No beauty could escape his loving eyes, Not even ruthless war could hide from view The smiling fields where crimson poppies grew, Nor mar the sunset’s rose and purple dyes; He watched a vine-clad slope, with glad surprise To hear grapepickers sing, although they knew Just on the other side, the cannon threw Their deadly shells and woke the startled skies. But over all that made Champagne so fair, He saw the grandeur of the field of strife, Exulting in the cause that placed him there, He felt a calm, mid all the carnage rife, And faced the battle with a spirit rare, “For death may be more wonderful than life.” THE NURSE IN LONDON PUNCH Reproduced by special permission of the Proprietors of “Punch” Here in the long white ward I stand, Pausing a little breathless space, Touching a restless fevered hand, Murmuring comforts commonplace-- Long enough pause to feel the cold Fingers of fear about my heart; Just for a moment, uncontrolled, All the pent tears of pity start. While here I strive, as best I may, Strangers’ long hours of pain to ease, Dumbly I question--_Far away Lies my beloved even as these?_ THE LITTLE HOME PAPER CHARLES HANSON TOWNE IN THE AMERICAN MAGAZINE Permission to reproduce in this book The little home paper comes to me, As badly printed as it can be; It’s ungrammatical, cheap, absurd-- Yet, how I love each intimate word! For here am I in the teeming town, Where the sad, mad people rush up and down, And it’s good to get back to the old lost place, And gossip and smile for a little space. The weather is hot; the corn crop’s good; They’ve had a picnic in Sheldon’s Wood. And Aunt Maria was sick last week; Ike Morrison’s got a swollen cheek, And the Squire was hurt in a runaway-- More shocked than bruised, I’m glad they say. Bert Wills--I used to play with him-- Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim. The Red Cross ladies gave a tea, And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee Has sold his house on Lincoln Road-- He couldn’t carry so big a load. The methodist minister’s had a call From a wealthy parish near St. Paul. And old Herb Sweet is married at last-- He was forty-two. How the years rush past! But here’s an item that makes me see What a puzzling riddle life can be. “Ed Stokes,” it reads, “was killed in France When the Allies made their last advance.” Ed Stokes! That boy with the laughing eyes As blue as the early-summer skies! He wouldn’t have killed a fly--and yet, Without a murmur, without a regret,