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World Wars

Alsace-lorraine
On slight pretext, Germany in 1864 and in 1866 had made wars ...

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

U S Destroyer _osmond C Ingram_
If you were standing on the deck of a patrol boat watching fo...

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

Blocking The Channel
Bruges is an important city of Belgium made familiar to Ameri...

Redeemed Italy
Italy, since 1860 at least, has cherished the dream that some...

In Memoriam
[THE FIGHTING YEARS, 1914-1918] Ring out, wild bells, ...

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

The Second Line Of Defense
In Norwich, England, stands a memorial which will forever be ...

To Villingen--and Back
Very remarkable in the world struggle for liberty was the eag...

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

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

The Lost Battalion
On December 24, 1918, Lieutenant Colonel Charles W. Whittlese...

Trees
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. ...

The Yank
The boche went into the war as a robber, the poilu as a crusa...

The Soldiers Who Go To Sea
If the army or the navy ever gaze on Heaven's scenes, Th...

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

A Boy Of Perugia
In the year 1500, Raphael was a boy of eighteen in Perugia wo...

President Wilson In France
On December 14, 1918, President Wilson arrived in Paris. He ...

The Capture Of Dun
After the Americans had cleared the Saint Mihiel salient, Mar...



The Little Old Road






There's a breath of May in the breeze
On the little old road;
May in hedges and trees,
May, the red and the white,
May to left and to right,
Of the little old road.

There's a ribbon of grass either side
Of the little old road;
It's a strip just so wide,
A strip nobody owns,
Where a man's weary bones
When he feels getting old
May lie crushing the gold
Of the silverweed flower
For a long lazy hour
By the little old road.

There's no need to guide the old mare
On the little old road.
She knows that just there
Is the big gravel pit
(How we played in it
As mites of boys
In our corduroys!)
And that here is the pond
With the poplars beyond,
And more May--always May,
Away and away
Down the little old road.

There's a lot to make a man glad
On the little old road
(It's the home-going road),
And a lot to make him sad.
Ah! he'd like to forget,
But he can't, not just yet,
With chaps still out there. . . .
She's stopping, the steady old mare.
Is it here the road bends?
So the long journey ends
At the end of the old road,
The little old road.

There's some one, you say, at the gate
Of the little old house by the road?
Is it Mother? Or Kate?
And they're not going to mind
That, since Wypers, [1] I'm blind,
And the road is a long dark road?

GERTRUDE VAUGHAN.


[1] The Battle of Ypres.





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