But his bunkie loosed the package of its wrappings, one by one-- 'Twas a Bible from his mother, with a blessing for her son. And the hardest heart was softened as we thought of our deadmate And that lonely, stricken mother on Christmas, '68. But the Sergeant raised the shadow as he shouted, "Jerry Clegg!" In hospital was Jerry with a bullet through his leg-- The gayest lad in Buford---and we plunged out through the drifts To take his package to him, forgetting our own gifts. 'Twas a green silk vest from Dublin, and, bedad, it sure was great To hear old Jerry chuckle on Christmas, '68! Thus it went, with joke and banter--what a romping time we had! The redskins in the coulées must have thought we'd gone clean mad, For they started popping bullets at the sentinels on guard And we had to stop our nonsense, and sortie good and hard. But that was daily routine--always got it, soon or late-- If we hadn't, we'd felt lonely on Christmas, '68. So I'm here to tell you rookies who are kicking on your lot That you don't know service hardship as we got it, served up hot, For the Philippines are easy and Hawaii is a snap When compared to fighting Injins over all the Western map, And, next time you start to growling when your mail's an hour late, Just recall the boys at Buford, on Christmas, '68! [Illustration: 040] [Illustration: 041] TROOP HORSES |OH, you hear a lot these days Of the automatic ways That the experts have devised for spillin' gore; Cycle squadrons, motor vans, All fixed up on modern plans For a rapid transit, quick installment war. Now, that sort of thing may go When you have a thoughtful foe Who will stick to graded roads with all his forces, But when we were boys in blue, Playing cross-tag with the Sioux, We were satisfied to get along on horses. Oh, the horses, sleek and stout When the squadrons started out, How they pranced along the column as the bugles blew the "Trot!" They might weaken and go lame, But they'd never quit the game, And they'd bring us back in safety if they weren't left to rot. When there came a sudden tack In the travois' dusty track And we knew the reds were headin' for the timber and the rocks, With the infantry and trains Thirty miles back on the plains, Then the horses were the boys that got the knocks. Oh, the horses, roan and bay, Without either corn or hay, But a little mess o' dirty oats that wouldn't feed a colt; Who could blame 'em if they'd bite Through the picket-ropes at night? When a man or horse is hungry, ain't he bound to try and bolt? When the trail got light and thin And the ridges walled us in, And the flankers had to scramble with their toes and finger-nails, While the wind across the peaks