The Kid has gone to the Colors And we don’t know what to say; The Kid we have loved and cuddled Stepped out for the Flag today. We thought him a child, a baby, With never a care at all, But his country called him man-size And the Kid has heard the call. He paused to watch the recruiting Where, fired by the fife and drum, He bowed his head to Old Glory And thought that it whispered: “Come!” The Kid, not being a slacker, Stood forth with patriot-joy To add his name to the roster-- And God, we’re proud of the boy! The Kid has gone to the Colors; It seems but a little while Since he drilled a schoolboy army In a truly martial style. But now he’s a man, a soldier, And we lend him listening ear, For his heart is a heart all loyal, Unscourged by the curse of fear. His dad, when he told him, shuddered, His mother--God bless her!--cried; Yet, blest with a mother-nature, She wept with a mother-pride. But he whose old shoulders straightened Was Granddad--for memory ran To years when he, too, a youngster, Was changed by the Flag to a man! A SCRAP OF PAPER HERBERT KAUFMAN From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell-Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publishers (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book. “Just for a word, ‘neutrality’ ... just for a scrap of paper, Great Britain was going to make war.”--The German Chancellor to the British Ambassador in Berlin. Just for a “scrap of paper,” Just for a Nation’s word, Just for a clean tradition, Just for a treaty slurred; Just for a pledge defaulted, Just for a dastard blow, Just for an ally’s summons, Just for a friend struck low; Just for the weal of progress, Just for a trust held dear, Just for the rights of mankind, Just for a duty clear; Just for a Prussian insult, Just for a splendid cause, Just for the hope of progress, Just for the might of laws; Just for the kingdom’s peril, Just for a deed of shame, Just for defense of honor, Just for the British name! POPPIES CAPT. JOHN MILLS HANSON, F.A. IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE Poppies in the wheat fields on the pleasant hills of France, Reddening in the summer breeze that bids them nod and dance; Over them the skylark sings his lilting, liquid tune-- Poppies in the wheat fields, and all the world in June. Poppies in the wheat fields on the road to Monthiers-- Hark, the spiteful rattle where the masked machine guns play! Over them the shrapnel’s song greets the summer morn-- Poppies in the wheat fields--but, ah, the fields are torn.