BY 
 
 [LFRID W fLSON GIBSON 
 
 "DAIfY BREAD,'.' " FIRES," ' BORDI3RJ.A.N I|3 
 AND TH<J«O0GHffARB8," i,Tt;\ 
 
 Mrni Ttnrk 
 fE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 All righu rteerved 
 
BATTLE 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 HEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
BATTLE 
 
 BY 
 
 WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DAILY BREAD," " FIRES," "BORDERLANDS 
 AND THOROUGHFARES," ETC. 
 
 Nrtu fork 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1915 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
3. art 
 
 
 Copyright, 1915 
 
 By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1915. 
 
 SEP 30 1915 
 
 )CI.A410?79 
 
TO MY WIFE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Before Action . 9 
 
 Breakfast 10 
 
 The Bayonet 11 
 
 The Question 12 
 
 The Return 13 
 
 Salvage 14 
 
 Deaf 15 
 
 Mad 16 
 
 Raining 17 
 
 Sport 18 
 
 The Fear .19 
 
 In the Ambulance 20 
 
 Hill-born 21 
 
 The Father 22 
 
 The Reek . . . . • 23 
 
 Nightmare 24 
 
 Comrades 25 
 
 The Lark 26 
 
 The Vow 27 
 
 Mangel-Wurzels 28 
 
 His Father 29 
 
 Hit 30 
 
 [5] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Back 31 
 
 His Mate 32 
 
 The Dancers 33 
 
 The Joke 34 
 
 Cherries 35 
 
 The Housewife 36 
 
 Victory 37 
 
 The Messages 38 
 
 The Quiet 39 
 
 Between the Lines 41 
 
 [6] 
 
BATTLE 
 
BEFORE ACTION 
 
 I sit beside the brazier's glow, 
 And, drowsing in the heat, 
 I dream of daffodils that blow 
 And lambs that frisk and bleat — 
 
 Black lambs that frolic in the snow 
 Among the daffodils, 
 In a far orchard that I know 
 Beneath the Malvern hills. 
 
 Next year the daffodils will blow, 
 And lambs will frisk and bleat; 
 But I'll not feel the brazier's glow, 
 Nor any cold or heat. 
 
 [9] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 BREAKFAST 
 
 We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, 
 Because the shells were screeching overhead. 
 I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread 
 That Hull United would beat Halifax 
 When Jimmy Stainthorpe played full-back 
 
 instead 
 Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head 
 And cursed, and took the bet; and dropt 
 
 back dead. 
 We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, 
 Because the shells were screeching overhead. 
 
 10] 
 
THE BAYONET 
 
 THE BAYONET 
 
 This bloody steel 
 Has killed a man. 
 I heard him squeal 
 As on I ran. 
 
 He watched me come 
 With wagging head. 
 I pressed it home, 
 And he was dead. 
 
 Though clean and clear 
 I've wiped the steel, 
 I still can hear 
 That dying squeal. 
 
 11] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE QUESTION 
 
 I wonder if the old cow died or not. 
 
 Gey bad she was the night I left, and sick. 
 
 Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a 
 
 lot— 
 At least he fancies so himself, does Dick. 
 
 Dick knows a lot. But maybe I did wrong 
 To leave the cow to him, and come away. 
 Over and over like a silly song 
 These words keep bumming in my head all 
 day. 
 
 And all I think of, as I face the foe 
 
 And take my lucky chance of being shot, 
 
 Is this — that if I'm hit, I'll never know 
 
 Till Doomsday if the old cow died or not. 
 
 [121 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 THE RETURN 
 
 He went, and he was gay to go; 
 And I smiled on him as he went. 
 My son — 'twas well he couldn't know 
 My darkest dread, nor what it meant — 
 
 Just what it meant to smile and smile 
 And let my son go cheerily — 
 My son . . . and wondering all the while 
 What stranger would come back to me. 
 
 [131 
 
BATTLE 
 
 SALVAGE 
 
 So suddenly her life 
 
 Had crashed about that grey old country 
 
 wife, 
 Naked she stood, and gazed 
 Bewildered, while her home about her blazed, 
 New-widowed, and bereft 
 Of her five sons, she clung to what was left, 
 Still hugging all she'd got — 
 A toy gun and a copper coffee-pot. 
 
 [14] 
 
DEAF 
 
 DEAF 
 
 This day last year I heard the curlew calling 
 By Hallypike 
 
 And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling 
 Down slack and syke. 
 
 But now I cannot hear the shrapnel's scream- 
 ing, 
 The screech of shells: 
 And if again I see the blue lough gleaming 
 Among the fells 
 
 Unheard of me will be the curlew's calling 
 By Hallypike 
 
 And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling 
 Down slack and syke. 
 
 15] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 MAD 
 
 Neck-deep in mud, 
 He mowed and raved- 
 He who had braved 
 The field of blood— 
 
 And as a lad 
 Just out of school 
 Yelled: "April fool!" 
 And laughed like mad. 
 
 16] 
 
RAINING 
 
 RAINING 
 
 The night I left my father said: 
 "You'll go and do some stupid thing. 
 You've no more sense in that fat head 
 Than Silly Billy Witterling. 
 
 "Not sense to come in when it rains — 
 Not sense enough for that, you've got. 
 You'll get a bullet through your brains, 
 Before you know, as like as not." 
 
 And now I'm lying in the trench 
 And shells and bullets through the night 
 Are raining in a steady drench, 
 I'm thinking the old man was right. 
 
 [17] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 SPORT 
 
 And such a morning for cubbing — 
 The dew so thick on the grass! 
 Two hares are lolloping just out of range 
 Scattering the dew as they pass. 
 
 A covey of partridge whirrs overhead 
 Scatheless, and gets clean away; 
 For it's other and crueller, craftier game 
 We're out for and after to-day! 
 
 [18] 
 
THE FEAR 
 
 THE FEAR 
 
 I do not fear to die 
 'Neath the open sky, 
 To meet death in the fight 
 Face to face, upright. 
 
 But when at last we creep 
 In a hole to sleep, 
 I tremble, cold with dread, 
 Lest I wake up dead. 
 
 [19] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 IN THE AMBULANCE 
 
 "Two rows of cabbages, 
 Two of curly-greens, 
 Two rows of early peas, 
 Two of kidney-beans." 
 
 That's what he is muttering, 
 Making such a song, 
 Keeping other chaps awake, 
 The whole night long. 
 
 Both his legs are shot away, 
 And his head is light; 
 So he keeps on muttering 
 All the blessed night. 
 
 [20] 
 
HILL-BORN 
 
 "Two rows of cabbages, 
 Two of curly-greens, 
 Two rows of early peas, 
 Two of kidney-beans." 
 
 HILL-BORN 
 
 I sometimes wonder if it's really true 
 
 I ever knew 
 
 Another life 
 
 Than this unending strife 
 
 With unseen enemies in lowland mud, 
 
 And wonder if my blood 
 
 Thrilled ever to the tune 
 
 Of clean winds blowing through an April noon 
 
 Mile after sunny mile 
 
 On the green ridges of the Windy Gile. 
 
 [211 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE FATHER 
 
 That was his sort. 
 It didn't matter 
 What we were at 
 But he must chatter 
 Of this and that 
 His little son 
 Had said and done: 
 Till, as he told 
 The fiftieth time 
 Without a change 
 How three-year-old 
 Prattled a rhyme, 
 They got the range 
 And cut him short. 
 
 [22] 
 
THE REEK 
 
 THE REEK 
 
 To-night they're sitting by the peat 
 Talking of me, I know — 
 Grandfather in the ingle-seat, 
 Mother and Meg and Joe. 
 
 I feel a sudden puff of heat 
 That sets my ears aglow, 
 And smell the reek of burning peat 
 Across the Belgian snow. 
 
 [231 
 
BATTLE 
 
 NIGHTMARE 
 
 They gave him a shilling, 
 They gave him a gun, 
 And so he's gone killing 
 The Germans, my son. 
 
 I dream of that shilling — 
 I dream of that gun — 
 And it's they that are killing 
 The boy who's my son. 
 
 [24] 
 
COMRADES 
 
 COMRADES 
 
 As I was marching in Flanders 
 A ghost kept step with me — 
 Kept step with me and chuckled 
 And muttered ceaselessly: 
 
 "Once I too marched in Flanders, 
 The very spit of you, 
 And just a hundred years since, 
 To fall at Waterloo. 
 
 "They buried me in Flanders 
 Upon the field of blood, 
 And long I've lain forgotten 
 Deep in the Flemish mud. 
 
BATTLE 
 
 "But now you march in Flanders, 
 The very spit of me; 
 To the ending of the day's march 
 I'll bear you company." 
 
 THE LARK 
 
 A lull in the racket and brattle, 
 
 And a lark soars into the light — 
 
 And its song seems the voice of the light 
 
 Quelling the voices of night 
 
 And the shattering fury of battle. 
 
 But again the fury of battle 
 Breaks out, and he drops from the height- 
 Dead as a stone from the height — 
 Drops dead, and the voice of the light 
 
 Is drowned in the shattering brattle. 
 
 [26] 
 
THE VOW 
 
 THE VOW 
 
 Does he ever remember, 
 The lad that I knew, 
 That night in September 
 He vowed to be true — 
 
 Does he hear my heart crying 
 And fighting for breath 
 In the land where he's lying 
 As quiet as death? 
 
 [27] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 MANGEL-WURZELS 
 
 Last year I was hoeing, 
 
 Hoeing mangel- wurzels, 
 
 Hoeing mangel-wurzels all day in the sun, 
 
 Hoeing for the squire 
 
 Down in Gloucestershire 
 
 Willy-nilly till the sweaty job was done. 
 
 Now I'm in the 'wurzels, 
 
 In the mangel-wurzels, 
 
 All day in the 'wurzels 'neath the Belgian 
 
 sun. 
 But among this little lot 
 It's a different job I've got — 
 For you don't hoe mangel-wurzels with a 
 
 gun. 
 
 [281 
 
HIS FATHER 
 
 HIS FATHER 
 
 I quite forgot to put the spigot in. 
 It's just come over me. . . . And it is queer 
 To think he'll not care if we lose or win 
 And yet be jumping-mad about that beer. 
 
 I left it running full. He must have said 
 A thing or two. I'd give my stripes to hear 
 What he will say if I'm reported dead 
 Before he gets me told about that beer ! 
 
 [29] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 HIT 
 
 Out of the sparkling sea 
 
 I drew my tingling body clear, and lay 
 
 On a low ledge the livelong summer day, 
 
 Basking, and watching lazily 
 
 White sails in Falmouth Bay. 
 
 My body seemed to burn 
 
 Salt in the sun that drenched it through and 
 
 through 
 Till every particle glowed clean and new 
 And slowly seemed to turn 
 To lucent amber in a world of blue. . . . 
 
 [301 
 
BACK 
 
 I felt a sudden wrench — 
 
 A trickle of warm blood — 
 
 And found that I was sprawling in the mud 
 
 Among the dead men in the trench. 
 
 BACK 
 
 They ask me where I've been, 
 And what I've done and seen. 
 But what can I reply 
 Who know it wasn't I, 
 But someone just like me, 
 Who went across the sea 
 And with my head and hands 
 Killed men in foreign lands. . . . 
 Though I must bear the blame 
 Because he bore my name. 
 
 [31] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 HIS MATE 
 
 "Hi-diddle-diddle 
 
 The cat and the fiddle" . . . 
 
 I raised my head, 
 
 And saw him seated on a heap of dead, 
 
 Yelling the nursery-tune, 
 
 Grimacing at the moon. . . . 
 
 "And the cow jumped over the moon. 
 The little dog laughed to see such sport 
 And the dish ran away with the spoon." 
 
 And, as he stopt to snigger, 
 I struggled to my knees and pulled the 
 trigger. 
 
 [32] 
 
THE DANCERS 
 
 THE DANCERS 
 
 All day beneath the hurtling shells 
 Before my burning eyes 
 Hover the dainty demoiselles — 
 The peacock dragon-flies. 
 
 Unceasingly they dart and glance 
 Above the stagnant stream — 
 And I am fighting here in France 
 As in a senseless dream — 
 
 A dream of shattering black shells 
 That hurtle overhead, 
 And dainty dancing demoiselles 
 Above the dreamless dead. 
 
 [33] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE JOKE 
 
 He'd even have his joke 
 While we were sitting tight, 
 And so he needs must poke 
 His silly head in sight 
 To whisper some new jest 
 Chortling, but as he spoke 
 A rifle cracked. . . . 
 
 And now God knows when I shall hear the 
 rest! 
 
 [341 
 
CHERRIES 
 
 CHERRIES 
 
 A handful of cherries 
 She gave me in passing, 
 The wizened old woman, 
 And wished me good luck— 
 
 And again I was dreaming, 
 A boy in the sunshine, 
 And life but an orchard 
 Of cherries to pluck. 
 
 135] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE HOUSEWIFE 
 
 She must go back, she said, 
 
 Because she'd not had time to make the bed. 
 
 We'd hurried her away 
 
 So roughly . . . and, for all that we could 
 
 say, 
 She broke from us, and passed 
 Into the night, shells falling thick and fast. 
 
 [36] 
 
VICTORY 
 
 VICTORY 
 
 I watched it oozing quietly 
 Out of the gaping gash. 
 The lads thrust on to victory 
 With lunge and curse and crash. 
 
 Half -dazed, that uproar seemed to me 
 
 Like some old battle-sound 
 
 Heard long ago, as quietly 
 
 His blood soaked in the ground. 
 
 The lads thrust on to victory 
 With lunge and crash and shout. 
 I lay and watched, as quietly 
 His life was running out. 
 
 [37] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE MESSAGES 
 
 "I cannot quite remember. . . . There were 
 
 five 
 Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and 
 
 three 
 Whispered their dying messages to me. ..." 
 
 Back from the trenches, more dead than 
 
 alive, 
 Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken 
 
 knee, 
 He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: 
 
 "I cannot quite remember. . . . There were 
 
 five 
 
 Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three 
 
 Whispered their dying messages to me. . . . 
 
 F381 
 
THE MESSAGES 
 
 "Their friends are waiting, wondering how 
 
 they thrive — 
 Waiting a word in silence patiently. . . . 
 But what they said, or who their friends 
 
 may be 
 
 "I cannot quite remember. . . . There were 
 
 five 
 Dropt dead beside me in the trench, — and 
 
 three 
 Whispered their dying messages to me. ..." 
 
 [39] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 THE QUIET 
 
 I could not understand the sudden quiet — 
 The sudden darkness — in the crash of fight, 
 The din and glare of day quenched in a 
 
 twinkling 
 In utter starless night. 
 
 I lay an age and idly gazed at nothing, 
 Half -puzzled that I could not lift my head; 
 And then I knew somehow that I was lying 
 Among the other dead. 
 
 [401 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 When consciousness came back, he found 
 
 he lay 
 Between the opposing fires, but could not 
 
 tell 
 On which hand were his friends; and either 
 
 way 
 For him to turn was chancey — bullet and 
 
 shell 
 Whistling and shrieking over him, as the 
 
 glare 
 Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind 
 
 day. 
 He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare, 
 Dragging his wounded foot through puddled 
 
 clay, 
 
 [41] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped 
 
 At random in a turnip-field between 
 
 The unseen trenches where the foes lay 
 
 cooped 
 Through that unending battle of unseen 
 Dead-locked league-stretching armies; and 
 
 quite spent 
 He rolled upon his back within the pit, 
 And lay secure, thinking of all it meant — 
 His lying in that little hole, sore hit, 
 But living, while across the starry sky 
 Shrapnel and shell went screeching over- 
 head — 
 Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie 
 Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed. . . . 
 
 If it were he, indeed, who'd climbed each 
 
 night, 
 
 [42] 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 Fagged with the day's work, up the narrow 
 
 stair, 
 And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light, 
 Too tired to fold them neatly on a chair 
 The way his mother'd taught him — too dog- 
 tired 
 After the long day's serving in the shop, 
 Inquiring what each customer required, 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop. . . . 
 
 And now for fourteen days and nights, at least, 
 He hadn't had his clothes off; and had lain 
 In muddy trenches, napping like a beast 
 With one eye open, under sun and rain 
 And that unceasing hell-fire. . . . 
 
 It was strange 
 How things turned out — the chances! You'd 
 
 just got 
 
 [43] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 To take your luck in life, you couldn't 
 change 
 
 Your luck. 
 
 And so here he was lying shot 
 
 Who just six months ago had thought to 
 spend 
 
 His days behind a counter. Still, per- 
 haps. . . . 
 
 And now, God only knew how he would end! 
 
 He'd like to know how many of the chaps 
 Had won back to the trench alive, when he 
 Had fallen wounded and been left for dead. 
 If any! . . . 
 
 This was different, certainly, 
 From selling knots of tape and reels of thread 
 And knots of tape and reels of thread and 
 
 knots 
 
 [44 1 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 Of tape and reels of thread and knots of 
 
 tape, 
 Day in, day out, and answering "Have you 
 
 got's" 
 And "Do you keep's," till there seemed no 
 
 escape 
 From everlasting serving in a shop, 
 Inquiring what each customer required, 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop, 
 With swollen ankles, tired. . . . 
 
 But he was tired 
 Now. Every bone was aching, and had 
 
 ached 
 For fourteen days and nights in that wet 
 
 trench — 
 Just duller when he slept than when he 
 
 waked — 
 
 Crouching for shelter from the steady drench 
 
 [45] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 Of shell and shrapnel. . . . 
 
 That old trench, it seemed 
 Almost like home to him. He'd slept and 
 
 fed 
 And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel 
 
 screamed 
 And shells went whining harmless overhead — 
 Harmless, at least, as far as he. . . . 
 
 But Dick- 
 Dick hadn't found them harmless yesterday, 
 At breakfast, when he'd said he couldn't 
 
 stick 
 Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back 
 
 way, 
 And brought them butter in a lordly dish — 
 Butter enough for all, and held it high, 
 Yellow and fresh and clean as you could 
 
 wish — 
 
 [46] 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 When plump upon the plate from out the 
 
 sky 
 A shell fell bursting. . . . Where the butter 
 
 went, 
 God only knew! . . . 
 
 And Dick. ... He dared not think 
 Of what had come to Dick ... or what it 
 
 meant — 
 The shrieking and the whistling and the 
 
 stink 
 He'd lived in fourteen days and nights. 
 
 'Twas luck 
 That he still lived. . . . And queer how 
 
 little then 
 He seemed to care that Dick. . . . Perhaps 
 
 'twas pluck 
 That hardened him — a man among the 
 
 men — ■ 
 
 1471 
 
BATTLE 
 
 Perhaps. . . . Yet, only think things out a 
 
 bit. 
 And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk! 
 And he'd liked Dick . . . and yet when 
 
 Dick was hit, 
 He hadn't turned a hair. The meanest 
 
 skunk 
 He should have thought would feel it when 
 
 his mate 
 Was blown to smithereens — Dick, proud as 
 
 Punch, 
 Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate — 
 But he had gone on munching his dry hunch, 
 Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas just because he dared not let 
 His mind run upon Dick, who'd been his 
 
 chum. 
 
 [481 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 He dared not now, though he could not 
 forget. 
 
 Dick took his luck. And, life or death, 
 
 'twas luck 
 From first to last; and you'd just got to trust 
 Your luck and grin. It wasn't so much 
 
 pluck 
 As knowing that you'd got to, when needs 
 
 must, 
 And better to die grinning. . . . 
 
 Quiet now 
 Had fallen on the night. On either hand 
 The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow 
 The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned 
 The starry sky. He'd never seen before 
 So many stars. Although, of course, he'd 
 
 known 
 
 [491 
 
BATTLE 
 
 That there were stars, somehow before the 
 
 war 
 He'd never realized them — so thick-sown, 
 Millions and millions. Serving in the shop, 
 Stars didn't count for much; and then at 
 
 nights 
 Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop, 
 You didn't see much but the city lights. 
 He'd never in his life seen so much sky 
 As he'd seen this last fortnight. It was queer 
 The things war taught you. He'd a mind 
 
 to try 
 To count the stars — they shone so bright 
 
 and clear. 
 One, two, three, four. . . . Ah, God, but he 
 
 was tired. . . . 
 Five, six, seven, eight. . . . 
 
 Yes: it was number eight. 
 
 [501 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 And what was the next thing that she re- 
 quired? 
 (Too bad of customers to come so late, 
 At closing-time!) Again within the shop 
 He handled knots of tape and reels of thread, 
 Politely talking weather, fit to drop. . . . 
 
 When once again the whole sky overhead 
 
 Flared blind with search lights, and the shriek 
 of shell 
 
 And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drow- 
 sily 
 
 He stared about him wondering. Then he 
 fell 
 
 Into deep dreamless slumber. 
 
 He could see 
 
 51] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew 
 
 He was awake, and it again was day — 
 
 An August morning burning to clear blue. 
 
 The frightened rabbit scuttled. . . . 
 
 Far away, 
 
 A sound of firing. . . . Up there, in the sky 
 
 Big dragon-flies hung hovering. . . . Snow- 
 balls burst 
 
 About them. . . . 
 
 Flies and snowballs! With a cry 
 
 He crouched to watch the airmen pass — the 
 first 
 
 That he'd seen under fire. Lord, that was 
 pluck — 
 
 Shells bursting all about them — and what 
 nerve! 
 
 They took their chance, and trusted to their 
 
 luck. 
 
 [521 
 
BETWEEN THE LINES 
 
 At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve, 
 
 Dodging the shell-fire. . . . 
 
 Hell! but one was hit, 
 
 And tumbling like a pigeon plump. . . . 
 
 Thank Heaven, 
 
 It righted, and then turned; and after it 
 
 The whole flock followed safe — four, five, 
 six, seven, 
 
 Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped 
 they'd win 
 
 Back to their lines in safety. They de- 
 served, 
 
 Even if they were Germans. . . . 'Twas no 
 sin 
 
 To wish them luck. Think how that beggar 
 swerved 
 
 Just in the nick of time! 
 
 He, too, must try 
 
 53] 
 
BATTLE 
 
 To win back to the lines, though, likely as 
 
 not, 
 He'd take the wrong turn: but he couldn't 
 
 lie 
 Forever in that hungry hole and rot. 
 He'd got to take his luck, to take his chance 
 Of being sniped by foes or friends. He'd 
 
 be 
 With any luck in Germany or France 
 Or kingdom-come, next morning. . . . 
 
 Drearily 
 The blazing day burnt over him. Shot and 
 
 shell 
 Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But 
 
 light 
 Faded at last, and as the darkness fell 
 He rose, and crawled away into the night. 
 
 Printed in the United States of America. 
 
 [541 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 675 957 9 |