Echoed footsteps on the marble Throbs of a revolving door, And the starter’s ticking signal— “Up! Express here—fourteenth floor!” Click of coins on the cigar stand; Two stout parties passing by— “I sold short and took no chances; Lackawanna’s too damn high.” Here’s a C.O. down in his dugout deep Who once was a poor N.G. The field phone rings and someone sings, “Red Gulch, sir. 12–9–3 Is spilling lach on Mary Black; Have Jane retaliate.” Two minutes more and he hears Jane roar, While he thinks this hymn of hate: “That north forty must look pretty, Head high, now, and ears all set; And the haystacks in the meadow— Wonder if they’ve mowed it yet? Crickets clicking in the stubble; Apples reddening on the trees— Oh, good Lord, I’m seeing double; That’s not gas that made me sneeze.” Here’s a Q.M. warehouse, locked and still, At the end of a village street; The sunset red on the woods ahead, And a sentry on his beat. The hour chimes from the ancient spire, A child laughs out below, And the sentry’s eyes, on the western skies, Behold, in the afterglow, Row on row of smoking chimneys, Long steel roofs and swinging cranes, Maze of tracks and puffing engines, Creeping strings of shunted trains, Asphalt streets and stuccoed houses, Lots, with brick and lath piled high; Whips of shade trees by the curbings, Yellow trolleys clanging by. These are tawdry thoughts in an epic time For martial souls to own? They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend, That are bred of our blood and bone. A mustard shell it is very well, And an egg grenade’s O.K., But we get our steam from our little dream Of the good old U.S.A. Cotton fields along the river, Night lights streaming from a mill; Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver, Dump cars lining out a fill; Presses roaring in a basement, Woods, with waters gleaming through— Kaiser Bill, we’ll up and go there When we’ve rid the world of you! JOSEPH MILLS HANSON, Capt., F.A. THE R.T.O.