SOME MISCHIEF STILL: A PLAY IN ONE ACT 252 ILLUSTRATIONS SERGEANT JOYCE KILMER _Frontispiece_ PAGE JOYCE KILMER, AGE 5 120 JOYCE KILMER’S GRAVE 222 ESSAYS HOLY IRELAND We had hiked seventeen miles that stormy December day--the third of a four days’ journey. The snow was piled high on our packs, our rifles were crusted with ice, the leather of our hob-nailed boots was frozen stiff over our lamed feet. The weary lieutenant led us to the door of a little house in a side street. “Next twelve men,” he said. A dozen of us dropped out of the ranks and dragged ourselves over the threshold. We tracked snow and mud over a spotless stone floor. Before an open fire stood Madame and the three children--a girl of eight years, a boy of five, a boy of three. They stared with round frightened eyes at _les soldats Americains_, the first they had ever seen. We were too tired to stare back. We at once climbed to the chill attic, our billet, our lodging for the night. First we lifted the packs from one another’s aching shoulders; then, without spreading our blankets, we lay down on the bare boards. For ten minutes there was silence, broken by an occasional groan, an oath, the striking of a match. Cigarettes glowed like fireflies in a forest. Then a voice came from the corner. “Where is Sergeant Reilly?” it said. We lazily searched. There was no Sergeant Reilly to be found. “I’ll bet the old bum has gone out after a pint,” said the voice. And with the curiosity of the American and the enthusiasm of the Irish we lumbered downstairs in quest of Sergeant Reilly. He was sitting on a low bench by the fire. His shoes were off and his bruised feet were in a pail of cold water. He was too good a soldier to expose them to the heat at once. The little girl was on his lap and the little boys stood by and envied him. And in a voice that twenty years of soldiering and oceans of whisky had failed to rob of its Celtic sweetness, he was softly singing “Ireland isn’t Ireland any more.” We listened respectfully. “They cheer the King and then salute him,” said Sergeant Reilly. “A regular Irishman would shoot him,” and we all joined in the chorus, “Ireland isn’t Ireland any more.” “Ooh, la, la!” exclaimed Madame, and she and all the children began to talk at the top of their voices. What they said Heaven knows, but the tones were friendly, even admiring. “Gentlemen,” said Sergeant Reilly from his post of honor, “the lady who runs this billet is a very nice lady indeed. She says yez can all take off your shoes and dry your socks by the fire. But take turns and don’t crowd or I’ll trun yez all upstairs.”