Honest, but Jim was the sourest man in all o' Comp'ny G;
You could sing and tell stories the whole night long, but never a cuss gave he.
You could feed him turkey at Christmastime—and Tony the cook's no slouch—
But Jim wouldn't join in "Three cheers for the cook!" Gosh, but he had a
grouch!
He wouldn't go up to the hill cafay when our daily hike was done,
And sip his beer, and chin with the lads, the crabby son-of-a-gun;
He'd growl if you asked him to hold the light, he'd snarl if you asked for a butt,
Till at last the gang was 'most ready to put Jim down for a mutt.
About the first time that our mail came in, we all felt as high as a king;
"What luck?" somebody hollers to Jim: he says, "Not a dad-blamed thing."
And then he goes off in his end o' the shack, and Tom Breed swears 'at he cried;
But when somebody went and repeated it, Jim swore, by gad, Tom lied.
We were gettin' our mail, irregular-like, for about a month or two;
But Jim? He never drew anything, and blooey! but he was blue!
Not only blue, but surly; he was off'n the whole darn shop,
And once he was put onto "heavy" for talkin' back to the Top.
'Twas a day or two before New Year's, when the postal truck came in;
The orderly fishes one out for Jim; he takes it, without a grin,
And then, as he opens the envelope—eeyow! How that man did yell:
"A letter from James J., Junior, boys! the youngster has learnt to spell!"
So nothin' would do but the bunch of us had to read the letter through;
'Twas all writ out by that kid of his, and a mighty smart kid, too,
For it isn't every six-year-old at school as can take a prize,
(Like the boy wrote Jim as he had done): and you oughter seen Jim's eyes!
Well, Jim had a mighty good New Year's; he stood the squad a treat,
And now, 'stead o' turnin' out sloppy, he's always trim and neat;
Fact is, the lieutenant passed the word that if Jim keeps on that way
He'll be wearing little stripes on his arm and drawin' a bit more pay.
Don't it beat hell how a little thing will change a man like that?
Now Jim's as cheerful as anything instead o' mum as a bat.
An' the reason? Why, it's easy! A guy is bound to fail
Of bein' a proper soldier if he don't get no fambly mail!
If all of those post office birds was wise to the change they made in Jim,
They'd hustle a bit on our letters, for they's lots that's just like him;
It may be a kid, or it may be a girl; a mother, a pal, a wife,—
And believe me, this hearin' from 'em—why, it's half o' the joy o' life!
Chartered 1822
The Farmers' Loan and Trust Company
NEW YORK
PARIS BORDEAUX
41, Boulevard Haussmann 8, Cours du Chapeau-Rouge
AND
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MEMBERS of the AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES.