If it’s cold and it’s rainy and everything’s mud, And you’re groping your way through a nice little flood, And you stand on your head with an elegant thud—                 It’s a trip-wire. When silence is golden (for “news” is the quest), And you’re returning and stepping your best, And your rifle goes part way and you go the rest—                 It’s a trip-wire. THE FAVORITE SONG. (“There’s a long, long Trail.”) They sing a song that the pines of Maine     Hear in the winter’s blast— They sing a song that the riders hum,     Where the cattle plains spread vast; But there is one they love the most—     And they keep it for the last. They sing the lays of Puget Sound     Aglimmering in the sun— Of the cotton fields of Alabam’,     Where the Gulf-bound rivers run, But one they sing with a wistful look,     When all the rest are done. They chant of the land of Dixie,     And their “Little Gray Home in the West”— Of how they’ll “can the Kaiser”—     And they roar with bellowing zest; But one they sing as it were a prayer—     The song they love the best. From Xivray to Cantigny—     From Soissons to the Meuse — From the Argonne wilds to the white-clad Vosges     Agleam in the dawn’s first hues— They sing a sacred song, for it     Is red with battle-dews. For it is sanctified by space—     And the cruel wheel of Time; And sacrifice has hallowed it,     And mellowed every rhyme, Until it wells from weary throats     A thing men call sublime. In frozen trench and billet—     In mire, muck and rain— Where the roar of unleashed batteries     Hurl forth their fires again; At rest, or back in Blighty,     Torn with shell and pain— There’s a song they dub the fairest—     There’s a lilt they love the best— “There’s a long, long trail awinding”     To the haven of their quest, Where the tip of the rainbow reaches     A land in the golden west. CAPTAIN BLANKBURG. “When Greek meets Greek.” I They knew he was a German—     They thought he was a spy— _Toujours_ they “covered” him and said,     “We’ll catch him by-and-by.” They tried to find, by word or act,     In front-line trench or rear, Some circumstance that would betray     His treacherous dealings clear. They scanned his face when hostile flares     Set No Man’s Land alight— They watched him when the Hun barrage     Tore craters left and right. They noted every move he made,     With ever wakeful eye, Reiterating o’er and o’er,     “We’ll catch him by-and-by.” II At last the opportunity     Loomed large in fact and view, And every near-sleuth in the bunch     Saw that his hunch was true. Because, upon an inky night,     When mist hung o’er the nation, The captain took a picked patrol     To gather information. And as they crept on hands and knees,     In Land No Man may own, Their stomachs struck the dew-wet grass     With never sound or moan.