To the crater-pitted, wasted tracts Of war-torn Picardy, And the ghastly rubble hilltop Where Cantigny used to be:

To the splendid days of Soissons- The crisis of the strife: To where giant pincers severed St. Mihiel as a knife:

To the glorious, stubborn struggle Up the rugged Argonne slopes, Till the gates of Sedan crumbled With the Vandals' crumbling hopes.

Sweeping in conquering columns To the banks of the vaunted Rhine- Ever the first of the fighting first, And the Lords of the Battle Line.

LITTLE GOLD CHEVRONS ON MY CUFFS.

Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, What do you mean to me?

"We to the left mean hike and drill, Trenches and mud and heat and chill- And I to the right for the blood ye spill Where the Marne runs to the sea."

Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, What is the tale ye tell?

"We to the left, of the long months spent Where the somber seasons slowly blent- And I to the right, of the ragged rent That took so long to get well."

Little gold chevrons on my cuffs, What do you say to me?

"That ye would not trade us, master mine, For ribbon or cross or rank, in fine, That you are ours and we are thine Through all the years to be."

A TRIP-WIRE.

If you're sneaking around on a night patrol, Trying to miss each c.o.c.k-eyed hole, And you choke back a curse from the depths of your soul- It's a trip-wire.

If you think there isn't a thing around Except the desolate, sh.e.l.l-torn ground, And you stumble and roll like a spool unwound- It's a trip-wire.

If you know a murmur would give the alarm, And you've smothered a cough in the crotch of your arm, And then you go falling all over the farm- It's a trip-wire.

If it's cold and it's rainy and everything's mud, And you're groping your way through a nice little flood, And you stand on your head with an elegant thud- It's a trip-wire.

When silence is golden (for "news" is the quest), And you're returning and stepping your best, And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest- It's a trip-wire.

THE FAVORITE SONG.

("There's a long, long Trail.")

They sing a song that the pines of Maine Hear in the winter's blast- They sing a song that the riders hum, Where the cattle plains spread vast; But there is one they love the most- And they keep it for the last.

They sing the lays of Puget Sound Aglimmering in the sun- Of the cotton fields of Alabam', Where the Gulf-bound rivers run, But one they sing with a wistful look, When all the rest are done.

They chant of the land of Dixie, And their "Little Gray Home in the West"- Of how they'll "can the Kaiser"- And they roar with bellowing zest; But one they sing as it were a prayer- The song they love the best.

From Xivray to Cantigny- From Soissons to the Meuse - From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges Agleam in the dawn's first hues- They sing a sacred song, for it Is red with battle-dews.

For it is sanctified by s.p.a.ce- And the cruel wheel of Time; And sacrifice has hallowed it, And mellowed every rhyme, Until it wells from weary throats A thing men call sublime.

In frozen trench and billet- In mire, muck and rain- Where the roar of unleashed batteries Hurl forth their fires again; At rest, or back in Blighty, Torn with sh.e.l.l and pain-

There's a song they dub the fairest- There's a lilt they love the best- "There's a long, long trail awinding"

To the haven of their quest, Where the tip of the rainbow reaches A land in the golden west.

CAPTAIN BLANKBURG.

"When Greek meets Greek."

I

They knew he was a German- They thought he was a spy- _Toujours_ they "covered" him and said, "We'll catch him by-and-by."

They tried to find, by word or act, In front-line trench or rear, Some circ.u.mstance that would betray His treacherous dealings clear.

They scanned his face when hostile flares Set No Man's Land alight- They watched him when the Hun barrage Tore craters left and right.

They noted every move he made, With ever wakeful eye, Reiterating o'er and o'er, "We'll catch him by-and-by."

II

At last the opportunity Loomed large in fact and view, And every near-sleuth in the bunch Saw that his hunch was true.

Because, upon an inky night, When mist hung o'er the nation, The captain took a picked patrol To gather information.

And as they crept on hands and knees, In Land No Man may own, Their stomachs struck the dew-wet gra.s.s With never sound or moan.