Pleading! Praying! that the Transports safely anchor Over There.

Specter ships, speed on thy errand, hurried not by selfish gains,

Conquering Transports! Grim Avengers! raceand loosen riven chains.

Supreme Ruler! God of Justice! grant our Nation's cause be right,

In Thy Mercy let the angels guide our Transports through the Night.

Fight, oh valiant world defenders, in the splendor of your youth,

Struggle for the world-wide freedom, for the Universal Truth.

Even though your graves are shallow 'neath a bloodstained foreign sod,

Fight, oh fight, ye Sons of Freedom, for your altars and your God.

Flying Hawks of Wing and Shield

By Guy Manners. Special permission of the author. You have mastered the mysteries of the upper air, Among the clouds of the sky you're at home. Squadron 24, wing your flight Over There,

In the strength of your manhood go battle alone. The eyes of the world through the gray mist will

stare,

With trembling lips men will whisper a prayer.

They have pinned their faith on your coolness and

nerve

And they watch your swift flight as you glide and

swerve;

For you are the Army and Navy's Eye,

Circling in search from your place in the sky

With no trace of fear in your quick clear brains. Victory is near, 'tis yours! you thoroughbred men of the aeroplanes.

You Flying Hawks of the Wing and Shield,
You have done your bit nobly on Kelly Field.
Like meteors of light in a high sweep of blue

You will guide your plane right and go smashing through

Creeping and sweeping, never retreating, jabbing them, stabbing them up in the air

Never entreating them, always defeating them, sure of beating them, in the Sky Over There. In the clutch of the white specter, in his eddying breath

You rush flauntingly, tauntingly, your bombs scattering death

Like a streak of gray light through a cloud of red flame

Supreme in your might, desperately you play the fierce game.

Hurling them, whirling them in conquering disdain Back to the earth again, You'll Win Alright! you thoroughbreds of the aeroplane.

Deep in reverie as your propeller blades drone
Will you recall those golden days in "San Antone "
In the silver haze of those brilliant days when you
of the 24th

Custodians of God's vaulted realm, vowed The
Fraternity Oath?

Never to sully, never to shame, always to battle for America's fame;

Deeds done in love, as you traverse above, in love for America's Name,

May the Omnipotent One grant it all be true, as you fight for the Cause Supreme

May the flag of your Country, the Red, White and Blue, be your one Exalted Theme.

As you volaplane to the starry edge in the shadow of Heaven's white throne

Salute! and bare your head to the Pledge vowed in San Antone."

Go forth in your magnificent strength the World's lost hopes to regain.

Victory is yours! so is honor and fame, you thoroughbreds of the aëroplane.

Range-Bred

By James W. Foley, in Saturday Evening Post, April 27, 1918. Used by permission.

"WE ain't mad," he declared as he haltered a mule As you might put his cap on a boy still in school. "We ain't mad - and he held the mule's head by

an ear

With a grip like chilled steel and a smile in the

smear

Of gray dust in his face. "We're the unmaddest

men

That ever raised hell and can do it again;

We're fed up and fit, and we're lean and we're tall, And we're tough, and we want to go over - that's all.

66

We ain't mad," he repeated, and calmly looked down

From the six feet of height that was dusty and brown

From tiptoe to crown; all of sinews and strength Like the panther he was; and his ax sank bladelength

In the log that he chopped at the back of his tent: "We ain't mad, but we're rough and we're ready

and bent

On mixin' it up with the Huns in a fuss,
And we want to go over go over

that's us!

“We ain't mad—not a bit; we ain't turned us a

hair,

But we're mostly range-bred, and we've lived in the

air,

And we're all mighty healthy- we've lived pretty clean,

And we're muscled up strong and we're lanky and lean,

We've got old-fashioned Longhorns from Texas down here

Big enough in the shoulders to wrastle a steer,
All waiting and anxious and right on their toes.
Just you say 'Go over!'- and everything goes!

"No, sure, we ain't mad—we're just going to be firm!"

And the grizzlylike grip of his hand made me squirm As he closed down on mine and he bade me good-by With a smile that was kind in the blue of his eye. "We're the unmaddest army that ever made war, But we know what we're slinging them hand grenades for,

And we know what the ticklers are for on them

guns,

And when we get mad-well, then, God help them Huns!"

You Are Old, Kaiser William

Porter Emerson Browne of the Vigilantes, “with appropriate apologies to the late Lewis Carroll."

"You are old, Kaiser William," the Crown Prince said,

"And for years have done nothing but fight; Yet now you incessantly prate about peace — Will the world understand the thing right?

"When I started this war," he replied to his son, "I thought we were certain to win;

But the terrible blunder you made at Verdun
Has encouraged the allies like sin."