Then one day the Sergeant said, “You’ve been promoted. You’re now morning call-boy for the Regiment, And each morning, bright and early, you will sprinkle Drops of water on each face, in every tent.” In the morning I began my sprinkling duties, And had sprinkled in about one dozen tents, When a bunch of fellows rushed me to the hydrant, Where they “soused” me good; since then I’ve had some sense. As I look back at the time I “ran the paddles,” After having set me down in water wet; Rushing down between two rows of husky messmates, With my arms above my head, I feel it yet. Now, I’ve graduated from the rookie section, And the “awkward squad” will miss me in its ranks, And I’m happy, for a bunch of bloomin’ rookies Have arrived. To those that sent them, Many Thanks. IN THE FRONT-LINE DESKS LIEUT. ELMER FRANKLIN POWELL IN ADVENTURE MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book I tried to be a doughboy, but they said my feet were flat And I’d surely never stand the awful strain. No chance to even argue that I’d like to bet my hat I could out walk any tar-heel in the train. “Awful sorry, but it’s useless,” was the doctor’s mournful wail. “Your eyesight quite unfits you for the guns.” Uselessly I tried to tell him that at dropping leaden hail I could surely decimate a pack of Huns. Then I hoped for aviation, for my nerve is still in place, But there wasn’t even half a chance for that. A stocky young lieutenant said, “You’ll never hold the pace, For you’ve got a jumpy eyebrow.” Think o’ that! So they went and made me captain in the Quartermaster Corps, Where I juggle lists of beans the livelong day. Trying hard to grin and bear it as the boys march off to war While I sit and figure up their blasted pay. ABRAHAM LINCOLN WALKS AT MIDNIGHT (IN SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS) VACHEL LINDSAY From Vachel Lindsay’s book entitled “The Congo and Other Poems,” published and copyright, 1914, by The Macmillan Company, New York. Special permission to insert in this book. It is portentous, and a thing of state, That here at midnight, in our little town A mourning figure walks, and will not rest, Near the old court house pacing up and down. Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards He lingers where his children used to play, Or through the market, on the well-worn stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high-top hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie lawyer, master of us all. He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us;--as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.