IN CARTOONS MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book She stands alone beside the gate, Where oft with him she stood before, And seems to hear his voice relate Life’s sweetest story o’er and o’er; A hand she feels upon her own, Unconsciously a tender glance She gives, then starts and stands alone, The lover sleeps--Somewhere in France. She could have kept him if she would-- His heart and soul were all her own-- But true love knew and understood That Honor is its own true throne; She heard the bugles’ blaring sound And whispered--“Go and take your chance.” There ’mid the scenes of war he found Eternal peace--Somewhere in France. She knows not where that spot may be-- On barren plain, in hidden dell, On wooded hill, beside the sea-- The lips that would will never tell; She knows not what his last words were, The thoughts that come with Death’s advance, And yet, she feels they were of her, Those last fond thoughts--Somewhere in France. THE SERVICE FLAG J. E. EVANS IN THE SOVEREIGN VISITOR Say, pa! What is a service flag? I see them everywhere. There’s little stars sewed on them; What are they doing there? Sometimes there’s lots of little stars, And sometimes just a few. Poor Widow Jones has only one-- I saw her crying, too. My darling boy, those little stars Upon a field of white, Are emblems of our glorious boys Enrolling for the right. The border, as you see, is red, Which represents their blood; The stars are blue, the heavenly hue; The white is always good. Each star you see means some brave boy Has left his hearth and home And gone to fight for Freedom’s cause Wherever he may roam. So when you see a lot of stars Lift up your heart with joy, And when you see a single one Pray for some mother’s boy. They go away, those gallant lads, Across the wreck-strewn sea; They go to pledge their country’s faith For God and liberty. The Stars and Stripes they bear aloft To join the British flag, And, with the colors of brave France, They mean to end “Der Tag.” And soon, my boy, that service flag, Born in the nation’s heart, Will show the world that, when unfurled, We proudly take our part. “HEARTS ARE TOUCHING” Poems need not be rhymed, nor wrought in verses. This brave and touching one occurred in a letter written by a French schoolgirl: