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Page 223 text:
3ln fHg (Uranium
Oh my Lord, man, what you sayin’?
Surely strong thoughts you ain’t weighin’? If you say that you don’t notice Somethin’ awful wrong with me.
Why, old man, my head’s a bustin’.
All my business I’m adjustin’—
For I think I hear the summons Of the angels, callin’ me.
There seem to be ten thousand wheels Run by half as many mills,
All a grindin’ and a roarin’
Right inside my cranium.
And the way they buzz and wheeze Seems to go clear to my knees,
For they’ve grown so weak and wobbly I can’t walk.
No, old man, I hain’t got tremens,
But I vow it must be demons—
The way they claw and hammer Just inside my cranium.
One is sawin’ at my ear-drum.
One is chiselin’ my throat down.
One is pullin’ out the socket Where mv eyeball used to be.
Then they all unite their forces And they work like forty horses,
Each one pullin’ in a different way Inside my cranium.
Till it seems it must be breakin’—
—Just then “Mom” gives me a shakin’, And I know it only is the grippe I’ve got!
Two hundred eleven
Page 222 text:
only place that afforded even a meager protection from the sun and wind, the cracked and mutilated walls of a once magnificent cathedral, whose beauty of architecture had been heralded all over the world.
Upon nearing this improvised hospital our hearts were sickened by the cries and moans of the suffering wretches, and on approaching still nearer, our nostrils caught the nauseating stench of warm blood. For the first time I felt the horrible reality of carnage and death. My heart stood still at the ghastly sight. Hundreds of dead and wounded lay there—the stone floor their only cot, oftimes their heads pillowed on a dead comrade’s breast. Their eyes were for the most part closed, as if to shut out the horror of the scene. There were many who slept the never-waking sleep, and as I looked I wondered if there had been regrets at the going. Others, who might in time recover sufficiently to be removed, would never see the place that had sheltered them, nor the faces of those who had kept the awful vigil with them. Their sight had been shot away by flying fragments of shells. One poor wretch lying there, disemboweled, acually smiled up at us as we worked over him.
With every movement was heard the crunching of bones or the death gasp of some poor mortal as his soul took its departure to another world. We saw arms torn from shoulders, the splintered ends of bones protruding from blood-stiffened garments, and there was pain, pain everywhere. _
The very stones on which they lay were like those of a slaughter floor, yet lacking the drainage these places afford. Only by exercising great caution were we able to keep our footing on the slimy, oozy, blood-covered surface.
As I bent over a hurt and gasping fellow to moisten his lips for the last time, I was arrested by a statute in a niche just above. What a mockery was this! There was the Christ, His hands extended in benediction, and had He been able to speak surely His words would have been, “Peace on earth and good will toward men!” No wonder the lineaments of grief are so deeply furrowed in the face of Christ, and in this statue so tragically life-like, they seemed doubly so.
On the day following three long, open trenches were seen. When night’s somber curtains pityingly closed over the scene, numberless grim and silent processions wended thither. Complying with military regulations “for convenience in handling, bodies shall be corded into packs of four”—all that was mortal of those poor wretches from the cathedral back there was dumped into these places the whole of it was strewn with quicklime and dirt thrown on.
They did not live to receive one of the various crosses given for bravery in battle, yet I do not doubt but that their rewards will come from that King of Kings into whose court they found entrance. These awards arc given after imperial recognition. Who will recognize the monarchs and parliaments who had the power to avert this war, and what will be meted out to them?
GAYNELLE R. FAY.
Tico hundred ten
Page 224 text:
JIrn anil (Emt
She was a maiden fair to see,
And often had she said to me,
She ne’er from singleness would part;
That no mere man could win her heart.
She, woman’s rights did advocate,
Or reckless man forever prate—
How his frail frame would go to smash If "frau” failed to ladle out the hash.
Her wedded friends did men demean;
They warned her if slic’d still be queen,
Within her heart let no love steal—
It bringeth much of woe and weal.
He was a woman hater, born,
Of all fine fancies he was shorn;
No woman vet, he’d ever seen Who’d look at him—he was so mean.
His one grand theme was of their stealth,
How they could filch from man his wealth,
When in the wee sma’ hours of night He’d with the demon rarebits fight.
His married friends had told him o’er If he’d be happy, think no more Upon the luckless subject, love;
For if lie did, no more the dove Of happiness and peace divine,
Would hover ’round his tree and vine.
He listened and took heed once more,
But as I’ve often said before—
You can’t control the band of life,
But only keep step with the fife.
He moved about—though very stupid,
Until one day lie met young Cupid Out foraging, on mischief bent,
Into man’s heart an arrow sent.
As usual, true unto its aim,
Another to the maiden came;
Both hearts were pierced—they none can blame; They had not made resistance bold,
In spite of all their friends had told.
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