“Tu dis l’ouest! Est-ce ton pays? Veux-tu, quand tu iras chez-toi-- Maman est toujours à pleurer-- Me retrouver mon soldat Papa? Il etait avec sa batterie Près des Anglais la, en campagne, Mais Papa est allé dans l’ouest, Des Anglais disaient à Maman. Alors, Maman sera heureuse Et, tu vois elle ne pleurera plus; Je veux te donner un baiser,-- Merci! Tu es si bon pour nous!” There she goes! She told me her secret, Kissed me and then flew away,-- Say, Poilu! You savez some English, Now what did that little tot say? “She say Engleeshman tol’ her Mama Zat her soldat Papa eez gone West! You said West, bien! Zen you live zaire, So she make you her leetle request, Zat you find heem in your countree So her Mama no more she weel cry; Zen she thank you an’ kees you, si joyeuse,-- Pauvre mignonne, she think you weel try!” MISSING “IRIS” FROM B. L. T.’S COLUMN IN THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE The soldier boys are marching, are marching past my door; They’re off to fight for Freedom, to wage and win the war; And yet I cannot cheer them, my eyes are full of tears-- My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years. I’ve missed his boyish laughter, I’ve missed his sunny ways, I’ve lived alone with sorrow through endless empty days. But now my bitter longing dims all the grief before-- His boyhood friends are marching, without him, past my door. I’ve envied happy mothers the children at their knee; Their very joys seemed given to mock my grief and me. Time healed those wounds, but this one will pain me while I live-- When Freedom called her warriors, I had no son to give. And still the boys are marching, are marching toward the sea, To suffer and to conquer, that all men may be free. Be glad for them, O mothers! and leave to me the tears-- My son, who should be with them, is dead these many years. THE RIVERS OF FRANCE H. J. M. IN THE ENGLISH REVIEW The rivers of France are ten score and twain, But five are the names that we know-- The Marne, the Vesle, the Ourcq, and the Aisne, And the Somme of the swampy flow. The rivers of France, from source to the sea, Are nourished by many a rill, But these five, if ever a drought there be, The fountains of sorrow would fill. The rivers of France shine silvery white, But the waters of five are red With the richest blood, in the fiercest fight For Freedom, that ever was shed. The rivers of France sing soft as they run, But five have a song of their own, That hymns the fall of the arrogant one And the proud cast down from his throne. The rivers of France all quietly take To sleep in the house of their birth, But the carnadined wave of five shall break On the uttermost strands of Earth.