No, Mr. Infantryman, Mr. Artilleryman, Mr. Machine-Gun-toter, Mr. Aviator, Mr. Wireless-buzzer, this has not been "the winter of our discontent"—as footless and no-use-at-all as your own work may have seemed to you sometimes. It has been the winter during which your old uncle has been laying a firm foundation for your comfort and safety and for that of the men who will follow you over—and believe us, he's done an almighty big, an almightily far-sighted, an all-around almightily creditable and thoroughly American, workmanlike job.
——
A NEWS STORY IN VERSE
——
(The incident this poem describes was told by a
British sergeant in a dug-out to the author—an
American serving at the time in the British
Army, [but now fighting under the Stars and Stripes.)]
——
Joe was me pal, and a likely lad, as gay as gay could be;
The worst I expected to happen was the leave that would set him free
To visit the wife and the kiddies; but they're waiting for him in vain.
All along of a Boche wot peppered our water and ration train.—
[You see, w'd been pals from childhood;] him and me chummed through school,
And when we growed up and got married we put our spare kale in a pool,
And both made a comfortable living; 'twas just for our mates and the kids,—
Now the Hun—damn his soul—has taken his toll, and me pal had to cash in his bids.
That night when we left the ration dump to face the dark ahead,
I can never forget the look on his face when he picked up his kit and said
"Another trip to the front, old lad; we'll take 'em their bully and tea;
[We'll catch hell to-night], but we'll get there all right; take that little tip from me."
And Joe swung up in his saddle; I crawled in the trailer behind;
The train moved off with a groan and a squeak, for the midnight work and the grind
Then Joe looked 'round as we started off, I could see his face all alight;
"I got a letter from home," he said; "I'll read it to you to-night."
We pulled along through Dick Busch, through Fairy Court and Dell.
When word came back from the blokes ahead to give the nags a spell.
Joe slid outen his saddle, with a chuckle deep down in his throat,
An' he walked back to me, as gay as could be, and pulled the kid's note from his coat.
Says he, "Listen, lad, for a kid it ain't bad—it's her birthday—she's five to-night—
It's a ripping note this—she sends you a kiss—" and Joe, poor old pal, struck a light.
He held up the kiddie's letter—we were laughin' a bit at the scrawl,
All warm inside with a feeling—well, you know what I mean, damn it all!
When along come a German bullet, and Joe, he wavered a mite,
Then without a word he wilted down. They carried him West that night:
A bullet hole in his temple, by God, but clutching that letter tight.
I've forgot all me bloomin' duties, for me blood is boilin' with hate;
And I'll get that sniping rotter what drilled me pal through the pate.
I'll teach the dirty beggar how an Englishman sticks to his friend:
I'm saving a foot of cold steel for the rat—so help me God to the end.
——
HE OUGHT TO BE GOOD.
——
"Jim, I see that old Bill Boozum, from home, has been drafted."
"Well, Hank, he ought to pass out some nifty hand salutes, all right."
"How's that?"
"Why, look at the practice he's had in bending his elbow!"
Don't Forget that War-Risk
Insurance. February 12 is
Your last chance at it.