It may be that e’en to-night, In the Gardens of Delight, Where his shining soul must dwell, He has found some flowers more sweet Than the clovers at my feet, Some celestial asphodel. But while summer comes and goes, With the primrose and the rose Comes his footfall on the grass-- Gladly, lightly to my door-- I shall hear it echo o’er, Though a thousand summers pass. THE MARINES ADOLPHE E. SMYLIE OF THE VIGILANTES Permission to reproduce in this book “Pardon! he has no Engleesh, heem, Il ne parle que Française, I spik it leetle some Monsieur, Vaire bad, j’en suis fâché-- Marines? Mais oui! I fight wiz zem At Château Thierry An’ on ze Ourcq an’ Marne in grand Bon camaraderie. I see zem fight at bois Belleau, Like sauvage make ze yell,-- Sacre nom de Dieu! zoze sailor man Eez fightin’ like ze hell! All time zey smile when make ze push, Magnifique zaire élan, Zey show ze heart of lion For delight our brav Franchman. An’ in ze tranch at rest, zoze troop From ze Etats Unis Queeck make ze good frien’ of poilu Wiz beeg slap on ze knee! Zey make ze song an’ joke, si drôle An’ pass ze cigarette; Zey call us goddam good ol’ scout Like Marquis La Fayette. Next day, mebbee, again ze taps-- Ze volley in ze air.-- Adieu! some fightin’ sailor man Eez gone West. C’est la guerre! No more ze smile, ze hug, ze hand Queeck wiz ze cigarette; C’est vrai, at funerall of _heem_ Ze poilu’s eye eez wet. But, every day like tidal wave,-- Like human avalanche,-- Ze transport bring more Yankee troop, To get ze beeg revanche! Zen from ze heart Américaine Come milliards of monnaie; Eet eez ze end! Your country bring Triomphant liberté. So, au revoir! I mus’ go on But first I tell to you What some high Officier remark Zat day at bois Belleau. He says, our great Napoleon Wiz envy would turn green Eef he could see zoze sailor man,-- Zoze Uncle Sam Marines!” AN AMBULANCE DRIVER’S PRAYER LIEUT. CHAPLAIN THOMAS F. COAKLEY IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE ’Mid blinding rain this inky night, Loud bursting shells each foot of road, Thy Light, O Christ, will guide me right, To save this gasping, dying load. Their shattered limbs have followed Thee; Their wounded hands have done Thy work. They bled, O Lord, to make men free; They fought the fight--they did not shirk. NOT TOO OLD TO FIGHT T. C. HARBAUGH IN THE CHICAGO LEDGER