STAY-AT-HOME STARS

Our Service Flag has just one star,
But mother said, "Of course you know
That you and I, like father, are

In service-but the stars that show

Are for the ones that have to go.

Father will know that ours keep bright
Even if other folks don't see.'

The sky is full of stars tonight-
Is it God's Service Flag, maybe-
And one for her, and one for me?

—Amelia Josephine Burr, in The Outlook.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THOMAS

In summer we suffered from dust and from flies,
The flies in our rations, the dust in our eyes,
An' some of our fellows, they dropt in the 'eat,

But the Boche, oh, the Boche, was perspirin'-a treat!

There were times when we longed for a tankard o' beer,
Bein' sick o' warm water-our tipple out 'ere,
But our tongues might be furry an' throats like a flue,
Yet it's nothin' to wot the fat Boches went through.

Now the winter is 'ere with the wet an' the cold,
An' our rifles an' kit are a sight to be'old.

An' in trenches that's flooded we tumble and splosh,
"Wot cheer?" we remarks. "It's the same for the

Boche."

If we're standin' in two foot o' water, you see,
Quite likely the Boches are standin' in three;
An' tho the keen frost may be ticklin' our toes,
Oo doubts that the Boches' 'ole bodies is froze?

Are we sleepy or sick or 'arf dead for a meal?
Just think of 'ow underfed Boches must feel!
Are we badly in need of a shave an' a wash?
Consider the 'orrible state of a Boche!

So 'ere's philosophy simple and plain,
Wotever we 'ates in the bloomin' campaign,
'Tis balm to our souls, as we grumble an' cuss,
To feel that the Boches are 'atin' it wuss.

-The Growler.

TO THE OTHERS

This was the gleam then that lured from far
Your son and my son to the Holy War:

Your son and my son for the accolade

With the banner of Christ over them, in steel arrayed.

All quiet roads of life ran on to this;

When they were little for their mother's kiss.
Little feet hastening, so soft, unworn,

To the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn.

Your son and my son, the downy things,
Sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings,
Should they be broken in the Lord's wars-Peace!
He Who has given them-are they not His?

Dream of knight's armor and the battle-shout,
Fighting and falling at the last redoubt,

Dream of long dying on the field of slain;

This was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain.

These were the Voices they heard from far;
Bugles and trumpets of the Holy War.

Your son and my son have heard the call,
Your son and my son have stormed the wall.

Your son and my son, clean as new swords;
Your man and my man and now the Lord's!
Your son and my son for the Great Crusade,

With the banner of Christ over them-our knights

new-made.

-KATHARINE TYNAN.

RESURRECTION

Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain.
We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest,
With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain
Cleared of the wingèd nightmares, and the breast
Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar.

We rose at last under the morning star.

We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes.

We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose. With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering,

"God."

I helped upon Haldora's shore;
With Hospitaller Knights I bore
The first red cross;

I was the Lady of the Lamp;
I saw in Solferino's camp
The crimson loss.

I am your pennies and your pounds;
I am your bodies on their rounds
Of pain afar;

I am you doing what you would

If you were only where you could-
Your avatar.

The cross which on my arm I wear,
The flag which o'er my breast I bear,
Is but the sign

Of what you'd sacrifice for him
Who suffers on the hellish rim

Of war's red line.

-JOHN FINLEY, in The Red Cross Magazine.

THE GUARDS CAME THROUGH

Men of the Twenty-first

Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,

Weak with our wounds and our thirst,

Wanting our sleep and our food,

After a day and a night—

God, shall we ever forget!

Beaten and broke in the fight,

But sticking it—sticking it yet.

Trying to hold the line,

Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the Hun!
Northumberland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it-sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope!

Never a word of cheer!

Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.

Always the whine of the shell,

Always the roar of its burst,

Always the tortures of hell,

As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the Boche,

When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!" And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"

And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,

Coldstream and Grenadiers.

Two brigades, if you please,

Dressing as straight as a hem, We-we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them! Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand!