eemed to see:
Aye, like a flash o' light,
_My angel pal I knew to be
The chap I plugged last night._

Now, I don't claim to understand--
They calls me Bonehead Bill;
They shoves a rifle in me 'and,
And show me 'ow to kill.
Me job's to risk me life and limb,
But . . . be it wrong or right,
This cross I'm makin', it's for 'im,
The cove I croaked last night.

IV

A Lapse of Time and a Word of Explanation

The American Hospital, Neuilly,

January 1919.

Four years have passed and it is winter again. Much has happened. When
I last wrote, on the Somme in 1915, I was sickening with typhoid fever.
All that spring I was in hospital.

Nevertheless, I was sufficiently recovered to take part in the Champagne
battle in the fall of that year, and to "carry on" during the following
winter. It was at Verdun I got my first wound.

In the spring of 1917 I again served with my Corps; but on the entry of
the United States into the War I joined the army of my country. In the
Argonne I had my left arm shot away.

As far as time and health permitted, I kept a record of these years, and
also wrote much verse. All this, however, has disappeared under
circumstances into which there is no need to enter here. The loss was a
cruel one, almost more so than that of my arm; for I have neither the
heart nor the power to rewrite this material.

And now, in default of something better, I have bundled together this
manuscript, and have added to it a few more verses, written in
hospitals. Let it represent me. If I can find a publisher for it, _tant
mieux_. If not, I will print it at my own cost, and any one who cares
for a copy can write to me--

Stephen Poore,

12 _bis_, Rue des Petits Moineaux,

Paris.

Michael

"There's something in your face, Michael, I've seen it all the day;
There's something quare that wasn't there when first ye wint away. . . ."

"It's just the Army life, mother, the drill, the left and right,
That puts the stiffinin' in yer spine and locks yer jaw up tight. . . ."

"There's something in your eyes, Michael, an' how they stare and stare--
You're lookin' at me now, me boy, as if I wasn't there. . . ."

"It's just the things I've seen, mother, the sights that come and come,
A bit o' broken, bloody pulp that used to be a chum. . . ."

"There's something on your heart, Michael, that makes ye wake at night,
And o