Chapter 6

We all are warriors with sin, we all are knights in life's crusades, And with some form of tyranny, we're sent to earth to measure blades. The courage of the soul must gleam in conflict with some fearful foe, No man was ever born to life its luxuries alone to know. And he who brothers with a sin to keep his outward garb unsoiled And fears to battle with a wrong, shall find his soul decayed and spoiled.

Easy Service

When an empty sleeve or a sightless eye Or a legless form I see, I breathe my thanks to my God on High For His watchful care o'er me. And I say to myself, as the cripple goes Half stumbling on his way: I may brag and boast, but that brother knows Why the old flag floats to-day.

I think as I sit in my cozy den Puffing one of my many pipes That I've served with all of my fellow men The glorious Stars and Stripes. Then I see a troop in the faded blue And a few in the dusty gray, And I have to laugh at the deeds I do For the flag that floats to-day.

I see men tangled in pointed wire, The sport of the blazing sun, Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire As the tides of battle run, And I fancy I hear their piteous calls For merciful death, and then The cannons cease and the darkness falls, And those fluttering things are men.

Out there in the night they beg for death, Yet the Reaper spurns their cries, And it seems his jest to leave them breath For their pitiful pleas and sighs. And I am here in my cozy room In touch with the joys of life, I am miles away from the fields of doom And the gory scenes of strife.

I never have vainly called for aid, Nor suffered real pangs of thirst, I have marched with life in its best parade And never have seen its worst. In the flowers of ease I have ever basked, And I think as the Flag I see How much of service from some it's asked, How little of toil from me.

A Father's Thoughts

Because I am his father, they Expect me to put grief away; Because I am a man, and rough And sometimes short of speech and gruff, The women folks at home believe His absence doesn't make me grieve; But how I felt, they little know, The day I smiled and let him go.

They little know the dreams I had Long cherished for my sturdy lad; They little guess the wrench it meant That day when off to war he went; They little know the tears I checked While standing, smiling and erect; They never heard my smothered sigh When it was time to say good-bye.

"What does his father think and say?" The neighbors ask from day to day. "Oh, he's a man," they answer then. "And you know how it is with men. But little do they ever say, They do not feel the self-same way; He seems indifferent and grim And yet he's very proud of him."

Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart, Be brave enough to play the part, Let not the grief in you be shown, Keep all your loneliness unknown, To you the women folks must turn For comfort when their sorrows burn. You must not at this time reveal The pain and anguish that you feel.

Oh, tongue, be silent through the years, And eyes, keep back always the tears, And let them never see or know My hidden weight of grief and woe. Though every golden dream I had Was centered in my little lad, Alone my sorrow I must bear. They must not know how much I care.

Though women folks may talk and weep, A man, unseen, his grief must keep, And hide behind his smile and pride The loneliness that dwells inside. And so, from day to day, I go, Playing the part of man, although Beneath the rough outside and grim, I think and dream and pray for him.

The Waiter at the Camp

The officers' friend is the waiter at camp. In the night air 'twas cold and was bitterly damp, And they asked me to dine, which I readily did, For at dining I've talents I never keep hid. Then a bright-eyed young fellow came in with the meat, And straightway the troop of us started to eat.

I silently noticed that young fellow wait At each officer's side 'til he'd filled up his plate; I was startled a bit at the very first look By the size of the helping each officer took, And I thought as I sat there among them that night Of the army's effect on a man's appetite.

The waiter at last brought the platter to me And modestly proper I started to be. A small piece of meat then I gracefully took; The young fellow stood there and gave me a look. "Better get all you want," he remarked to me then, "I pass this way once, but I don't come again."

I turned in amazement. He nodded his head In a way that convinced me he meant what he said. I knew from his manner and smile on his lip That the rule in the army is "no second trip." And I thought as he left me my food to attack, Life gives us one chance, but it never comes back.

The Complacent Slacker

When he was just a lad in school, He used to sit around and fool And watch the clock and say: "I can't see that I'll ever need This stuff the teacher makes me read, I'll work no more to-day. And anyhow it's almost June And school days will be over soon."

One time we played a baseball game, And when a chance for stealing came, On second base he stood, And when we asked him why, he said: "What was the use, they're far ahead, One run would do no good. The game is almost over now, We couldn't win it anyhow."

The same old slacker still is he, With men at war on land and sea, And our lads plunging in it; He spreads afar his old excuse. "I'd like to help, but what's the use, The Allied troops will win it. There's nothing now to make us fret, there, They'll have it won before we get there."

The worst of slackers is the man Who will not help whene'er he can, But plays the idle rover, And tells to all beset with doubt There's naught to be alarmed about, The storm will soon be over. Let no such dangerous person lead us, To-day in France they sadly need us.

A Christmas Greeting

Here's to you, little mother, With your boy so far away; May the joy of service smother All your grief this Christmas day; May the magic of his splendor Thrill your spirit through and through And may all that's fine and tender Make a smiling day for you.

May you never know the sadness That from day to day you dread; May you never find but gladness In the Flag that's overhead; May the good God watch above him As he stands to duty stern, And at last to all who love him May he have a safe return.

Little mother, take the blessing Of a grateful nation's heart; May the news that is distressing Never cause your tears to start; May there be no fears to haunt you, And no lonely hours and sad; May your trials never daunt you, But may every day be glad.

Little Mother, could I do it, This my Christmas gift would be: That he'd safely battle through it, This to you I'd guarantee. And I'd pledge to you this morning Joys to banish all your cares, Gifts of gold and silver scorning, I would answer all your prayers.

Ideals

Better than land or gold or trade Are a high ideal and a purpose true; Better than all of the wealth we've made Is the work for others that now we do. For Rome grew rich and she turned to song And danced to music and drank her wine, But she sapped the strength of her fibres strong And a gilded shroud was her splendor fine.

The Rome of old with its wealth and wine Was the handiwork of a sturdy race; They builded well and they made it fine And they dreamed of it as their children's place. They thought the joys they had won to give, And which seemed so certain and fixed and sure, To the end of time in the world would live And the Rome they'd fashioned would long endure.

They passed to their children the hoarded gold, Their marble halls and their fertile fields! But not the spirit of Rome of old, Nor the Roman courage that never yields. They left them the wealth that their hands had won, But they failed to leave them a purpose true. They left them thinking life's work all done, And Rome went down and was lost to view.

We must guard ourselves lest we follow Rome. We must leave our children the finer things. We must teach them love of the spot called home And the lasting joy that a purpose brings. For vain are our Flag and our battles won, And vain are our lands and our stores of gold, If our children feel that life's work is done. We must give them a high ideal to hold.

Rebellion

"My Crown Prince was fine and fair," a sorrowful father said, "But he marched away with his regiment and they tell me that he's dead! 'We all must go,' he whispered low, 'We must fight for the Fatherland.' Now the heart of me's torn with the grief I know, and I cannot understand, For none of the Kaiser's princes lie out there where my soldier sleeps; Here's a land where grief is the common lot, but never the Kaiser weeps.

"My Crown Prince was a kindly prince, and his eyes were gentle, too, And glad were the days of his youth to me when his wonderful smile I knew. Then the Kaiser flattered and spoke him well, and he sent him out to die, But his Crown Prince hasn't felt one hurt and the heart of me questions why? He talks of war in his regal way and he boasts of his strength to strike, But his boys all live and he doesn't know what the sting of a bullet's like.

"Rebellion gnaws at the soul of me as I think of his Crown Prince gay, And my Prince cold in the arms of death, and harsh are the things I say. I join with the grief-torn muttering men who challenge the Kaiser's right To build his joys on the graves of ours. We shall rise in our wrath to smite! And this is the thing we shall ask of him: to give us the reason why Our boys must fall on his battlefields, but never his boys must die?"

Drafted

The biggest moment in our lives was that when first he cried, From that day unto this, for him, we've struggled side by side. We can recount his daily deeds, and backwards we can look, And proudly live again the time when first a step he took.

I see him trudging off to school, his mother at his side, And when she left him there alone she hurried home and cried. And then the sturdy chap of eight that was, I proudly see, Who packed a little grip and took a fishing trip with me.

Among the lists of boys to go his name has now appeared; To us has come the sacrifice that mothers all have feared; And though we dread the parting hour when he shall march away, We love him and the Flag too much to ask of him to stay.

His baby ways shall march with him, and every joy we've had, Somewhere in France some day shall be a little brown-eyed lad; A toddler and a child at school, the chum that once I knew Shall wear our country's uniform, for they've been drafted, too.

Reflection

You have given me riches and ease, You have given me joys through the years, I have sat in the shade of your trees, With the song of your birds in my ears. I have drunk of your bountiful wine And done as I've chosen to do, But, oh wonderful country of mine, 'How little have I done for you!

You have given me safe harbor from harm, Untroubled I've slept through the nights And have waked to the new morning's charm And claimed as my own its delights. I have taken the finest of fine From your orchards and fields where it grew, But, oh wonderful country of mine, How little I've given to you!

You have given me a home and a place Where in safety my babies may play; Health blooms on each bright dimpled face And laughter is theirs every day. You have guarded from danger the shrine Where I worship when toiling is through, But, oh wonderful country of mine, How little have I done for you!

I have taken your gifts without thought, I have reveled in joys that you gave, That I see now with blood had been bought, The blood of your earlier braves. I have lived without making one sign That the source of my riches I knew, Now, oh wonderful country of mine, I'm here to do something for you!

A Wish

God grant my children may Not think in terms of gold When I have passed away And my poor form is cold. When I no more shall be, If of me they would brag, I'd have them speak of me As one who loved the Flag.

God grant my children may Not speak of me as one Who trod a selfish way, When I am dead and gone. When they recall my name I'd have them tell that I Held dear my Country's fame And kept her standards high.

Not for the things I gave Would I be counted kind; When I am in my grave, If they my worth would find, I'd have them read it there In red and white and blue And stars of radiance rare! And say that I was true.

Living

If through the years we're not to do Much finer deeds than we have done; If we must merely wander through Time's garden, idling in the sun; If there is nothing big ahead, Why do we fear to join the dead?

Unless to-morrow means that we Shall do some needed service here; That tasks are waiting you and me That will be lost, save we appear; Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow That we may never see to-morrow?

If all our finest deeds are done, And all our splendor's in the past; If there's no battle to be won, What matter if to-day's our last? Is life so sweet that we would live Though nothing back to life we give?

Not to have lived through seventy years Is greatness. Fitter to be sung In poet's praises and in cheers Is he who dies in action, young; Who ventures all for one great deed And gives his life to serve life's need.

Life's Slacker

The saddest sort of death to die Would be to quit the game called life And know, beneath the gentle sky, You'd lived a slacker in the strife. That nothing men on earth would find To mark the spot that you had filled; That you must go and leave behind No patch of soil your hands had tilled.

I know no greater shame than this: To feel that yours were empty years; That after death no man would miss Your presence in this vale of tears; That you had breathed the fragrant air And sat by kindly fires that burn, And in earth's riches had a share But gave no labor in return.

Yet some men die this way, nor care: They enter and they leave life's door And at the end, their record's bare-- The world's no better than before. A few false tears are shed, and then, In busy service, they're forgot. We have no time to mourn for men Who lived on earth but served it not.

A man in perfect peace to die Must leave some mark of toil behind, Some building towering to the sky, Some symbol that his heart was kind, Some roadway where strange feet may tread That out of gratitude he made; He cannot bravely look ahead Unless his debt to life is paid.

The Proof of Worth

Though victory's proof of the skill you possess, Defeat is the proof of your grit; A weakling can smile in his days of success, But at trouble's first sign he will quit. So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck Isn't skies that are sunny and fair, But how do you stand to the blow that is struck And how do you battle despair?

A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear And it's easy to see the way out, But the test of man's judgment is something to fear, And what does he do when in doubt? And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows When sorrows lie deep in his breast; It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows That brings out his worst or his best.

The test of a man is how much he will bear For a cause which he knows to be right, How long will he stand in the depths of despair, How much will he suffer and fight? There are many to serve when the victory's near And few are the hurts to be borne, But it calls for a leader of courage to cheer The men in a battle forlorn.

It's the way you hold out against odds that are great That proves what your courage is worth, It's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate That shows up your stature and girth. And victory's nothing but proof of your skill, Veneered with a glory that's thin, Unless it is proof of unfaltering will, And unless you have suffered to win.

Follow a Famous Father

I follow a famous father, His honor is mine to wear; He gave me a name that was free from shame, A name he was proud to bear. He lived in the morning sunlight, And marched in the ranks of right. He was always true to the best he knew And the shield that he wore was bright.

I follow a famous father, And never a day goes by But I feel that he looks down to me To carry his standard high. He stood to the sternest trials As only a brave man can; Though the way be long, I must never wrong The name of so good a man.

I follow a famous father, Not known to the printed page, Nor written down in the world's renown As a prince of his little age. But never a stain attached to him And never he stooped to shame; He was bold and brave and to me he gave The pride of an honest name.

I follow a famous father, And him I must keep in mind; Though his form is gone, I must carry on The name that he left behind. It was mine on the day he gave it, It shone as a monarch's crown, And as fair to see as it came to me It must be when I pass it down.

The Important Thing

He was playing in the garden when we called him in for tea, But he didn't seem to hear us, so I went out there to see What the little rogue was up to, and I stooped and asked him why, When he heard his mother calling, he had made her no reply. "I am playing war," he told me, "and I'm up against defeat, And until I stop the Germans I can't take the time to eat."

"Isn't supper so important that you'll quit your round of play? Don't you want to eat the shortcake mother made for you to-day?" Then I asked him, but he answered as he shook his little head: "I don't dare to stop for shortcake, if I do they'll kill me dead! When I drive them from their trenches, then to supper I'll come in, But I mustn't stop a minute, 'cause this war I've got to win."

I left him in his battle, left him there to end his play, For he'd taught to me a lesson that is needed much to-day; Not the lure of cake could turn him from the work he had to do; There was nothing so important as to see his struggle through. And I wondered all that evening, as he slumbered in his bed If we'd risen to the meaning of the work that lies ahead?

Are we roused to the importance of the danger in our way? Are we thinking still of pleasures as we thought but yesterday? Are our comforts and our riches in our minds still uppermost? Must we wait, to see our danger, till the foe is on our coast? Oh, there's nothing so important, nothing now that's worth a pin Save the war that we are fighting. It's a war we've got to win.

Selfishness

Search history, my boy, and see What petty selfishness has done. Find if you can one victory That little minds have ever won. There is no record there to read Of men who fought for self alone, No instance of a single deed splendor they may proudly own.

Through all life's story you will find The miser--with his hoarded gold-- A hermit, dreary and unkind, An outcast from the human fold. Men hold him up to view with scorn, A creature by his wealth enslaved, A spirit craven and forlorn, Doomed by the money he has saved.

No man was ever truly great Who sought to serve himself alone, Who put himself above the state, Above the friends about him thrown. No man was ever truly glad Who risked his joy on hoarded pelf, And gave of nothing that he had Through fear of needing it himself.

For selfishness is wintry cold, And bitter are its joys at last, The very charms it tries to hold, With woes are quickly overcast. And only he shall gladly live, And bravely die when God shall call, Who gathers but that he may give, And with his fellows shares his all.

Constant Beauty

It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. It's good that we can feel again, the touch of beauties real again, For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the peonies stranged a bit, They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day.

Oh, we have changed from what we were, we're not the carefree lot we were, Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, But it is good to see once more the budding lilac tree once more, And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat

When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do? Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through. When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn? Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our land return.

When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree? Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea. When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way? Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play.

Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn; And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one's return. We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made giving sweet, But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat.

We shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way, For this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war to-day; And the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives defend, And they shall give us our Christmas time as soon as the war shall end.

Prophecy