“There’s snakes here,” whooped a private As the bullets started hissin’; And we saw that Hun machine guns In the thicket formed our crop; So we started for the harvest Where a bunch of them was missin’, But a bunch of them was hittin’ Where we hadn’t time to stop. But we damned ’em to a finish As we saw a bunkie drop. So we gathered in the harvest, And we didn’t leave one missin’; (We had gathered crops before this With as tough a job ahead.) Through the wheat of Château-Thierry, With the German bullets hissin’, “There’s a crop out there to gather,” That was all the Captain said. (Oh, at dawn the wheat was yellow, But at night the wheat was red.) ALLIES The French, the British, and the Portugee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be, Gives a salute in response to me, Buck private in Uncle Sam’s Infantry. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” In Belgium and France and Italy They talk in ways that are Greek to me, But the speech of soldiers’ courtesy Is a Lingua Franca wherever you be. With a single gesture, I recognize That I am one of the Twenty Allies. I never could tell just why it should be That the first salute should be up to me In this queer, new army democracy, But every commander must answer me, British, or French, or Indo-Chinee, Captain, or colonel, or king though he be. There’s much that a soldier’s salute implies, But it means the most when it means, “We’re Allies!” MERRITT Y. HUGHES, Pvt., Inf. TO BUDDY It’s a tough fight for you, Buddy, And it takes a heap of grit To stick and win And keep your grin When you’re in the thick of it. It’s no cinch for you, Buddy, When the dreams with which you came Melt into naught As you are taught The horrid, bitter game. It’s a hard pull for you, Buddy, And oft times it looks damned blue, But square your chin And vow to win, And play the game clean through.