[Ill.u.s.tration]

A CONFERENCE

I was sleeping in the barracks, A week or so ago.

And in the midst of pleasant dreams I heard the whistle blow.

Lord, how I hate those whistles!

Well, it was time to "rouse,"

So we marched down 'mongst the thistles Beside the old ice house.

I looked around in misery, At last I took a seat, With nothing to lean up against And no place for my feet.

As I sat there in the drizzle Of a good old Plattsburg rain, I wondered if I'd fizzle The lesson once again.

The captain, who, like Nero Observing Rome in flames, Was seated on a packing-box Perusing all the names.

"Mr. Whitney, won't you tell us Of patrols both front and rear?

Speak up, Mr. Whitney, So the men in back can hear."

"And please now, Mr. Warnock, Just tell us if you will What you'd do with this problem If you were Sergeant Hill?"

"No! I'll ask you if I want you; Never mind the hands.

Warnock, _you_ are Sergeant Hill, Just call out your commands."

"Whitney! Warnock! Gee, what luck!"

I chortled in my glee.

My name is Brown, t'was very plain He'd never get to me.

So I listened to the questions And the answers one by one, And wondered if that 3rd degree Was ever to be done.

I thought of cups with handles on, Of napkins and clean hands; I thought of all the pretty girls That live in _Christian_ lands.

I thought of cakes, and pies, and things, I thought of home in pain, And wondered if I'd ever sleep Till 9 o'clock again.

I wished I had some lager beer Or a nice silver fizz; When, "Mr. Brown, you tell us What a special order is."

I rose, saluted, brushed my pants Then mutely gazed around.

I stood transfixed; the Captain said "_Sit down, Mr. Brown!_"

SUNDAY IN BARRACKS

Little silences Sit in the corners Munching their finger tips.

I lie stretched flat upon my bunk....

I count the cracks in the pine-boards above me.

I am alone.

These others who fill the air with talk About right and wrong ... life and death ...

With heavy-nailed footsteps And sometimes heavier profanity ...

What becomes of them on Sunday?

Dinners ... the beauty of women ...

Pretty talk.

Camaraderie beside the lake ... fellow for fellow, What does it matter?

My little silences slide along the floor ...

Clamber up my bunk To grin at me in my loneliness.

Then I think of the millions Who have none for whom to be lonely, French, English, German, Russ....

What does it matter the language?

We are all one, Levelled in solitude.

And I laugh at the silences, And laugh to see them scurrying back to their corners, Gibbering.

THE BALLAD OF MONTMORENCY GRAY

I

Since we came to Plattsburg Training Camp Upon the 12th of May, A lot of clever candidates Have fallen by the way; But the strangest fall among them all Was Montmorency Gray.

II

Monty was a clever lad, As bright as bright could be; He came up days ahead of time-- Ahead of you and me-- And got in strong right from the start.

O a clever lad was he!

III

For Monty was an Officer Of Uncle Sam's Reserve; His uniform was spic and span In every line and curve; And what he lacked in other things, He made up for in nerve.

IV

He learned the I.D.R. by heart Before the 1st of June; He used to study late at night, And in the morning soon; No wonder that the Captain let him Lead the 1st Platoon.

V

He asked the cutest questions In the study hall at night; He knew the difference between A Cut and Fill at sight.