IN THE DAILY NEWS, SAULT STE. MARIE Outside the ancient city’s gate Upon Golgotha’s crest Three crosses stretched their empty arms, Etched dark against the west. And blood from nail-pierced hands and feet And tortured thorn-crowned head And thrust of hatred’s savage spear Had stained one dark cross red. Emblem of shame and pain and death It stood beside the way, But sign of love and hope and life We lift it high today. Where horror grips the stoutest heart, Where bursting shells shriek high, Where human bodies shrapnel scourged By thousands suffering lie; Threading the shambles of despair, Mid agony and strife, Come fleetest messengers who wear The crimson cross of life. To friend and foe alike they give Their strength and healing skill, For those who wear the crimson cross Must “do the Master’s will.” Can we, so safely sheltered here, Refuse to do our part? When some who wear the crimson cross Are giving life and heart To succor those who bear our flag, Who die that we may live-- Shall we accept their sacrifice And then refuse to give? Ah, no! Our debt to God and man We can, we will fulfill, For we, who wear the crimson cross, Must “do the Master’s will.” PIERROT GOES CHARLOTTE BECKER IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book Up among the chimneys tall Lay the garret of Pierrot. Here came trooping to his call Fancies no one else might know; Here he bade the spiders spin Webs to hide his treasure in. Here he heard the night wind croon Slumber-songs for sleepyheads; Here he spied the spendthrift moon Strew her silver on the leads; Here he wove a coronet Of quaint lyrics for Pierrette. But the bugles blew him down To the fields with war beset; Marched him past the quiet town, Past the window of Pierrette; Comrade now of sword and lance, Pierrot gave his dreams to France. A SERBIAN EPITAPH V. STANIMIROVIC After the retreat of the Serbian Army across the mountains of Albania in 1915, the survivors who reached the coast were shipped to Corfu. Here, and in the neighboring island of Vido, many of them died--to begin with, at the rate of hundreds a day. Some of them were buried at sea. Others lie in common graves. In the midst of the mounds which mark their resting-place, and which vary in size, there stands a cross. On it is a Serbian inscription, written by the poet, V. Stanimirovic, and translated for the London Westminster Gazette by Mr. L. F. Waring: Never a Serbian flower shall bloom In exile on our far-off tomb. Our little ones shall watch in vain: Tell them we shall not come again.