When we found Those blood-stained Footsteps, we have followed to the End; For we know that only Death can show the features of our Friend. In the Mansions of the Master, He will make the meaning plain Of the battlefields of Flanders, of the Crucifix of Pain. TO SOMEBODY HAROLD SETON IN MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book. They’ve put us through our paces; They say we’re doing fine; We’ll soon go to our places Upon the firing-line. Some chaps will fight for mothers, And some for wives so true; For sweethearts many others, And I will fight for you! Through all these months of training We’ve cherished hopeful thoughts And drilled without complaining, Like soldiers and good sports. We’re warring for a reason, We’ve sworn to see this through; To falter would be treason, And I will fight for you! Your presence will be near me, Your voice will call my name; You’ll comfort me and cheer me, Your love, behold, I claim! ’Twould take more than an ocean To separate us two; I’ll hold unto this notion, And I will fight for you! WAR COL. WILLIAM LIGHTFOOT VISSCHER IN THE SCOOP, THE CHICAGO PRESS CLUB’S MAGAZINE By blazing homes, through forests torn And blackened harvest fields, The grim and drunken god of war In frenzied fury reels. His breath--the sulph’rous stench of guns-- That death and famine deals And Pity, pleading, wounded falls Beneath his steel-shod heels. A MARCHING SOLILOQUY BY A MEMBER OF THE S. A. T. C., NORTHWESTERN COLLEGE, NAPERVILLE, ILL. “Left! Left!” Had a good girl when I “Left! Left!” Mighty good pal when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” How many miles more? “Left! “Left! Left!” Booked for a wife when I “Left! Left!” That was my life when I “Left!” “One! Two! Three! Four!” Hear old Lieutenant roar “Left!” WHILE SUMMERS PASS ALINE MICHAELIS IN THE ENTERPRISE, BEAUMONT, TEXAS Summer comes and summer goes, Buds the primrose, fades the rose; But his footfall on the grass, Coming swiftly to my door, I shall hear again no more, Though a thousand summers pass. Once he loved the clovers well, Loved the larkspur and bluebell. And the scent the plum-blooms yield; But strange flowers his soul beguiled, Pallid lilies, laurels wild, Blooming in a crimson field. So he plucked the laurels there, And he found them sweet and fair In that field of blood-red hue; And, when on a summer night Moonlight drenched my clovers white, Lo! He plucked Death’s lilies, too.