Let me but kiss the ground they tread, And breathe a prayer above their sod, And gather up the drops they shed, These heroes in the cause of God. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain. BILLETS (Dedicated to the gallant peasants of sunny France, who own them, and the officers of the A.E.F. who made the selection for the proletariat.) I’ve slept with horse and sad-eyed cow, I’ve dreamed in peace with bearded goat, I’ve laid my head on the rusty plow, And with the pig shared table d’hôte. I’ve chased the supple, leaping flea As o’er my outstretched form he sped, And heard the sneering rooster’s crow When I chased the rabbit from my bed. I’ve marked the dog’s contented growl, His wagging tail, his playful bite; With guinea pig and wakeful owl I’ve shared my resting place at night, While overhead, where cobweb lace Like curtains drapes the oaken beams, The spiders skipped from place to place And sometimes dropped in on my dreams. And when the morning, damp and raw, Arrived at last as if by chance, I’ve crawled from out the rancid straw And cussed the stable barns of France. And sometimes when the day is done And lengthening shadows pointing long, I dream of days when there was sun And street cars in my daily song. But over here—ah! what a change, The clouds are German-silver lined— Who worries when we get the mange? What boots it if our shoes are shined? The day speeds by and night again Looms up a specter grim and bare; We trek off to the hen house then And climb the cross barred ladder there— Another biologic night Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep; And as I soothe some stinging bite, I mark the gentle smell of sheep, The smell that wots of grassy dell, Of hillsides green where fairies dance.... The vision’s past—I’m back in hell, An ancient stable barn of France.