There are some men--and such is Jones-- Who love to vent their antique spleens On any subaltern that owns He's not a soldier in his bones (_I'_m not, by any means); Who fiercely watch us drill our men And tell us things were different when (In, I imagine, 1810) They joined the Blue Marines. I like them not, yet I affect That air of awed humility Which I should certainly expect, If I were old and medal-deck'd, From young men under me; But when they hint their wondrous wit Is what has made them feel so fit To do their military bit, I simply can't agree. I said to Jones--or should have said But feared the Articles of War-- "You must not think you have a head Because you know from A to Z This military lore, By years of study slowly gat (And somewhat out-of-date at that), When lo, I had the whole thing pat In six small months--not more." Maybe the mystic art appals Unlearned souls of low degrees, But men to whom the high Muse calls, Men who are good enough for Smalls, Imbibe it all with ease; While where would Jones, I wonder, be If someone took the man for me And asked him for some _jeu d'esprit_, A few bright lines (like these)? Possibly Jones will one day tire Of fours and fights and iron shards, Will seize his pencil and aspire To court the Muse and match the fire Of us poetic cards; Then I shall mock his meagre strain And gaily make the moral plain, How barren is the soldier's brain Compared with any bard's. * * * * * A QUESTION OF THE NUDE. They scrambled into the carriage in a tremendous hurry, all talking at once at the tops of their voices, all very excited and very dirty. They had mud on their boots which had evidently come from France, and their overcoats had that rumpled appearance which distinguishes overcoats from the Front from those merely in training. There seemed to be about ten of them as they got into the train, but when they had deposited various objects on the rack, such as rifles, haversacks, and kit-bags like partially deflated airships, the number resolved itself into three. The compartment already contained--besides myself--a naval warrant officer, reading _Freckles_ with a sentimental expression, and a large leading seaman with hands like small hams and a peaceful smile like a jade Buddha. It said "H.M.S. Hedgehog" round his cap, but when I ventured to remark that I once in peace-time saw and visited that vessel he observed with indifference that "cap-ribbons was nothin' to go by these days; point o' fact, he never see that there ship in his puff." Otherwise they maintained that deep and significant silence which we have learned to associate with our Navy.