The Mother's Song.

By CECILIA REYNOLDS ROBERTSON.

Hush, oh, my baby, your father's a soldier,

He's off to the war, and we've nothing to eat.

And the glory is neither for you nor for me,

With the cockleburr crushing the wheat.

Little boy baby, look well on your mother;

Some day you may ask why she bore you at all;

For the trenches are foul with the blood and the wallow,

And the bayonet is sharp for your fall.

Rest, rosy limbs, and blue eyes and gold lashes—

Made in the mold of the Saviour, they say!

Drink deep of my bosom, my starved, meagre bosom,

That—keeps you alive for the fray.

Sleep, oh, my man child, and smile in your sleeping,

But the gun has been fashioned to lay in your hand,

And your life blood flows smooth in your fair little body

The better to water and plenish the land!

Pan-American Relations As Affected by the War

By Huntington Wilson,

Formerly Assistant Secretary of State.