And all was peace and quiet—     The pause before the storm— When the distant, whirling, demon shriek     Of the G. I. Cans took form. And when the third one got our range,     With haste, but dignity, We sought the dugouts ’cross the road,     Calm, though precipitously. But the fastest thing I’ve seen on legs,     And I’ve seen the best, at that. Was the water-mule when he took the road     At a hundred in nothing flat. Whether he headed for gay Paree—     For Brussels or Berlin— We didn’t stop to figure out—     But he sure was headed in. We only thought of our thirst next day,     And a song we’d heard afar, Of the farm recruit who bade good-bye     To his “mule with the old hee-haw.” Well, all that night they threw us gas     And high explosive shells, And four long hours we wore our masks,     To ward the murderous smells. And when the first white streak of dawn     Told “Stand-to” was begun, We stumbled back and took our posts     To wait our friend the Hun. The Hun did not appear, but gas     Thick clothed both hill and dale In clouds and sheets of dead-man’s drab,     And down in the deepest vale— With perfect poise and nonchalance,     Sang-froid and savoir-faire, Browsed that fool mule, capaciously,     With never thought or care. INFANTRY OF THE WORLD WAR. They shall tell of the Arms resplendent—     The men who dared the air; They shall tell of the work of the mighty guns     Where the far horizons flare: They shall tell the tale of the Centaurs—     Each rear and flanking drive— And the song of the Service of Supply,     That kept them all alive. And when they seem to have finished,     And ye think that the chant is done, They will tell the tale of the tramping men     In the sweat of a torrid sun. They will tell the tale of the marching men     Who plod the live-long night, To reach the crest at the break o’ dawn     When the Nations go to fight. They will tell the tale of the tired men     Beneath a straining load; Mile by mile with lunging step     And glassy stare on the road. They will tell the tale of the front-line trench,     And the one cold meal at night, And the terrible song of the bursting shells,     And the flares’ uncanny light. They will tell the tale of the moving ranks     When the zero hour lifts, And the khaki lines leap forward     In the face of the steel-shod drifts. Where the great shots split asunder,     And clutter hill and plain With the weary bodies of the men     Who may not march again. And so for a wide World’s wonder,     And the ages yet to be, They will sing in deathless numbers     The song of the Infantry. They will slowly close the volume—     The story fully told, And a tear shall fall on the cover,     Whose letters are flaming gold. THE FLOWERS OF FRANCE. The flowers of France are blooming     Upon this bright June day, The flowers of France are fragrant     And smiling swing and sway, (For what is death and carnage     A dozen miles away?)