Somewhere for you there is a place, Somewhere you have a task to face. There's none so helpless or so frail That cannot, when our foes assail, In some way help our common cause And be deserving of applause. Behind the Flag we all must be, Each at his post, awake to see That in so far as he has striven, His best was to his country given. You can be patient, brave and strong, And not complain when plans go wrong; You can be cheerful at your toil, Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil; You can encourage others who Have heavier, greater tasks to do; You can be loyal, not in creed Alone, but in each thought and deed; You can make sacrifices, too. The country needs a man like you, A Creed To keep in mind from day to day That I'm a soldier in the fray; That I must serve, from sun to sun, As well as he who bears a gun The flag that flies above us all, And answer well my Country's call. I must not for one hour forget Unto the Stars and Stripes my debt. 'Twas spotless on' my day of birth, And when at last I quit this earth Old Glory still must spotless be For all who follow after me. At some post where my work will fit I must with courage do my bit; Some portion of myself I'd give That freedom and the Flag may live. And in some way I want to feel That I am doing service real. I must in all I say and do Respect the red, the white and blue', Nor dim with petty deeds of shame The splendor of Old Glory's fame; I must not let my standards drag, For my disgrace would stain the Flag. The Struggle Life is a struggle for peace, A longing for rest, A hope for the battles to cease, A dream for the best; And he is not living who stays Contented with things, Unconcerned with the work of the days And all that it brings. He is dead who sees nothing to change, No wrong to make right; Who travels no new way or strange In search of the light; Who never sets out for a goal That he sees from afar But contents his indifferent soul With things as they are. Life isn't rest--it is toil; It is building a dream; It is tilling a parcel of soil Or bridging a stream; It's pursuing the light of a star That but dimly we see, And in wresting from things as they are The joy that should be. As It Looks to the Boy His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side. Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad.