Chapter 4
Life isn't rest--it is toil; It is building a dream; It is tilling a parcel of soil Or bridging a stream; It's pursuing the light of a star That but dimly we see, And in wresting from things as they are The joy that should be.
As It Looks to the Boy
His comrades have enlisted, but his mother bids him stay, His soul is sick with coward shame, his head hangs low to-day, His eyes no longer sparkle, and his breast is void of pride And I think that she has lost him though she's kept him at her side. Oh, I'm sorry for the mother, but I'm sorrier for the lad Who must look on life forever as a hopeless dream and sad.
He must fancy men are sneering as they see him walk the street, He will feel his cheeks turn crimson as his eyes another's meet; And the boys and girls that knew him as he was but yesterday, Will not seem to smile upon him, in the old familiar way. He will never blame his mother, but when he's alone at night, His thoughts will flock to tell him that he isn't doing right.
Oh, I'm sorry for the mother from whose side a boy must go, And the strong desire to keep him that she feels, I think I know, But the boy that she's so fond of has a life to live on earth, And he hungers to be busy with the work that is of worth. He will sicken and grow timid, he'll be flesh without a heart Until death at last shall claim him, if he doesn't do his part.
Have you kept him, gentle mother? Has he lost his old-time cheer? Is he silent, sad and sullen? Are his eyes no longer clear? Is he growing weak and flabby who but yesterday was strong? Then a secret grief he's nursing and I'll tell you what is wrong. All his comrades have departed on their country's noblest work, And he hungers to be with them--it is not his wish to shirk.
Fly a Clean Flag
This I heard the Old Flag say As I passed it yesterday: "Months ago your friendly hands Fastened me on slender strands And with patriotic love Placed me here to wave above You and yours. I heard you say On that long departed day: 'Flag of all that's true and fine, Wave above this house of mine; Be the first at break of day And the last at night to say To the world this word of cheer: Loyalty abideth here.'
"Here on every wind that's blown, O'er your" portal I have flown; Rain and snow have battered me, Storms at night have tattered me; Dust of street and chimney stack Day by day have stained me black, And I've watched you passing there, Wondering how much you care. Have you noticed that your flag, Is to-day a wind-blown rag? Has your love so careless grown By the long neglect you've shown That you never raise your eye To the symbol that you fly?"
"Flag, on which no stain has been, 'Tis my sin that you're unclean," Then I answered in my shame. "On my head must lie the blame. Now with patriotic hands I release you from your strands, And a spotless flag shall fly Here to greet each passer-by. Nevermore shall Flag of mine Be a sad and sorry sign Telling all who look above I neglect the thing I love. But my Flag of faith shall be Fit for every eye to see."
To a Kindly Critic
If it's wrong to believe in the land that we love And to pray for Our Flag to the good God above; If it's wrong to believe that Our Country is best; That honor's her standard, and truth is her crest; If placing her first in our prayers and our song Is false to true reason, we're glad to be wrong.
If it's wrong to wish victory day after day For the troops of Our Country now marching away; If it's wrong to believe they are moved by the right And not by the love and the lure of the fight; If to cheer them to battle and bid them be strong Is false to right thinking, then let us be wrong.
If it's wrong to believe in America's dreams Of a freedom on earth that's as real as it seems; If it's error to cherish the hope, through and through, That the Stars in Old Glory's immaculate blue Shall shine through the ages, true beacons to men, We pray that no right phrase shall flow from our pen.
War's Homecoming
We little thought how much they meant--the bleeding hearts of France, And British mothers wearing black to mark some troop's advance, The war was, O, so distant then, the grief so far away, We couldn't see the weeping eyes, nor hear the women pray. We couldn't sense the weight of woe that rested on that land, But now our boy is called to go--to-day, we understand.
There, some have heard the blackest news that o'er the wires has sped, And some are living day by day beneath the clouds of dread; Some fear the worst; some know the worst, but every heart is chilled, And every soul is sorrow touched and laughter there is stilled. There, old folks sit alone and grieve and pray for peace to come, And now our little boy has heard the summons of the drum.
Their grief was such a distant thing, we made it fruit for speech. We never thought in days of old such pain our hearts would reach. We talked of it, as people do of sorrow far aloof, Nor dreamed such care would ever dwell beneath our happy roof. But England's woes are ours to-day, we share the sighs of France; Our little boy is on the sea with Death to take his chance.
Next of Kin
I notice when the news comes in Of one who's claimed eternal glory, This simple phrase, "the next of kin," Concludes the soldier's final story. This tells the world what voice will choke, What heart that bit of shrapnel broke, What father or what mother brave Will think of Flanders as a grave.
"The next of kin," the cable cold Wastes not a precious word in telling, Yet cannot you and I behold The sorrow in some humble dwelling, And cannot you and I perceive The brave yet lonely mother grieve And picture, when that news comes in, The anguish of "the next of kin?"
For every boy in uniform, Another soldier brave is fighting; A double rank the cannons storm, Two lines the cables are uniting, And with the hurt each soldier feels, At home the other warrior reels; Two suffer, freedom's cause to win: The soldier and "the next of kin."
Oh, next of kin, be brave, be strong, As brave as was the boy that's missing; The years will many be and long That you will hunger for his kissing. Yet he enlisted you with him To share war's bitter price and grim; Your service runs through many years Because your name with his appears.
See It Through
There are many to cheer when the battle begins There are many to shout for the right; There are many to rail at the world and its sins But few have the grit for the fight. There are thousands to start with a rush for the fray When the fighting seems easy to do, But when danger is present and rough is the way, The few have to see the job through.
It is easy to quit with a battle unwon, It is hard to press on to success; It is easy to stop with a purpose undone, It is hard to encounter distress. And many will march when the roadway is clear And the glorious goal is in view, But the many, too often, when dangers appear, Aren't willing to see the fight through.
They weaken in spirit when trials grow great, They flinch at the clashing of steel; They talk of the strength of the foe at the gate And whine at the hurts that they feel. They begin to regret having ventured for right, They sigh that they dared to be true, They haven't the heart they once had for the fight, They don't want to see the job through.
We have set out to battle for justice and truth, We have fearful disasters to meet; We shall weep for the best of our manliest youth, We shall suffer the pangs of defeat. But let us stand firm for the cause that we plead, Let the many be brave with the few; The cry of the quitter let none of us heed Till we've done what we started to do.
Hope
Mine is a song of hope For the days that lie before; For the grander things The morrow brings When the struggle days are o'er. Dark be the clouds to-day, Bitter the winds that blow, But falter nor fail, Through the howling gale-- Comes peace in the afterglow.
Mine is the song of hope, A song for the mother here, Who lulls to rest The babe at breast, And hopes for a brighter year. Hope is the song she sings, Hope is the prayer she prays; As she rocks her boy, She dreams of the joy He'll bring in the future days.
Mine is the song of hope, A song for the father, too, Whose right arm swings, While his anvil sings A song of the journey through. Hope is the star that guides, Hope is the father's sun; Far ahead he sees, Through the waving trees, Sweet peace when his work is done.
Mine is the song of hope, Of hope that sustains us all; Be we young or old, Be we weak or bold, Do we falter or even fall, Brightly the star of hope From the distance is shining still; And with courage new We rise to do, For hope is the God of Will.
The Gold Givers
Oh, some shall stand in glory's light when all the strife is done, And many a mother there shall say, "For truth I gave my son!" But I shall stand in silence then and hear the stories brave, For I must answer at the last that gold is all I gave.
When all this age shall pass away, and silenced are the guns, When sweethearts join their loves again, and mothers kiss their sons, When brave unto the brave return, and all they did is told, How pitiful my gift shall seem, when all I gave is gold.
When we are asked what did you then, when all the world was red, And some shall say, "I fell in France," and some, "I mourned my dead;" With all the brave assembled there in glory long to live, How trivial our lives shall seem who had but gold to give.
The Undaunted
He tried to travel No Man's Land, that's guarded well with guns, He tried to race the road of death, where never a coward runs. Now he's asking of his doctor, and he's panting hard for breath, How soon he will be ready for another bout with death.
You'd think if you had wakened in a shell hole's slime and mud That was partly dirty water, but was mostly human blood, And you had to lie and suffer till the bullets ceased to hum And the night time dropped its cover, so the stretcher boys could come--
You'd think if you had suffered from a fever and its thirst, And could hear the "rapids" spitting and the high explosives burst, And had lived to tell that story--you could face our fellow men In the little peaceful village, though you never fought again.
You'd think that once you'd fallen in the shrapnel's deadly rain, Once you'd shed your blood for honor, you had borne your share of pain; Once you'd traveled No Man's country, you'd be satisfied to quit And be invalided homeward, and could say you'd done your bit.
But he's lying, patched and bandaged, very white and very weak, And he's trying to be cheerful, though it's agony to speak; He is pleading with the doctor, though he's panting hard for breath, To return him to the trenches for another bout with death.
The Discovery of a Soul
_The proof of a man is the danger test_, _That shows him up at his worst or best_.
He didn't seem to care for work, he wasn't much at school. His speech was slow and commonplace--you wouldn't call him fool. And yet until the war broke out you'd calmly pass him by, For nothing in his make-up or his way would catch your eye. He seemed indifferent to the world, the kind that doesn't care-- That's satisfied with just enough to eat and drink and wear; That doesn't laugh when others do or cry when others weep, But seems to walk the wakeful world half dormant and asleep; Then came the war, and soldiers marched and drums began to roll, And suddenly we realized his body held a soul.
We little dreamed how much he loved his Country and her Flag; About the glorious Stars and Stripes we'd never heard him brag. But he was first to volunteer, while brilliant men demurred, He took the oath of loyalty without a faltering word, And then we found that he could talk, for one remembered night, There came a preaching pacifist denouncing men who fight, And he got up in uniform and looked at him and said: "I wonder if you ever think about our soldiers dead. All that you are to-day you owe some soldier in his grave; If he had been afraid to fight, you still would be a slave."
If he had died a year ago beneath a peaceful sky, Unjust our memory would have been; of him our tongues would lie. We should have missed his splendid worth, we should have called him frail And listed him among the weak and sorry men who fail. But few regrets had marked his end; he would have passed unmourned-- Perhaps by those who knew him best, indifferently scorned. But now he stands among us all, eyes bright and shoulders true, A strong defender of the faith; a man with work to do; And if he dies, his name shall find its place on history's scroll; The great chance has revealed to men the splendor of his soul.
Here We Are!
Here we are, Britain! the finest and best of us Taking our coats off and rolling our sleeves, Answering the thoughtless that once made a jest of us, Each man a soldier for what he believes. Here we are, tight little island, in unity! Tell us the job that you want us to do! You can depend on us all with impunity. Give us a task and we'll all see it through.
Here we are, France! every Yankee born man of us Coming to stand by your side in the fight; Liberty's cause makes a whole-hearted clan of us. Here we are, willing to die for the right. Silently, long from our shores we've admired you, Secretly proud of the pluck you've displayed. Brothers we are of the love that inspired you; Now we are coming, full front, to your aid.
Here we are, Allies! make room in your trenches! Shoulder to shoulder we'll share in each drive. Here we are! quitting our lathes and our benches, Bringing our best that our best shall survive. Here we are! Liberty's children, red-blooded, Coming to share in the struggle with you, Ready to die for the Flag that's star-studded; Tell us the work that you want us to do.
What is it, fighting or building you're needing? Boring a mountain or bridging a stream, Steel work and real work? Your call we are heeding. Each of us here is a man with a dream. Here we are! tacklers of tough jobs and dangers, Any old post where you put us we'll fit; Coming to serve you as brothers, not strangers; Here we are, Allies! to offer our bit!
We Who Stay at Home
When you were just our little boy, on many a night we crept Unto your cot and watched o'er you, and all the time you slept. We tucked the covers round your form and smoothed your pillow, too, And sometimes stooped and kissed your cheeks, but that you never knew. Just as we came to you back then through many a night and day, Our spirits now shall come to you--to kiss and watch and pray.
Whenever you shall look away into God's patch of sky To think about the folks at home, we shall be standing by. And as we prayed and watched o'er you when you were wrapped in sleep, So through your soldier danger now the old-time watch we'll keep. You will not know that we are there, you will not see or hear, But all the time in prayer and thought we shall be very near.
The world has made of you a man; the work of man you do, But unto us you still remain the baby that we knew; And we shall come, as once we did, on wondrous wings of prayer, And you will never know how oft in spirit we are there. We'll stand beside your bed at night, in silence bending low, And all the love we gave you then shall follow where you go.
Oh, we were proud of you back then, but we are prouder now; We see the stamp of splendor God has placed upon your brow, And we who are the folks at home shall pray the old time prayer, And ask the God of Mercy to protect you with His care. And as we came to you of old, although you never knew, The hearts of us, each day and night, shall come with love to you.
Do Your All
"Do your bit!" How cheap and trite Seems that phrase in such a fight! "Do your bit!" That cry recall, Change it now to "Do your all!" Do your all, and then do more; Do what you're best fitted for; Do your utmost, do and give, You have but one life to live.
Do your finest, do your best, Don't let up and stop to rest, Don't sit back and idly say: "I did something yesterday." Come on! Here's another hour, Give it all you have of power. Here's another day that needs Everybody's share of deeds.
"Do your bit!" of course, but then Do it time and time again; Giving, doing, all should be Up to full capacity. Now's no time to pick and choose, We've a war we must not lose. Be your duty great or small, Do it well and do it all.
Do by careful, patient living, Do by cheerful, open giving; Do by serving day by day At whatever post you may; Do by sacrificing pleasure, Do by scorning hours of leisure. Now to God and country give Every minute that you live.
The Future
"The worst is yet to come:" So wail the doubters glum, But here's the better view: "My best I've yet to do."
The worst some always fear; To-morrow holds no cheer, Yet farther on life's lane Are joys you shall attain.
Go forward bravely, then, And play your part as men, For this is ever true: "Our best we've yet to do."
A Father's Prayer
I sometimes wonder when I read the sorrow in his face If I shall wear that look of care when time has marched apace? My little boy is five years old and his is twenty-one; My little boy is home with me; his boy to war has gone.
And I can laugh and dance with life, and I can gayly jest, But heavy is the heart to-day that beats within his breast. Time was, his boy was five years old; time was he smiled as I; I wonder what awaits for me when youth has journeyed by?
Last night I sat at home and watched my little boy at play, And all the time I thought of him whose boy has gone away. And in the joy that I possessed I prayed in silence then That God would quickly bring him back his little boy again.
The Glory of Age
"What is the glory of age?" I said, "A hoard of gold and a few dear friends? When you've reached the day that you look ahead And see the place where your journey ends, When Time has robbed you of youthful might-- What is the secret of your delight?"
And an old man smiled as he answered me: "The glory of age isn't gold or friends, When we've reached the valley of Soon-To-Be And note the place where our journey ends; The glory of age, be it understood, Is a boy out there who is making good.
"The greatest joy that can come to man When his sight is dim and his hair is gray; The greatest glory that God can plan To cheer the lives of the old to-day, When they share no more in the battle yell, Is a boy out there who is doing well."
Beautifying the Flag
To us the Flag has little meant. Each glorious stripe of red Was woven there to represent The blood of heroes dead. On some dim, distant battle line By other men were gained The glories that have made it fine, And idle we've remained. But now the Flag shall finer grow And ages yet to be Shall find the courage that we show To-day for liberty.
Of other men the Flag has told; It flies for others' deeds; Its pride is born of heroes bold Who served its by-gone needs. But now our blood shall mingle there With blood of patriots dead, And through the years each stripe shall wear A deeper, truer red. The splendor of the flag shall gleam In every radiant star, And finer shall the banner seem Because of what we are.
To-day new glory for the Flag We give our best to build; Of us shall future ages brag, By us their blood be thrilled; And as to us the flag has meant The greatness of the past, The Stars and Stripes shall represent Our courage to the last. The children in the years to be Our trials shall discuss, And cheer the emblem of the free, In part, because of us.
To the Men at Home
No war is won by cannon fire alone; The soldier bears the grim and dreary role; He dies to serve the Flag that he has known; His duty is to gain the distant goal. But if the toiler in his homeland fair Falter in faith and shrink from every test, If he be not on duty ever there, Lost to the cause is every soldier's best.
The men at home, the toiler in the shop, The keen-eyed watcher of the spinning drill Hear no command to vault the trench's top; They know not what it is to die or kill, And yet they must be brave and constant, too. Upon them lies their precious country's fate; They also serve the Flag as soldiers do, 'Tis theirs to make a nation's army great.
You hold your country's honor in your care. Her glory you shall help to make or mar; For they, who now her uniforms must wear Can be no braver soldiers than you are. From day to day, in big and little deeds, At bench or lathe or desk or stretch of soil, You are the man your country sorely needs! Will you not give to her your finest toil?
No war is won by cannon fire alone. The men at home must also share the fight. By what they are, a nation's strength is shown, The army but reflects their love of right. Will you not help to hold our battle line, Will you not give the fullest of your powers In sacrifice and service that is fine That victory shall speedily be ours?
From Laughter to Labor
We have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure, We have scorned the soul's duty to gather up treasure; We have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning And paid little heed to the soul's simple sinning. But light were the burdens that freighted us then, God and country, to-day let us prove we are men!
We have idled and dreamed in life's merriest places, The years have writ little of care in our faces; We have brought up our children, expectant of gladness, And little we've taught them of life and its sadness. For distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong, God and country, to-day let us prove we are strong!
We have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming, We have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war's drumming. We have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled, And now we must show that our souls are unspoiled. We must work that our Flag shall in honor still wave, God and country, to-day let us prove we are brave!
United