They love him for his tender heart

When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part

Of cowardice alone he is afraid.

I ask no honors on the field,

That other men have won as brave as he

I only pray that God shield may

My son, and bring him safely back to me!

-ADA TYRRELL.

THE RED CROSS NURSES

Out where the line of battle cleaves

The horizon of woe

And sightless warriors clutch the leaves

The Red Cross nurses go.

In where the cots of agony

Mark death's unmeasured tide

Bear up the battle's harvestry

The Red Cross nurses glide.

Look! Where the hell of steel has torn
Its way through slumbering earth

The orphaned urchins kneel forlorn

And wonder at their birth.

Until, above them, calm and wise

With smile and guiding hand,

God looking through their gentle eyes,

The Red Cross nurses stand.

-THOMAS L. MASSON, in the Red Cross Magazine.

THE CONVERSATION-BOOK

I'ave a conversation-book: I brought it out from 'ome, It tells the French for knife and fork, an' likewise brush and comb;

It learns you 'ow to ast the time, the names of all the stars,

An' 'ow to order oysters an' 'ow to buy cigars.

But there ain't no shops to shop in, there ain't no grand

hotels,

When you spend your days in dugouts doin' 'olesale trade in shells;

It's nice to know the proper talk for theaters an' such— But when it comes to talkin', why, it doesn't 'elp you much.

There's all them friendly kind 'o things you'd naturally

say,

When you meet a fellow casual-like an' pass the time o'

day

Them little things as breaks the ice an' kind o' clears

the air,

Which, when you turn the phrase book up, why, them things isn't there!

I met a chap the other day a-roostin' in a trench,
'E didn't know a word of ours nor me a word o' French;
An' 'ow it was we managed, well, I can not understand,
But I never used the phrase book tho I 'ad it in my 'and.

I winked at 'im to start with; 'e grinned from ear to ear; An' 'e says "Tipperary" an' I says "Souvenir,"

'E 'ad my only Woodbine, I 'ad 'is thin cigar, Which set the ball a-rollin', an' so—well, there

you are!

I showed 'im next my wife an' kids, 'e up and showed

me 'is.

Them funny little Frenchy kids with 'air all in a fizz; "Annette," 'e says, "Louise," 'e says, an' 'is tears began to fall;

We was comrades when we parted, but we'd 'ardly spoke at all.

'E'd 'ave kissed me if I'd let him; we 'ad never met

before,

An' I've never seen the beggar since, for that's the way

o' war;

An' tho we scarcely spoke a word, I wonder just the

same

If 'e'll ever see them kids of 'is-I never ast 'is name!

-The Growler.

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH

I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes round with rustling shade
And apple blossoms fill the air.

I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into this dark land

And close my eyes and quench my breath;

It may be I shall pass him, still,
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear,

But, I've a rendezvous with Death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

-ALAN SEEGER, in Poems by Alan Seeger.

[He was killed in battle at Belloy-en-Santerre, July, 1916, and these beautiful and strangely prophetic lines are perhaps the last verse he ever wrote.]

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think this heart, all evil shed away,

A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England
given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
-RUPERT BROOKE.

[He sailed with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force; died in the Aegean in April, 1915; lies buried in the island of Skyros.]

THE BATTLEFIELD

Around no fire the soldiers sleep tonight,

But lie a-wearied on the ice-bound field,

With cloaks wrapt round their sleeping forms, to shield

Them from the northern winds. Ere comes the light Of morn brave men must arm, stern foes to fight.

The sentry stands, his limbs with cold congealed; His head a-nod with sleep; he can not yield, Though sleep and snow in deadly force unite.

Amongst the sleepers lies the Boy awake,

And wide-eyed plans brave glories that transcend
The deeds of heroes dead; then dreams o'ertake
His tired-out brain, and lofty fancies blend
To one grand theme, and through all barriers break
To guard from hurt his faithful sleeping friend.

-MAJOR SYDNEY OSWALD, in Soldier Poets.