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Edith Cavell
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The Queen's Flower
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The Melting Pot
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The Battles Of The Marne
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The Torch Of Valor
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At School Near The Lines
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Raemaekers
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Rupert Brooke
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Son
He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sk...

The Murder Of Captain Fryatt
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The Mexican Plot
It is true that Germany does not know the meaning of honest...

The Russian Revolution
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Marshal Foch
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Bacilli And Bullets
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Let Us Save The Kiddies
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A Place In The Sun
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The God In Man
A soldier on the firing step, aiming at the enemy, is sudde...

They Shall Not Pass
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Why We Fight Germany
Because of Belgium, invaded, outraged, enslaved, impoverish...



Son






He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky!
And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I.
For my hair is gray, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life
to live;
And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to
give.

Ah, yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh, how my eyes were
dim!
With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with
him.
For look! How the leaves are falling now, and the winter won't be
long....
Oh, boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of
song!

How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the
fire-light's gleam,
And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, on the beautiful
River of Dream.
Oh, dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay
Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my gray.

For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves
to me;
And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts
with glee;
A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!"
Ah, me! If he called from the ends of the earth I know that my
heart would hear.

* * * * *

Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: how worthier
could he die?
Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I.
For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, and the boys of our
hearts must pay;
And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day.

And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross
at its head,
And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never
be dead.
And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with
me still,
So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be
Thy Will!"

ROBERT W. SERVICE.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] COPYRIGHT BY BARSE AND HOPKINS.





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