the shadows in your eyes
And the icy hand of Fear about your heart,
You cannot help your boy prepare to make his sacrifice
Unless you make yours bravely, at the start!

He is training, as a million others train;
He is giving what the others give—their best;
Make him feel your faith in him, though your troubled eyes grow dim;
Let him know that you can stand the acid test!

Because he's joined the colors—he's not dead!
Because he's found his duty—he's not lost!
Through your mother-love, my dear, keep him steady, keep him near
To the soul he loves—your soul—whate'er the cost!

You're not alone in heartaches or in doubts;
All mothers feel this burden newly coined;
Then call your trembling pride to your colors—to your side—
"Be a sport!" and make him glad that he has joined!

Little mother, little mother, with the shadows in your eyes
And the icy hand of Fear about your heart,
There is this that you can do: "Play the game"; there honor lies.
Now your boy and country need you—do your part!

SOLDIERS OF THE SOIL

It's a high-falutin' title they have handed us;
It's very complimentary an' grand;
But a year or so ago they called us "hicks," you know—
An' joshed the farmer and his hired hand!

It's a mighty fancy title you have given us,
A name that sounds too fine to really stick;
But maybe you'll forget (when you figure out your debt)
To call th' man who works a farm a "hick."

THE LADIES' MAN

Billy is a ladies' man; Billy dances fine
(Always was a bear-cat at the game);
Billy pulls the social stuff all along the line—
But he knows this business, just the same.

Maybe he was soft at first—ev'rybody's that;
Golfing was his hardest labor then;
Now he's in the Service (where you don't grow fat),
Digging, drilling, like us other men.

When he joined the Training Camp, Billy says, "No doubt,
I will draw some clerical position;"
But he's shown he can command; so—the news is out—
He will get a regular commission!

COOKIE JIM

When Jimmy joined the colors first, he knowed that soon he'd be
A non-com. officer,—oh, sure, he had that idee firm;
But Jimmy got another think, fer quite eventually
They had him workin' like a Turk, th' pore, astonished worm.

The rest of us, we gotta eat, and Jimmy—he can cook!
(He makes a stew that tastes as good as mother used to make.)
An' when he starts to flappin' cakes, why, every hungry rook
Is droolin' at the mouth for them, a-waitin' fer his take.

He's ranked a sergeant, but he don't mix up with no recruits;
He rides a horse when we parade (which ain't so often now);
But where he shines is when we eat; the grub that Jimmy shoots
At hungry troopers every day is certainly "some chow."

He's jest a "dough-boy," of a sort; it's Jimmy's job to cook;
Don't hafter drill, don't hafter tote a lot of arms with him;
Jest messes up th' stuff we eat, and we don't hafter look—
It's always clean! So here's a good luck and health to Cookie Jim!

THE SANDWICH GIRL

This is the story as told to me;
It may be a fairy-tale new,
But I know the man, and I know that he lies
Very infrequently, too!

When the boys in khaki first were called to serve,
Guarding railroad bridges and the like,
Bob was just a private in the old N. G.,
Fond of all the work—except the hike.
When they sent his comp'ny down the road a bit,
"Gee!" he said, "I'd like to commandeer
Some one's car and drive it—marching gets my goat!"
(Bob was quite a gas-car engineer.)

Lonesome work, this pacing up and down a bridge.
Now and then a loaded train goes by;
But at night—just nothing; everything was dead;
Empty world beneath an empty sky.
Then the chauffeur lady got into the game,
Drove her car each midnight to our tents,
Bringing us hot coffee, sandwiches, and pie;
All the others thought that was immense.

But Bob, ungrateful cuss, he would never say,
Like the rest, that she had saved their lives;
He was too blamed busy, like