When the danger had passed all started drifting back with the exception of one man who did not appear till the next day.

“Well, where you been?” demanded the top kick, eyeing him coldly.

“Sergeant,” replied the other earnestly, “I don’t know where I been, but I give you my word I been all day gettin’ back.”

“Who won the war?” asked the bright young goof behind the soda-counter.

“Huh,” ejaculated the ex-sergeant gruffly as he dug up the war-tax, “I think we bought it.”

A librarian confides to us that she was visited by a young lady who wished to see a large map of France.  She was writing a paper on the battle-fields of France for a culture club, and she just couldn’t find Flanders Fields and No Man’s Land on any of the maps in her books.

The trouble with the peace table is that the Allies want it a la carte, and Wilson wants it American plan—­table d’hote.

See also Exaggeration; Heroes; Soldiers; War.

EUROPEAN WAR—­POEMS

Gifts of the Dead

Ye who in Sorrow’s tents abide,
Mourning your dead with hidden tears,
Bethink ye what a wealth of pride
They’ve won you for the coming years.

Grievous the pain; but, in the day
When all the cost is counted o’er,
Would it be best that ye should say: 
“We lost no loved ones in the war?”

  Who knows?  But proud then shall ye stand
    That best, most honored boast to make: 
  “My lover died for his dear land,”
    Or, “My son fell for England’s sake.”

  Christlike they died that we might live;
    And our redeemed lives would we bring,
  With aught that gratitude may give
    To serve you in your sorrowing.

  And never a pathway shall ye tread,
    No foot of seashore, hill, or lea,
  But ye may think:  “The dead, my dead,
    Gave this, a sacred gift, to me.”

   —­Habberton Lulhaut.

  The war is like the Judgment Day—­
  All sham, all pretext torn away;
  And swift the searching hours reveal
  Hearts good as gold, souls true as steel. 
  Blest saints and martyrs in disguise,
  Concealed ere-while from holden eyes.

And now we feel that all around
Have angels walked the well-known ground;
Not winged and strange beyond our ken,
But in the form of common men. 
God’s messengers from Heaven’s own sphere—­
Unrecognized because so near.

—­Ella Fuller Maitland.

For Thee They Died

For thee their pilgrim swords were tried,
Thy flaming word was in their scrips,
They battled, they endured, they died
To make a new Apocalypse. 
Master and Maker, God of Right,
The soldier dead are at thy gate,
Who kept the spears of honor bright
And freedom’s house inviolate.