There is nothing like a rumor just to set the gang afire, They receive it, And believe it, Does it matter who’s the liar? No, it doesn’t. For as often as we hear of something new, Though it’s doubted, It is shouted By our gossip-loving crew. Conversation is a morsel, and, with greedy appetite, How we chew it, As we brew it, Be it daytime, be it night. Back in the States it started and continues o’er the foam, And we’ll swally It, by golly, When we join the Soldiers’ Home! A-h-h-h—men-n! C. H. MACCOY, Base Hosp. 38. THE LOST TOWNS Beneath the new moon sleeping The little lost towns lie; Their streets are very white and hushed, Their black spires tilt the sky. Across the darkened meadows A plaintive night bird calls; The sea of fog that clouds the fields Rolls softly to their walls. Within their shuttered houses No midnight candles glance; Their womenfolk are all abed, Their menfolk fight for France. They dream the little lost towns Of Alsace and Lorraine, The vision of the patient years, The old frontier again. Sleep on, nor cease your dreaming, Who pitted men and crowns, We’ll bring you back, we’ll bring you back, Oh, little, long lost towns. STEUART M. EMERY, Pvt., M.P. DER TAG (In answer to the German toast “Der Tag” in which the German war lords toasted the time when Deutschland would be “über alles.”) Here’s to the day when the whole thing is won! Here’s to the day when the Kaiser is done! Here’s to the day when we break his swelled dome! Here’s to the day that we go marching home! Long, restless nights With cursed cootie bites Things of the past! Hot baths at last! Real dollar bills! No more O.D. pills! Chicken instead of our canned willie chow! All of the ice cream the law will allow! Mess in the way we want to be messed! Dress in the way we like to be dressed! Neckties and suits! No more salutes! A nice, comfy bed With a mattress instead Of some billet floor That makes your ribs sore.