What matter if on muddy grounds this game of war is played? He’ll last through extra innings and he’ll hit as well as pitch; His smoking Texas leaguers’ll make the Fritzies seek the ditch! He’s just about to groove it toward a ducking Fritzie’s bean; His crossfire is the puzzlingest that ever yet was seen; His spittle is a deadly thing; his little inshoot curve Will graze some Heinie’s heaving ribs and make him lose his nerve. Up in the air he never goes; he always cuts the plate, No matter if the bleachers rise and start “The Hymn of Hate;” And pacifistic coaching never once has got his goat. Just watch him heave across the top the latest Yankee note! The Boches claim the Umpire is a-sidin’ with their nine, But we are not the boobs to fall for such a phony line; We know the game is fair and square, decisions on the level; The only boost the kaiser gets is from his pal, The Devil! The series now is opened, and the band begins to play; The batteries are warming up; the crowd shouts, “Hip-Hurray!” The catcher is a-wingin’ ’em to second, third and first, And if a Heinie tries to steal, he’s sure to get the worst. So watch the southpaw twirler in his uniform O. D. Retire to the players’ bench the Boches--one, two, three! He’ll never walk a bloomin’ one, nor let ’em hit it out. Just watch him make ’em fan the air and put the Hun to rout! EDITH CAVELL MCLANDBURGH WILSON From Miss Wilson’s book entitled “The Little Flag On Main Street,” published and copyright, 1917, by The Macmillan Company, New York. Special permission to insert in this book. On law and love and mercy Was laid the German curse When to her execution Was led the British nurse. In brutal might they thought her Of help and friendship shorn; John Brown, Jeanne d’Arc, all martyrs, Companioned her that morn. A harmless, tender woman, They took her to her doom; A dread, resistless spirit She rises from the tomb. Still Germany shall fear her, For since that bloody dawn Through all the earth that trembles Her soul goes marching on! TO SERVE IS TO GAIN CHARLES H. MACKINTOSH IN LOGGING, DULUTH “He profits most who serves us best!” Let each who labors, lives and dies Beneath these star-bespangled skies Go write that motto on his breast! “He profits most”--Here is no call To selfish ease or sordid gain; Who serves himself will serve in vain; Who profits most must serve us all. And he has most who gives the most, Since what is kept can but decay --And Death still treads his sleepless way Among our myriad human host. THEY SHALL RETURN J. LEWIS MILLIGAN IN THE TORONTO GLOBE