Chapter 76

"Somewhere in France," upon a brown hillside,They lie, the first of our brave soldiers slain;Above them flowers, now beaten by the rain,Yet emblematic of the youths who diedIn their fresh promise. They who, valiant-eyed,Met death unfaltering have not fallen in vain;Remembrance hallows those who thus attainThe final goal; their names are glorified.Read then the roster!—Gresham! Enright! Hay!—No bugle call shall rouse them when the flowerOf morning breaks above the hills and dells,For they have grown immortal in an hour,And we who grieve and cherish them would layUpon their hillside graves our immortelles!Clinton Scollard.

Clinton Scollard.

TO AMERICA, ON HER FIRST SONS FALLEN IN THE GREAT WAR

Now you are one with us, you know our tears,Those tears of pride and pain so fast to flow;You too have sipped the first strange draught of woe;You too have tasted of our hopes and fears;Sister across the ocean, stretch your hand,Must we not love you more, who learn to understand?There are new graves in France, new quiet graves;The first-fruit of a Nation great and free,Full of rich fire of life and chivalry.Lie quietly, though tide of battle lavesAbove them; sister, sister, see our tears,We mourn with you, who know so well the bitter years.Now do you watch with us; your pain of lossLit by a wondrous glow of love and powerThat flowers, star-like at the darkest hourLighting the eternal message of the Cross;They gain their life who lose it, earth shall riseAnew and cleansed, because of life's great sacrifice.And that great band of souls your dead have met,Who saved the world in centuries past and gone,Shall find new comrades in their valiant throng;O, Nation's heart that cannot e'er forget,Is not death but the door to life begunTo those who hear far Heaven cry, "Well done!"E. M. Walker.

There are new graves in France, new quiet graves;The first-fruit of a Nation great and free,Full of rich fire of life and chivalry.Lie quietly, though tide of battle lavesAbove them; sister, sister, see our tears,We mourn with you, who know so well the bitter years.

Now do you watch with us; your pain of lossLit by a wondrous glow of love and powerThat flowers, star-like at the darkest hourLighting the eternal message of the Cross;They gain their life who lose it, earth shall riseAnew and cleansed, because of life's great sacrifice.

And that great band of souls your dead have met,Who saved the world in centuries past and gone,Shall find new comrades in their valiant throng;O, Nation's heart that cannot e'er forget,Is not death but the door to life begunTo those who hear far Heaven cry, "Well done!"

E. M. Walker.

Training proceeded rapidly, and the sectors where its final stages took place became more and more lively as the Americans were gradually given a freer and freer hand.

ROUGE BOUQUET

[March 7, 1918]

In a wood they call the Rouge BouquetThere is a new-made grave to-day,Built by never a spade nor pickYet covered with earth ten metres thick.There lie many fighting men,Dead in their youthful prime,Never to laugh nor love againNor taste the Summertime.For Death came flying through the airAnd stopped his flight at the dugout stair.Touched his prey and left them there,Clay to clay.He hid their bodies stealthilyIn the soil of the land they fought to freeAnd fled away.Now over the grave abrupt and clearThree volleys ring;And perhaps their brave young spirits hearThe bugle sing:"Go to sleep!Go to sleep!Slumber well where the shell screamed and fellLet your rifles rest on the muddy floor,You will not need them any more.Danger's past;Now at last,Go to sleep!"There is on earth no worthier graveTo hold the bodies of the braveThan this place of pain and prideWhere they nobly fought and nobly died.Never fear but in the skiesSaints and angels standSmiling with their holy eyesOn this new-come band.St. Michael's sword darts through the airAnd touches the aureole on his hairAs he sees them stand saluting there,His stalwart sons:And Patrick, Brigid, ColumkillRejoice that in veins of warriors stillThe Gael's blood runs.And up to Heaven's doorway floats,From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,A delicate cloud of bugle notesThat softly say:"Farewell!Farewell!Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!Your souls shall be where the heroes areAnd your memory shine like the morning-star.Brave and dear,Shield us here.Farewell!"Joyce Kilmer.

There is on earth no worthier graveTo hold the bodies of the braveThan this place of pain and prideWhere they nobly fought and nobly died.Never fear but in the skiesSaints and angels standSmiling with their holy eyesOn this new-come band.St. Michael's sword darts through the airAnd touches the aureole on his hairAs he sees them stand saluting there,His stalwart sons:And Patrick, Brigid, ColumkillRejoice that in veins of warriors stillThe Gael's blood runs.And up to Heaven's doorway floats,From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,A delicate cloud of bugle notesThat softly say:"Farewell!Farewell!Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!Your souls shall be where the heroes areAnd your memory shine like the morning-star.Brave and dear,Shield us here.Farewell!"

Joyce Kilmer.

The great summons came in the spring of 1918, for on March 21 the Germans began a series of terrific attacks which they believed would end the war. On March 31 an official note announced that "the Star-Spangled Banner will float beside the French and English flags in the plains of Picardy." On April 17 the order came for the First Division to move into the battle area.

MARCHING SONG

[April 17, 1918]

When Pershing's men go marching into Picardy.Marching, marching into Picardy—With their steel aslant in the sunlight and their great gray hawks a-wingAnd their wagons rumbling after them like thunder in the Spring—Tramp, tramp, tramp, trampTill the earth is shaken—Tramp, tramp, tramp, trampTill the dead towns waken!And flowers fall and shouts arise from Chaumont to the sea—When Pershing's men go marching, marching into Picardy.Women of France, do you see them pass to the battle in the North?And do you stand in the doorways now as when your own went forth?Then smile to them and call to them, and mark how brave they fareUpon the road to Picardy that only youth may dare!Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Foot and horse and caisson—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Such is Freedom's passion—And oh, take heart, ye weary souls that stand along the Lys,For the New World is marching, marching into Picardy!April's sun is in the sky and April's in the grass—And I doubt not that Pershing's men are singing as they pass—For they are very young men, and brave men, and free,And they know why they are marching, marching into Picardy.Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Rank and file together—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Through the April weather.And never Spring has thrust such blades against the light of dawnAs yonder waving stalks of steel that move so shining on!I have seen the wooden crosses at Ypres and Verdun,I have marked the graves of such as lie where the Marne waters run,And I know their dust is stirring by hill and vale and lea,And their souls shall be our captains who march to Picardy.Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Hope shall fail us never—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Forward, and forever!And God is in His judgment seat, and Christ is on His tree—And Pershing's men are marching, marching into Picardy.Dana Burnet.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, trampTill the earth is shaken—Tramp, tramp, tramp, trampTill the dead towns waken!And flowers fall and shouts arise from Chaumont to the sea—When Pershing's men go marching, marching into Picardy.

Women of France, do you see them pass to the battle in the North?And do you stand in the doorways now as when your own went forth?Then smile to them and call to them, and mark how brave they fareUpon the road to Picardy that only youth may dare!

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Foot and horse and caisson—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Such is Freedom's passion—And oh, take heart, ye weary souls that stand along the Lys,For the New World is marching, marching into Picardy!

April's sun is in the sky and April's in the grass—And I doubt not that Pershing's men are singing as they pass—For they are very young men, and brave men, and free,And they know why they are marching, marching into Picardy.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Rank and file together—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Through the April weather.And never Spring has thrust such blades against the light of dawnAs yonder waving stalks of steel that move so shining on!

I have seen the wooden crosses at Ypres and Verdun,I have marked the graves of such as lie where the Marne waters run,And I know their dust is stirring by hill and vale and lea,And their souls shall be our captains who march to Picardy.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Hope shall fail us never—Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp,Forward, and forever!And God is in His judgment seat, and Christ is on His tree—And Pershing's men are marching, marching into Picardy.

Dana Burnet.

On June 2, the Second and Third Divisions met and checked the enemy at Château-Thierry. The Marne offensive was followed sharply by another on the part of the British, with whom our Twenty-Seventh Division was fighting, and on August 8 the Twenty-Seventh broke through the famous Hindenburg line.

OUR MODEST DOUGHBOYS

[August 8, 1918]

Said the Captain: "There was wireA mile deep in No Man's Land,And the concentrated fireWas all mortal nerve could stand;But these huskies craved the chanceTo go out and leave their bones!""The climate's quite some damp in France,"Said Private Thomas Jones.Said the Major: "What is more,At the point where we attacked,Tough old veterans loudly sworeHindy's line could not be cracked.But the 27th said,'Hindenburg! That guy's a myth!'""I slept last night in a reg'lar bed,"Said Private Johnny Smith.Said the Colonel: "They had placedPillboxes on the crests.I can safely say we facedMaybe thousands of those nests.But our doughboys took one heightSeven times in that hell's hail.""And were the cooties thick? Good night!"Said Private William Dale.Said the General: "We were toldAnything we'd start they'd stop—That the Boche would knock us coldWhen we slid across the top.But the 7th with a yellMade the Prussian Guards back down.""You oughta lamped the smile on Nell!"Said Private Henry Brown.Said the Sergeant: "Every shellSeemed to whine, 'Old scout, you're dead!'And I thought I'd gone to hellIn a blizzard of hot lead.But each bloomin' gunner stuckAt his post by his machine.""Our orders said to hold it, Buck!"Said Private Peter Green.Said the Chaplain: "Talk of pep!They were there! And, may I add,When we clambered up the stepThat last fight, we only hadEighty men of Company D—Every one, I'll say, a man!""And am I glad I'm home? Ah, oui!"Said Private Mike McCann.Charlton Andrews.

Said the Major: "What is more,At the point where we attacked,Tough old veterans loudly sworeHindy's line could not be cracked.But the 27th said,'Hindenburg! That guy's a myth!'""I slept last night in a reg'lar bed,"Said Private Johnny Smith.

Said the Colonel: "They had placedPillboxes on the crests.I can safely say we facedMaybe thousands of those nests.But our doughboys took one heightSeven times in that hell's hail.""And were the cooties thick? Good night!"Said Private William Dale.

Said the General: "We were toldAnything we'd start they'd stop—That the Boche would knock us coldWhen we slid across the top.But the 7th with a yellMade the Prussian Guards back down.""You oughta lamped the smile on Nell!"Said Private Henry Brown.

Said the Sergeant: "Every shellSeemed to whine, 'Old scout, you're dead!'And I thought I'd gone to hellIn a blizzard of hot lead.But each bloomin' gunner stuckAt his post by his machine.""Our orders said to hold it, Buck!"Said Private Peter Green.

Said the Chaplain: "Talk of pep!They were there! And, may I add,When we clambered up the stepThat last fight, we only hadEighty men of Company D—Every one, I'll say, a man!""And am I glad I'm home? Ah, oui!"Said Private Mike McCann.

Charlton Andrews.

Early in September eight American divisions were concentrated on the Lorraine front and organized into the First American Army. On September 12 an assault in force was made against the St. Mihiel salient, which had threatened France for four years. Twenty-four hours later the salient was ours, together with 15,000 prisoners.

SEICHEPREY

[September 12, 1918]

A handful came to SeichepreyWhen winter woods were bare,When ice was in the trenchesAnd snow was in the air.The foe looked down on SeichepreyAnd laughed to see them there.The months crept by at SeichepreyThe growing handful stayed,With growling guns at midnight,At dawn, the lightning raid,And learned, in Seicheprey trenches,How war's red game is played.September came to Seicheprey;A slow-wrought host aroseAnd rolled across the trenchesAnd whelmed its sneering foes,And left to shattered SeichepreyUnending, sweet repose.

A handful came to SeichepreyWhen winter woods were bare,When ice was in the trenchesAnd snow was in the air.The foe looked down on SeichepreyAnd laughed to see them there.

The months crept by at SeichepreyThe growing handful stayed,With growling guns at midnight,At dawn, the lightning raid,And learned, in Seicheprey trenches,How war's red game is played.

September came to Seicheprey;A slow-wrought host aroseAnd rolled across the trenchesAnd whelmed its sneering foes,And left to shattered SeichepreyUnending, sweet repose.

Two weeks later we began our greatest battle in an attack on the strong German positions running from the Meuse westward through the Argonne forest. It was in this battle that perhaps the most remarkable single exploit of the war was performed, when Corporal Alvin C. York, a young giant from the mountains of Tennessee, who had been sent forward with a small squad to clean up some machine-gun nests, killed single-handed twenty-eight Germans, and came back with 132 prisoners.

A BALLAD OF REDHEAD'S DAY

[October 8, 1918]

Talk of the Greeks at Thermopylæ!They fought like mad till the last was dead;But Alvin C. York, of Tennessee,Stayed cool to the end though his hair was red,Stayed mountain cool, yet blazed that grayOctober the Eighth as Redhead's Day.With rifle and pistol and redhead nerveHe captured one hundred and thirty-two;A battalion against him, he did not swerveFrom the Titans' task they were sent to do—Fourteen men under Sergeant EarlyAnd York, the blacksmith, big and burly.Sixteen only, but fighters all,They dared the brood of a devil's nest,And three of those that did not fallWere wounded and out of the scrap; the restWere guarding a bunch of Boche they'd caught,When both were trapped by a fresh onslaught.Excepting York, who smiled "Amen,"And, spotting the nests of spitting guns,Potted some twenty birds, and thenDid with his pistol for eight more HunsWho thought they could crush a Yankee aliveIn each red pound of two hundred and five.That was enough for kill-babe Fritz:Ninety in all threw up their hands,Suddenly tender as lamb at the Ritz,Milder than sheep to a York's commands;And back to his line he drove the herd,Gathering more on the way—Absurd!Absurd, but true—ay, gospel fact;For here was a man with a level head,Who, scorning to fail for the help he lacked,Helped himself till he won instead;An elder was he in the Church of Christ,Immortal at thirty; his faith sufficed.Richard Butler Glaenzer.

With rifle and pistol and redhead nerveHe captured one hundred and thirty-two;A battalion against him, he did not swerveFrom the Titans' task they were sent to do—Fourteen men under Sergeant EarlyAnd York, the blacksmith, big and burly.

Sixteen only, but fighters all,They dared the brood of a devil's nest,And three of those that did not fallWere wounded and out of the scrap; the restWere guarding a bunch of Boche they'd caught,When both were trapped by a fresh onslaught.

Excepting York, who smiled "Amen,"And, spotting the nests of spitting guns,Potted some twenty birds, and thenDid with his pistol for eight more HunsWho thought they could crush a Yankee aliveIn each red pound of two hundred and five.

That was enough for kill-babe Fritz:Ninety in all threw up their hands,Suddenly tender as lamb at the Ritz,Milder than sheep to a York's commands;And back to his line he drove the herd,Gathering more on the way—Absurd!

Absurd, but true—ay, gospel fact;For here was a man with a level head,Who, scorning to fail for the help he lacked,Helped himself till he won instead;An elder was he in the Church of Christ,Immortal at thirty; his faith sufficed.

Richard Butler Glaenzer.

While our Argonne offensive was in progress, the French and English had been striking mighty blows at other portions of the German line, and everywhere the enemy was in retreat. Realizing that their power was broken and to save themselves from imminent disaster, the Germans asked for an armistice. It was offered on terms so drastic that many thought the Germans would not sign, but they did, and at eleven o'clock on the morning of November 11, 1918, firing ceased all along the front.

VICTORY BELLS

I heard the bells across the trees,I heard them ride the plunging breezeAbove the roofs from tower and spire,And they were leaping like a fire,And they were shining like a streamWith sun to make its music gleam.Deep tones as though the thunder tolled,Cool voices thin as tinkling gold,They shook the spangled autumn downFrom out the tree-tops of the town;They left great furrows in the airAnd made a clangor everywhereAs of metallic wings. They flewAloft in spirals to the blueTall tent of heaven and disappeared.And others, swift as though they fearedThe people might not heed their cryWent shoutingVictoryup the sky.They did not say that war is done,Only that glory has begunLike sunrise, and the coming dayWill burn the clouds of war away.There will be time for dreams again,And home-coming for weary men.Grace Hazard Conkling.

Grace Hazard Conkling.

America had lost nearly fifty thousand men killed in battle, and immediately after the armistice, work was begun gathering together their bodies, scattered over many battlefields, and re-interring them in beautiful cemeteries, where their graves would be perpetually cared for and honored.

EPICEDIUM

IN MEMORY OF AMERICA'S DEAD IN THE GREAT WAR

No more for them shall Evening's rose unclose,Nor Dawn's emblazoned panoplies be spread;Alike, the Rain's warm kiss, and stabbing snows,Unminded, fall upon each hallowed head.But the Bugles as they leap and wildly sing,Rejoice, ... remembering.The guns' mad music their young years have known—War's lullabies that moaned on Flanders Plain;To-night the wind walks on them, still as stone,Where they lie huddled close as riven grain.But the Drums, reverberating, proudly roll—They love a Soldier's soul!With arms outflung, and eyes that laughed at Death,They drank the wine of sacrifice and loss;For them a life-time spanned a burning breath,And Truth they visioned, clean of earthly dross.But the Fifes—can ye not hear their lusty shriek?They know, and now they speak!The lazy drift of cloud, the noon-day humOf vagrant bees, the lark's untrammeled songShall gladden them no more, who now lie dumbIn Death's strange sleep, yet once were swift and strong.But the Bells that to all living listeners peal,With joy their deeds reveal!They have given their lives, with bodies bruised and broken,Upon their Country's altar they have bled;They have left, as priceless heritage, a tokenThat Honor lives forever with the dead.And the Bugles, as their rich notes rise and fall—They answer, knowing all.J. Corson Miller.

The guns' mad music their young years have known—War's lullabies that moaned on Flanders Plain;To-night the wind walks on them, still as stone,Where they lie huddled close as riven grain.But the Drums, reverberating, proudly roll—They love a Soldier's soul!

With arms outflung, and eyes that laughed at Death,They drank the wine of sacrifice and loss;For them a life-time spanned a burning breath,And Truth they visioned, clean of earthly dross.But the Fifes—can ye not hear their lusty shriek?They know, and now they speak!

The lazy drift of cloud, the noon-day humOf vagrant bees, the lark's untrammeled songShall gladden them no more, who now lie dumbIn Death's strange sleep, yet once were swift and strong.But the Bells that to all living listeners peal,With joy their deeds reveal!

They have given their lives, with bodies bruised and broken,Upon their Country's altar they have bled;They have left, as priceless heritage, a tokenThat Honor lives forever with the dead.And the Bugles, as their rich notes rise and fall—They answer, knowing all.

J. Corson Miller.

THE DEAD

Think you the dead are lonely in that place?They are companioned by the leaves and grass,By many a beautiful and vanished face,By all the strange and lovely things that pass.Sunsets and dawnings and the starry vast,The swinging moon, the tracery of trees—These they shall know more perfectly at last,They shall be intimate with such as these.'Tis only for the living Beauty dies,Fades and drifts from us with too brief a grace,Beyond the changing tapestry of skiesWhere dwells her perfect and immortal face.For us the passage brief;—the happy deadAre ever by great beauty visited.David Morton.

David Morton.

THE UNRETURNING

For us, the dead, though young,For us, who fought and bled,Let a last song be sung,And a last word be said!Dreams, hopes, and high desires,That leaven and uplift,On sacrificial firesWe offered as a gift.We gave, and gave our all,In gladness, though in pain;Let not a whisper fallThat we have died in vain!Clinton Scollard.

For us, the dead, though young,For us, who fought and bled,Let a last song be sung,And a last word be said!

Dreams, hopes, and high desires,That leaven and uplift,On sacrificial firesWe offered as a gift.

We gave, and gave our all,In gladness, though in pain;Let not a whisper fallThat we have died in vain!

Clinton Scollard.

To America's soldier dead was added, on January 6, 1919, a valiant and righteous warrior, Theodore Roosevelt, whose sudden death at the age of sixty-one was a shock to the whole country.

THE STAR

[January 6, 1919]

Great soul, to all brave souls akin,High bearer of the torch of truth,Have you not gone to marshal inThose eager hosts of youth?Flung outward by the battle's tide,They met in regions dim and far;And you—in whom youth never died—Shall lead them, as a star!Marion Couthouy Smith.

Great soul, to all brave souls akin,High bearer of the torch of truth,Have you not gone to marshal inThose eager hosts of youth?

Flung outward by the battle's tide,They met in regions dim and far;And you—in whom youth never died—Shall lead them, as a star!

Marion Couthouy Smith.

Arrangements for sending home the American army were begun immediately after the armistice, and within a few months a steady stream of khaki-clad troops was flowing through the port of Brest, bound for America.

BREST LEFT BEHIND

The sun strikes gold the dirty street,The band blares, the drums insist,And brown legs twinkle and muscles twist—Pound!—Pound!—the rhythmic feet.The laughing street-boys shout,And a couple of hags come outTo grin and bob and clap.Stiff rusty black their dresses,And crispy white their Breton cap,Prim on white, smooth tresses.Wait!... Wait!... While dun clouds droopOver the sunlit docks,Over the wet gray rocksAnd mast of steamer and sloop,And the old squat towers,Damp gray and mossy brown,Where lovely Ann looked downAnd dreamed rich dreams through long luxurious hours.Sudden and swift, it rains!Familiar, fogging, gray;It blots the sky awayAnd cuts the face with biting little pains.We grunt and poke shoes free of muddy cakes,Watching them messing outUpon the dock in thick brown lakes—"No more French mud!" the sergeant cries,And someone swears, and someone sighs,And the neat squads swing about.Silent the looming hulk above—No camouflage this time—She's white and tan and black!Hurry, bend, climb,Push forward, stagger back!How clean the wide deck seems,The bunks, how trim;And, oh, the musty smell of ships!Faces are set and grim,Thinking of months, this hope was pain;And eyes are full of dreams,And gay little tunes come springing to the lips—Home, home, again, again!She's moving now,Across the prowThe dusk-soft harbor burstsInto a shivering bloom of lightFrom warehouse, warship, transport, tramp,And countless little bobbing mastsEach flouts the nightWith eager boastful lamp—Bright now, now dimmer, dimmer,Fewer and fewer glimmer.Only the lights that mark the passing shore,Lofty and lonely star the gray—Then are no more.We are alone with dusk and creamy spray.The captain coughs, remembering the rain.The major coughs remembering the mud.Some shudder at the horror of dark blood,Or wine-wet kisses, lewd.Some sigh, remembering new loves and farewell pain.Some smile, remembering old loves to be renewed.Silent, we stare across the deepening night.France vanishing!—Swift, swift, the curling waves—Fights and despair,And faces fair;Proud heads held highFor Victory;And flags above friends' graves.The group buzzes, rustles, hums,Then stiffens as the colonel comes,A burly figure in the mellow light,With haughty, kingly ways.He does not scan the night,Nor hissing spray that flies,But his cold old glance playsAlong the level of our eyes."I don't see very many tears," he says.John Chipman Farrar.

Wait!... Wait!... While dun clouds droopOver the sunlit docks,Over the wet gray rocksAnd mast of steamer and sloop,And the old squat towers,Damp gray and mossy brown,Where lovely Ann looked downAnd dreamed rich dreams through long luxurious hours.

Sudden and swift, it rains!Familiar, fogging, gray;It blots the sky awayAnd cuts the face with biting little pains.We grunt and poke shoes free of muddy cakes,Watching them messing outUpon the dock in thick brown lakes—"No more French mud!" the sergeant cries,And someone swears, and someone sighs,And the neat squads swing about.

Silent the looming hulk above—No camouflage this time—She's white and tan and black!Hurry, bend, climb,Push forward, stagger back!How clean the wide deck seems,The bunks, how trim;And, oh, the musty smell of ships!Faces are set and grim,Thinking of months, this hope was pain;And eyes are full of dreams,And gay little tunes come springing to the lips—Home, home, again, again!

She's moving now,Across the prowThe dusk-soft harbor burstsInto a shivering bloom of lightFrom warehouse, warship, transport, tramp,And countless little bobbing mastsEach flouts the nightWith eager boastful lamp—Bright now, now dimmer, dimmer,Fewer and fewer glimmer.Only the lights that mark the passing shore,Lofty and lonely star the gray—Then are no more.We are alone with dusk and creamy spray.

The captain coughs, remembering the rain.The major coughs remembering the mud.Some shudder at the horror of dark blood,Or wine-wet kisses, lewd.Some sigh, remembering new loves and farewell pain.Some smile, remembering old loves to be renewed.Silent, we stare across the deepening night.France vanishing!—Swift, swift, the curling waves—Fights and despair,And faces fair;Proud heads held highFor Victory;And flags above friends' graves.

The group buzzes, rustles, hums,Then stiffens as the colonel comes,A burly figure in the mellow light,With haughty, kingly ways.He does not scan the night,Nor hissing spray that flies,But his cold old glance playsAlong the level of our eyes.

"I don't see very many tears," he says.

John Chipman Farrar.

America went wild in welcoming them, as they arrived division after division. There were parades and celebrations; but with surprising swiftness the divisions were demobilized and the men returned to civil life.

TO THE RETURNING BRAVE

Victorious knights without reproach or fear—As close as man is ever to the stars!—Our welcome met you on the ocean drearIn loud, free winds and sunset's golden bars.Here, at our bannered gateLove, honor, laurels wait.Though you be humble, we are proud, and, in your stead, elate.Fame shall not tire to tell, no sordid stainLies on your purpose, on your record none.No broken word, no violated fane,No winning one could wish had ne'er been won.You were our message sentTo the torn Continent:That with its hope and faith henceforth our faith and hope are blent.You of our new, our homespun chivalry,Here is your welcome—in all women's eyes,The envious handclasp, romping children's glee,Music, and color, and glad tears that rise.Here every voice of PeaceShall bruit our joy, nor ceaseTo vie with shotless guns to shout your blameless victories.But, though you are a part of all men's pride,And from your fortitude new nations date,Oh, lay not yet your sacred steel aside,But save it for the still-imperiled State.You who have bound a girthOf new hope round the Earth,Should its firm bond be loosened here, what were your struggle worth?A redder peril dogs the path of war;With fire and poison wanton children play;And fickle crowds toward new pretenders pourWho summon demons they can never lay.Already we can hear,Importunately near,The snarling of the savage crew, half fury and half jeer.Then hang not up your arms till you have taughtThe ungrateful guests about our hearth and boardThat in your swift encounter has been wroughtA keener edge to our reluctant sword.You who know well the priceOf the great sacrifice,Your courage saved us once; pray Heaven, it need not save us twice.And those who come not back, who mutely lieBy Marne or Meuse or tangled Argonne wood:Were it to lose the gain, (let them reply!)Would we recall their spirits if we could?Open your ranks and saveTheir places with the brave,That Liberty may greet you all, her shields of land and wave.Robert Underwood Johnson.

Fame shall not tire to tell, no sordid stainLies on your purpose, on your record none.No broken word, no violated fane,No winning one could wish had ne'er been won.You were our message sentTo the torn Continent:That with its hope and faith henceforth our faith and hope are blent.

You of our new, our homespun chivalry,Here is your welcome—in all women's eyes,The envious handclasp, romping children's glee,Music, and color, and glad tears that rise.Here every voice of PeaceShall bruit our joy, nor ceaseTo vie with shotless guns to shout your blameless victories.

But, though you are a part of all men's pride,And from your fortitude new nations date,Oh, lay not yet your sacred steel aside,But save it for the still-imperiled State.You who have bound a girthOf new hope round the Earth,Should its firm bond be loosened here, what were your struggle worth?

A redder peril dogs the path of war;With fire and poison wanton children play;And fickle crowds toward new pretenders pourWho summon demons they can never lay.Already we can hear,Importunately near,The snarling of the savage crew, half fury and half jeer.

Then hang not up your arms till you have taughtThe ungrateful guests about our hearth and boardThat in your swift encounter has been wroughtA keener edge to our reluctant sword.You who know well the priceOf the great sacrifice,Your courage saved us once; pray Heaven, it need not save us twice.

And those who come not back, who mutely lieBy Marne or Meuse or tangled Argonne wood:Were it to lose the gain, (let them reply!)Would we recall their spirits if we could?Open your ranks and saveTheir places with the brave,That Liberty may greet you all, her shields of land and wave.

Robert Underwood Johnson.

Amid all the celebrations, there was always the consciousness of those who would not return, in body, at least, but whose spirits would never be severed from America's.

THE RETURN

Golden through the golden morning,Who is this that comesWith the pride of banners lifted,With the roll of drums?With the self-same triumph shiningIn the ardent glance,That divine, bright fate defianceThat you bore to France.You! But o'er your grave in FlandersBlow the winter gales;Still for sorrow of your goingAll life's laughter fails.Borne on flutes of dawn the answer:"O'er the foam's white track,God's work done, so to our homelandComes her hosting back."Come the dead men with the live menFrom the marshes far,From the mounds in no man's valley,Lit by cross nor star."Come to blend with hers the essenceOf their strength and pride,All the radiance of the dreamingFor whose truth they died."So the dead men with the live menPass, an hosting fair,And the stone is rolled foreverFrom the soul's despair.Eleanor Rogers Cox.

Golden through the golden morning,Who is this that comesWith the pride of banners lifted,With the roll of drums?

With the self-same triumph shiningIn the ardent glance,That divine, bright fate defianceThat you bore to France.

You! But o'er your grave in FlandersBlow the winter gales;Still for sorrow of your goingAll life's laughter fails.

Borne on flutes of dawn the answer:"O'er the foam's white track,God's work done, so to our homelandComes her hosting back.

"Come the dead men with the live menFrom the marshes far,From the mounds in no man's valley,Lit by cross nor star.

"Come to blend with hers the essenceOf their strength and pride,All the radiance of the dreamingFor whose truth they died."

So the dead men with the live menPass, an hosting fair,And the stone is rolled foreverFrom the soul's despair.

Eleanor Rogers Cox.

One distinguished visitor was welcomed by the American people as they welcomed their own sons—King Albert, of Belgium, who made an extensive tour of the United States in the summer of 1919.

KING OF THE BELGIANS

How spoke the King, in his crucial hour victorious?The words of a high decision, few, but glorious.What was the choice he made, that all fear surmounted?The choice of a man—that leaves not the soul uncounted.What did the King, in bitter defeat and sorrow?He stood as a god, foreseeing a great to-morrow.How fought the King? In silent and stern persistence;Patience and power within, and hope in the distance.What was the gift he won, in the fire that tried him?The deathless love of his own, who fought beside him.What is his crown, the noblest of all for wearing?The homage of hearts that beat for his splendid bearing.Robe and sceptre and crown—what are these for holding?Vesture and sign for his spirit's royal moulding.What speaks he now, in the hour of faith victorious?Words of a quiet gladness, few, but glorious.Then, as we greet him, what shall be ours to render?Silence that shines, and speech that is proud and tender!Marion Couthouy Smith.

How spoke the King, in his crucial hour victorious?The words of a high decision, few, but glorious.

What was the choice he made, that all fear surmounted?The choice of a man—that leaves not the soul uncounted.

What did the King, in bitter defeat and sorrow?He stood as a god, foreseeing a great to-morrow.

How fought the King? In silent and stern persistence;Patience and power within, and hope in the distance.

What was the gift he won, in the fire that tried him?The deathless love of his own, who fought beside him.

What is his crown, the noblest of all for wearing?The homage of hearts that beat for his splendid bearing.

Robe and sceptre and crown—what are these for holding?Vesture and sign for his spirit's royal moulding.

What speaks he now, in the hour of faith victorious?Words of a quiet gladness, few, but glorious.

Then, as we greet him, what shall be ours to render?Silence that shines, and speech that is proud and tender!

Marion Couthouy Smith.

Meanwhile, at Paris, the Peace Conference, under the leadership of President Woodrow Wilson, who had broken all precedents by going to Europe, was struggling with the peace treaty. For America, the great conflict had been a war to end war, and the President insisted that provisions to establish a League of Nations should be made an integral part of the treaty.

THE FAMILY OF NATIONS

With that pathetic impudence of youth,America, half-formed, gigantic and uncouth,Stretching great limbs, in something of surpriseBeholds new meaning written on the skies.Out of the granite, Time has reared a StateHaughty and fearless, awkward, passionate—For all his dreaming and his reckless boast,Betrayed by those whom he has trusted most.Years of stern peril knit that welded frame,Banded those arms and set that heart aflame,Burdened those loins with vigor of increase,Gave to his hand a weapon forged to peace.He cannot turn the discovering hour aside,He feels the stir that will not be denied,And in the family the Nations planForgets the boy and finds himself a man!Willard Wattles.

With that pathetic impudence of youth,America, half-formed, gigantic and uncouth,Stretching great limbs, in something of surpriseBeholds new meaning written on the skies.

Out of the granite, Time has reared a StateHaughty and fearless, awkward, passionate—For all his dreaming and his reckless boast,Betrayed by those whom he has trusted most.

Years of stern peril knit that welded frame,Banded those arms and set that heart aflame,Burdened those loins with vigor of increase,Gave to his hand a weapon forged to peace.

He cannot turn the discovering hour aside,He feels the stir that will not be denied,And in the family the Nations planForgets the boy and finds himself a man!

Willard Wattles.

After months of struggle and negotiation, this purpose was achieved, and on July 10, 1919, the President laid the treaty before the Senate for confirmation. Strong opposition to the League of Nations developed immediately, on the ground that it interfered with America's independence and freedom of action, and various "reservations" were proposed, limiting America's participation. These the President refused to accept, and finally, after eight months of bitter debate, largely partisan and personal, the Senate rejected the treaty March 19, 1920.

THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS

Lo, Joseph dreams his dream again,And Joan leads her armies in the night,And somewhere near, the Master from His crossLifts his hurt hands and heals the world again!For from the great red welter of the world,Out from the tides of its red sufferingComes the slow sunrise of the ancient dream—Is flung the glory of its bright imagining.See how it breaks in beauty on the world,Shivers and shudders on its trembling way—Shivers and waits and trembles to be born!America, young daughter of the gods, swing out,Strong in the beauty of virginity,Fearless in thine unquestioned leadership,And hold the taper to the nations' torch,And light the hearthfires of the halls of home.Thine must it be to break an unpathed way,To lift the torch for world's in-brothering—To bring to birth this child of all the earth,Formed of the marriage of all nations;Else shall we go, the head upon the breast,A Cain without a country, a Judas at the board!Mary Siegrist.

America, young daughter of the gods, swing out,Strong in the beauty of virginity,Fearless in thine unquestioned leadership,And hold the taper to the nations' torch,And light the hearthfires of the halls of home.Thine must it be to break an unpathed way,To lift the torch for world's in-brothering—To bring to birth this child of all the earth,Formed of the marriage of all nations;Else shall we go, the head upon the breast,A Cain without a country, a Judas at the board!

Mary Siegrist.

BEYOND WARS

FOR THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS

Then will a quiet gather round the door,And settle on those evening fields again,Where women watch the slow, home-coming menAcross brown acres hoofed and hurt no more,The sound of children's feet be on the floor,When lamps are lit, and stillness deeper falls,Unbroken, save where cattle in their stallsKeep munching patiently upon their store.Only a scar beside the pasture gate,A torn and naked tree upon the hill,What times remembered, will remind them stillOf long disastrous days they knew of late;Till these, too, yield for sweet, accustomed things,—And a man ploughs, a woman sews and sings.David Morton.

Only a scar beside the pasture gate,A torn and naked tree upon the hill,What times remembered, will remind them stillOf long disastrous days they knew of late;Till these, too, yield for sweet, accustomed things,—And a man ploughs, a woman sews and sings.

David Morton.

It was a revival of the old idea of "splendid isolation" on the part of men whose gaze was backward and who had learned nothing from the war. To all others, however, it is evident that America must take her place with the other peoples of the earth at the council-table of the League of Nations, and do her part toward the establishment of peace and liberty throughout the world.

"WHEN THERE IS PEACE"

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