roving of eye in the search for you and for me. Home at last, and very glad. The bands shall play in the streets of the gates of the sea. The crowds shall cheer, and the flags shall paint the sky. Wild bells shall peal, to the conquering lines, jubilee — But some shall be dim of eye. Oh you, standing desolate there at the gates of the sea. For a step not heard in the marching ranks, and a face Whose eager smile to your face on earth cannot be — Oh you, take heart of grace ! As his comrades come homeward without him across the sea — Guard him his glory of gladness in ultimate splendor. Render them honor whole-hearted and smiling — as he Would have rendered them honor, so render. 19 America beloved! Who shall stand one day by the sea Bright-faced for the sons who come to the meeting glorious. Wistful-eyed for the voices whose greeting may not yet be. Rejoice for your shining army forever free, America beloved — victorious ! 20 THE BOY IN FRANCE Steeped in hot haze of the August afternoon The garden dreams in a many-splendored trance; The locusts drone a long, insistent tune; And the boy — the boy's in France. Down the stone steps the rose-pink phloxes stand. Like delicate sculptures, through the breathless day, Brilliant yet shadowy, as the bright, vague land; And the boy — ^the boy's away. The dogs about the terrace listless lie. Waiting a springing step they used to know; We wait, we also — and the days crawl by; The boy — we miss him so. U Green fields reach over hills to fields of gold; Far off the city glitters, gay but wan; The radiant scene breathes loneliness untold; The boy — the boy is gone. Sudden his service flag's impetuous story Flashes a bugle note across the flowers; Sudden the aching loss is pride and glory; He is in France — he's ours! Lad of my heart! From all across your land One thought wings to that land of old romance; One proud America stretches a loving hand To the boy — the boy in France. S2 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce: Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 Preservationlechnologie A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATl 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 012 240 034 7 "M t:^ii :-' " .-.i,- -*'>', ■..■,■5 \,-J'-.^.^,;,.-'-^