More calm, beneficent and mild—     More free from things of strife— I promise you I never was     In all my mortal life. The air was fair, the stars were out,     The mocking-bird sang clear; The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed,     And food was very near. When suddenly the ground gave way—     It seemed a mile or more— And the whole adjacent landscape leapt     To heaven with a soar. Earth, rocks and stars commingling     In a swirling mass arose, Where I, recumbent in the hole,     Assumed an easy pose. And when I found that I was there—     Both arms, both legs, and head, I picked me up and cogitated     _Why_ I wasn’t dead. For information looked I ’round     North, south and east and west— But the good platoon had up and cleared     Some several feet with zest. (And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing,     For me to understand, Was that when I got up I had     My mess-kit in my hand.) And there I stood and gazed me down     Upon the hole and mud, And found I was alive because     That blamed shell was a “dud.” A dud’s a shell that fails to burst—     Whose crater’s microscopic— And as I’d just sunk down in it,     My Fates were philanthropic— For had the bally thing gone off—     Instead of sitting jake— You’d ne’er have found my scattered parts     With a hair-comb or a rake. You’d ne’er have found your humble slave—     For, sprinkled east and west, My sad remains would scarce have bulged     The pocket of your vest. A finger in Benares—     A toe in Timbuctoo— And on the Mountains of the Moon     A portion of my shoe. An eye on Kinchinjanga—     To greet the snow-peaked morn; An ear at Cape Lopatka,     And my dog-tag at the Horn. S. O. S. (Service of Supply.) There’s an S. O. S. behind the Lines     That feeds us shells and hardtack, And guns and clothes and beans and things,     And heals our wounds and pain. There’s an S. O. S. across the seas     That knits for us and writes to us, Buys bonds and whoops it up for us,     And cheers us on again. There’s an S. O. S. behind the Lines,     We could not do without it: Just go and ask the Army,     If you’d know the reasons why. There’s an S. O. S. across the seas,     And if you ever doubt it, Just go and ask a soldier,     Who will promptly black your eye. THE GAS-PROOF MULE. I’ve heard the cat hath nine lives,     The hen and worm I’ve seen, But a genuine, long eared, gas-proof mule     Is the toughest thing they wean. Each night he hauled the water-cart—     (And to know what Water means, You have to see a trench-bound bunch     When filling their canteens). However, no digression now,     But straightway to my story, And I’ll paint that black mule white     And crowned with a crown of glory. We crowded ’round the faucets—     On each, six waited turns— The thirstiest crew I ever knew—     With the ingrowing thirst that burns.