Just a little thought or two, A dream, a wish, a prayer, For you, my little smiler Girl, Across the sea back there. Just a bit of Daddy love, To you I send it all, Your eyes, your smile, your golden hair, Your love for “raggy doll.” Just a little tear sometimes, Yes, men they weaken too, War is hard, but harder still Is bein’ ’way from you. E. S. E. PERFECT CONTRITION “Send for a priest,” the small disc read That clasped his neck around; But he, brave soul, was long since dead When found upon the ground. A crucifix was in his hand, Stained by his bloody kiss, This newest of the martyr band To taste of Heaven’s bliss. THOMAS F. COAKLEY, Lt., Chaplain. WHEN PRIVATE MUGRUMS PARLAY VOOS I can count my francs an’ santeems— If I’ve got a basket near— An’ I speak a wicked “bon jour,” But the verbs are awful queer, An’ I lose a lot o’ pronouns When I try to talk to you, For your eyes are so bewitchin’ I forget to parlay voo. In your pretty little garden, With the bench beside the wall, An’ the sunshine on the asters, An’ the purple phlox so tall, I should like to whisper secrets, But my language goes askew With the second person plural For the more familiar “too.” In your pretty little garden I could always say “juh tame,” But it ain’t so very subtle, An’ it ain’t not quite the same As “You’ve got some dandy earrings,” Or “Your eyes are nice an’ brown”— But my adjectives get manly Right before a lady noun Those infinitives perplex me, I can say you’re “tray jolee,” But beyond that simple statement All my tenses don’t agree. I can make the Boche “comprenney” When I meet ’em in a trench, But the softer things escape me When I try to yap in French.