Everywhere thrill the air The maniac bells of War! There will be little of sleeping tonight; There will be wailing and weeping tonight; Death’s red sickle is reaping tonight: War! War! War! THE CRUTCHES’ TUNE ELIZABETH R. STONER IN EVERYBODY’S MAGAZINE Down the street, with a lilting swing, Each so bright that never a thing Seemed to harass, so proud were they; One leg gone, but their hearts were gay. Clickety clack, went the crutches’ tune. God! How can they be brave so soon! Brave, when I can not keep back the tears, Thinking ahead of the crippled years. With a rhythmic swing they passed me by, And although, at first, I wanted to cry, I didn’t, because on each smiling face Was the peace of God and the pride of race. And the splendid pair, each with one leg gone, Swung out of sight to the crutches’ song. And I thought I would give all my future joys To feel just like those Canadian boys. All night long, like an ancient rune, Rang through my dreams the crutches’ tune. I shall never forget, though I’m old and gray, The song that the crutches sang that day. THE ANXIOUS DEAD LIEUT. COL. JOHN McCRAE IN THE LONDON SPECTATOR O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on! (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear And died not knowing how the day had gone.) O flashing muzzles, pause and let them see The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar! Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them, and Cæsar, that we still make war. Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call; That we have sworn and will not turn aside; That we will onward till we win or fall; That we will keep the faith for which they died. Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep-- Shall greet in wonderment the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep. HOME REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN From Mr. Kauffman’s book of poems, “Little Old Belgium.” Henry Altemus Company, Publishers, Philadelphia. Copyright, 1914. Reproduced in this book by special permission. At a pillaged hamlet near Termonde, I asked a dying peasant woman into which of the houses still standing I should assist her--which was her home? She pressed a withered hand to her bayonet-pierced side and answered: “The Germans have taken one home from me; but, without knowing it, they have given me another. I am going there now.” My house that I so soon shall own Is builded in a silent place, Not uncompanioned or alone, But shared by almost all my race; No landscape from its windows rolls A picture of the earth’s increase; But, oh, for all our stricken souls, Within its sturdy walls is--Peace.