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The Thirteenth Regiment
The World War has shown clearly that all peoples are not alik...

Nations Born And Reborn
In America, and in many other countries, people have listened...

At The Front
What one soldier writes, millions have experienced. At f...

Four Soldiers
THE BOCHE The boche was chiefly what his masters made him....

The Poilu
The soldier of France, the poilu, is a crusader. He is fight...

The Turning Of The Tide
A division of marines and other American troops were rushed t...

Where Are You Going Great-heart?
Where are you going, Great-Heart, With your eager face...

The Call To Arms In Our Street
There's a woman sobs her heart out, With her head agains...

The Fleet That Lost Its Soul
Sailors and especially fighters on the sea have in all ages p...

Waiting For The Flash
Not at once can the mind grasp the full significance of the w...

The United States Marines
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze From dawn to setti...

Where The Four Winds Meet
There are songs of the north and songs of the south, A...

The Little Old Road
There's a breath of May in the breeze On the little ol...

The Secret Service
The United States did not declare war till nearly three years...

America Enters The War
SPEECH BY LLOYD GEORGE, BRITISH PREMIER, APRIL 12, 1917 ...

The Really Invincible Armada
The northern coast of Scotland is about as far north as the s...

Duty
So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man...

The United States At War--in France
Adapted with a few omissions and changes in language from the...

The Tommy
John Masefield, the English writer, says, St. George did not ...

When The Tide Turned
THE AMERICAN ATTACK AT CHATEAU-THIERRY AND BELLEAU WOOD IN TH...



Song Of The Aviator






(This poem was written for an entertainment given by the Y.M.C.A. at
an aviation barracks in a large camp in France. Mrs. Wilcox addressed
five hundred aviators, and these verses were recited with great effect
by Mrs. May Randall. After the entertainment there was a rush to
obtain autographed copies of the poem.)

You may thrill with the speed of your thoroughbred steed,
You may laugh with delight as you ride the ocean,
You may rush afar in your touring car,
Leaping, sweeping by things that are creeping--
But you never will know the joy of motion
Till you rise up over the earth some day
And soar like an eagle, away--away.

High and higher, above each spire,
Till lost to sight is the tallest steeple,
With the winds you chase in a valiant race,
Looping, swooping, where mountains are grouping,
Hailing them comrades, in place of people.
Oh, vast is the rapture the bird man knows
As into the ether he mounts and goes.

He is over the sphere of human fear;
He has come into touch with things supernal.
At each man's gate death stands await;
And dying flying were better than lying
In sick beds crying for life eternal.
Better to fly halfway to God
Than to burrow too long like a worm in the sod.

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.





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