We are proud to be associated with America as Allies in so great a cause. Our duty thus keeps pace with our obligation and both are guided by our highest desires. We, like you, have enlisted until the war is settled and settled right; you, like ourselves, have no favors to ask, both merely ask that they may live their own lives, settle their own problems, smooth out their common differences or difficulties, and do their best, along with all other peoples, to make the world a better, not a worse, place to live in. [signed] K. Ishii Tropical Interlude I Tropical Morning In the mornings--Oh, the tropical mornings When the bells are all so dizzily calling one to prayer!-- All my thought was to watch from a nook in my window Indian girls from the river with flowers in their hair. Some bore Fresh eggs in wicker boxes For the grocery store; Others, baskets of fruit; and some, The skins of mountain cats and foxes Caught in traps at home. They all passed so stately by, they all walked so gracefully, Balancing their bodies on lithe unstable hips, As if music moved them that swelled in their bosoms And was pizzicatti at their finger-tips. II Tropical Rain The rain, in Nicaragua, it is a witch they say; She puts the world into her bag and blows the skies away; And so, in every home, the little children gather, Run up like little animals and kneel beside the Mother, So frightened by the thunder that they can hardly pray. "Sweet Jesu, you that stilled the storm in Galilee, Pity the homeless now, and the travelers by sea; Pity the little birds that have no nest, that are forlorn; Pity the butterfly, pity the honey bee; Pity the roses that are so helpless, and the unsheltered corn, And pity me...." Then, when the rain is over and the children's prayer is said, Oh, joy of swaying palm-trees with the rainbows overhead, And the streets swollen like rivers, and the wet earth's smell, And all the ants with sudden wings filling the heart with wonder, And, afar, the tempest vanishing with a stifled thunder In a glare of lurid radiance from the gaping mouth of hell! III Tropical Park The park in Leon is but a garden Where grass and roses grow together; It has no ordinance, it has no warden Except the weather. The paths are made of sand so fine That they are always smooth and neat; Sunlight and moonlight make them shine, And so one's feet Seem always to tread on magic ground That gleams, and that whispers curiously, For sand, when you tread it, has the sound Of the sea. Sometimes the band, of a warm night, Makes music in that little park, And lovers haunt, beyond the bright Foot-paths, the dark. You can almost tell what they do and say Listening to the sound of the sand,-- How warm lips whisper, and glances play, And hand seeks hand. IV Tropical Town Blue, pink and yellow houses, and, afar, The cemetery, where the green trees are.