(The reason being that the Boche,     On selfsame errand set, Were creeping hitherward unseen—     And likewise mad and wet.) ’Twas then the detail turned their heads     To where their captain lay, And every rifle in that squad     Was pointed straight his way. And he? He running true to form,     Two inches raised his chin, And spouted German volubly     In accents clear and thin. Click, click, click, click, click, down the line     Each safety-catch turned o’er, But the captain did not hesitate,     And merely talked the more. In conversation friendly     He rambled gently on Unto the Boches’ leader,     Till it was nearly dawn. The while his men they “covered” him—     The while their hearts grew black— And you could feel the trigger fingers     Squeezing up the slack. Just what the purport of his last     Remark was, no one knew, But in a burst of confidence     A Boche head rose in view. . . . Across the four-fold stillness     That covers No Man’s Land, An automatic pistol shot     Rang clear and piercing and The next day German papers told     How Captain Skunk von Skee Was killed by a Yankee captain,     And Yankee treachery. LITTLE WAR MOTHERS. When you look at his picture and your eyes     Are dimmed and mighty wet, And it seems as though your trembling hands     Could reach and touch him yet: When you faintly call and he answers not     Your supplicating prayer, Remember his last thought was You:     I know—for I was there. When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows,     And you slowly knit and knit; And your furtive eyes from the embers rise     To where he used to sit: And you feel he never can slip up     And kiss you unaware, Remember his last word was You:     I know—for I was there. When your dear brave heart is breaking—     And life is ’reft of joy; And only the spark of memory—     The face of a boy—your boy: May the good God hover over you,     And touch your silvered hair, And tell you what I’ve tried to tell:     He knows — for He was there. INTERRUPTED CHOW. I’ve had some mighty narrow calls—     Some close shaves not a few, But one of the fairly closest     I’ll now narrate to you. ’Twas midnight—hush! the plot grows thick—     Crowd close, and hold your breath— ’Twas midnight—and the slum-cart came     Upon its round of death. (It isn’t really that the slum     Was quite as bad as that, But the playful Boche so often dropped     A shell where it was at.) ’Twas midnight—and our appetites     Were whetted large and keen, As trench feed, once a day, must leave     An interval between. And so we sought the buzzy-cart,     “Mess-kits alert” and found It standing in a quiet spot     Where never came a sound— Excepting that of bursting shells     Across the field a way, (But as I said before, the Boche     Is very given to play). All innocent and hungry-like     And empty to the core, I came upon that buzzy-cart,     With never thought of war.