The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
I’m goin’ to be discharged,
sir;
My time is near its close,
I want to tell you, cap’en,
You’re the best the country grows.
They ain’t no man in all the world
Can beat the army man,
That wears the shiny leggins and
That does the best he can.
I’ve seen them, sir,
in battle
With the bullets flyin’
round,
I’ve seen them lying
wounded
With the blood-stains on the
ground.
I’ve watched them when
the fever
Was a-ragin’ in the
camp,
I’ve seen them nurse
the cholera—
A-wrestling with the cramp.
I’ve seen them pin to that ol’
flag
Another glory more,
That made the stripes look brighter
Than they ever did before.
They weren’t winning V.C.’s,
either,
But because the country said
For them to go, they went.
They done it or they’re dead.
We’ve lots of men of
this kind an’
Of course, we’ve some
that ain’t,
We’ll cover up their
faces
In the picture that we paint.
I’ll follow men like
you, sir;
You can’t go too fast
an’ far,
You’re officers and
gentlemen
Like Congress says you are.
I wish I could re-up, sir,
Till you get your silver stars,
I’m sure you’ll do them credit,
sir,
As you have done the bars.
I know I shouldn’t talk so much,
But somehow I’m inclined,
On leavin’ the old outfit
Just to speak the company’s mind.
PAY DAY
Oh, it’s early in the morning,
The mules begin to squeal,
You hear the cooks a’bangin’
pans
To get the mornin’ meal;
The Bugler, sort o’ toodlin,
Outside the Colonel’s tent,
And you kind o’ feel downhearted,
’Cause your last two bits is spent.
With a leggin-string you’re fussin’
When the band begins to play,
And you listen, and stop cussin’,—
What is that the bugles say?
Oh, it’s pay-day, pay-day, pay-day,
And the drums begin to roll,
And they sure do carry music
To the busted Johnnie’s soul.
Some think about the girls they’ll
get,
And some, about the beer;
Some say they’ll send their money
home,
And all begin to cheer.
The games will soon be goin’
Snap your fingers at the dice;
With the canteen spigots flowin’
’Til the Barkeep’s out of
ice.
For it’s pay-day, pay-day, pay-day;
Can’t you hear the bugles call?
The privates and the Non-Coms,
The officers and all
Have been waitin’, waitin’,
waiting
’Til they’re broke or badly
bent
For the coins stacked up on blankets
And table in a tent.
Fifteen dollars in the mornin’
By the evenin’ in the hole;
And “Private Jones is absent, Sir.”
When the Sergeant calls the roll.
The officers are lookin’ up
The “Articles of War”;
There’s sixteen in the guard-house,
And the Provost has some more.
When the Grouch gets up at reveille,
He puts his elbow on his knee;
His head upon his hand;
And tho’ he’s slept ten hours
or more,
His back is weak, his feet are sore,
And he can hardly stand.
And, as he goes to get his chow,
He says, “By Gosh!—I
don’t see how
A soldier lives so long.
The spuds is rotten and the slum
Is always worse than on the bum.
The coffee is too strong.
That cow was killed ten years before
They organized this bloomin’ war;
These flapjacks taste like wood.”
And so he growls through all the day,
And fills his comrades with dismay;
They’d kill him if they could.
When “First Call” wakes up
Billy Lott,
He sits upon his Army cot,
And whistles “Casey Jones,”
And as he jumps into his shoes,
He says, “By Jinks I’ve had
a snooze
That’s good for skin and bones.”
And Billy always has a smile
That you can see for half a mile,
And when he stops to say, ‘How Do!’
He chases dimples to your cheeks
That stay there for a couple of weeks,
And he makes you happy too.
WEANING TIME
(To A. W. D.)
Mothers, O, ye mothers of the land!
With broods of sisters, brothers—hand
in hand—
’Tis weaning time. Clip ye
the thread
That apron-strings the lad! Give
him his head!
Pluck from your teat the clinging lip
That should be tight with valor’s
grip!
“You were my child-in-arms,”
she said;
“Suckled I you, and gave you bed;
But now you are my man, my son.
For battle lost or battle won,
Go, find your captain; take your gun,
To stand with France against the Hun!
Reck not that tears might wet your crib;
Nor fear my fondling of the bib
You wore—when you are gone.
Your mother will not be alone;
Her love-mate will be Duty Done:
Her nights will kiss that midnight sun.
If tears? They will be tears of
Joy,
For having milked a man, my boy.
Farewell and live, heart of my heart.
God steel my soul! I bid you start!
He goes!
God knows
I idol him. And may no backward
glance
Unheart me now. To France!
To France!
Fair France of La Fayette’s romance.
My man-in-arms advance, advance!
Take down your grand-sire’s crimsoned
lance!
For man-wide Freedom and for France!”
“Hands across the sea”
We’re off for France to make “Fritz”
dance
To the tune of shot and shell.
We’ll march right in to old Berlin,
And give the Kaiser hell.
The French are right—they’ll
hold the fight,
And British “drives”
are fine;
But Pershing’s boys will find but
toys
In the “Hindenberger”
Line.
We leave hearts dear—the coast
we clear
For the ocean’s wide
expanse.
A submarine on the ocean seen
Will have but little chance.
The cause is just—yet more
we trust—
For the Honor debt we owe
Can ne’er be paid. ’Twas
the timely aid
Of the Frenchman long ago.
For Lafayette is with us yet,
Still held in memory dear.
Our hearts now burn to give return,
While his name we all revere.
Oh! we’re off to France—we
want a chance
At the ecstatic thrill
Of being there to have a share
In the funeral of “Kaiser
Bill.”
The orders are, “Prepare to hike!”
So pack your war bag. Hit the pike.
Throw back your shoulders—keep
the step,
For this is where we get the pep.
“Prepare to hike,” the orders
are.
And don’t you dare to ask how far.
We’ll get what’s coming, don’t
you see?
So what’s the odds to you and me?
Prepare to hike! Roll up your kit.
Strap on equipment. Hit the Grit
Your corns will ripen on the road,—
Just pare them down when taps are “blowed.”
We’re billed to hike—the
bugles blow.
“’Tis column right”
and off you go.
Civilians watch as we pass by—
We watch the girlies wink the eye.
Prepardness is the slogan now,
And rumor says there’ll be a row—
A real one on the Western Front.
We’re drilling for this special
stunt.
Prepare to hike! Get in the game.
Your feet get sore, but don’t go
lame,
Just set your jaws, with stiffened lip,
And hold the lines with sand and “zip.”
War may be “Hell.” So
let it be.
Yet, must be fought, if liberty
Is still to reign upon her throne,—
Else all is lost. The best is gone.
Prepare to hike! Once more I say.
Round out your muscles for the fray.
Life’s not worth living any more,
Should Teuton force invade our shore.
A-B-C-of army life
A is the army,
With its shot, and its shell,
B is the battle
That makes the War, Hell.
C is the cavalry,
Dashing and Bold,
D is the “Doughboy,”
Whom the trenches must hold;
E, engineer,
Who lays out the plot,
F the “First aid,”
With stretcher and cot;
G is the “Guard,”
Our “Border-Patrol”—
H is Headquarters,
The high-ranking role.
I is the infantry,
That’s hot on the Hike,
J is jaw-bone,
Oh, “Pay-as-you-like”;
K is the Kitchen,
Where they turn out the “stew,”
L is lance-corporal.
Who ranks just a few;
M is the mess,
A soldiers Primer
A man, a hat, a blouse, a gun,
Call this a soldier just for fun.
A dog tent, blanket, candle, match,
His home is built with rare dispatch;
With hard tack, bacon, army beans,
Army life is not what it seems.
A damp cold night, aching head,
The next day fever-soldier dead.
The story is brief (we know it well),
And plain is moral—“War
is Hell.”
THE TALE AND WAIL OF A ROOKIE
When I was young I said to myself,
Choose a career and start after the pelf,
Early to bed and early to rise,
You’re sure to get wealthy and awfully
wise,
So I started out to look around,
But nice fat jobs weren’t easily
found.
However, while taking a walk down the
street,
A bright colored poster my eyes did greet,
“Young Men Wanted.”
I said, “That’s me,”
And stepped up closer so I could see.
“Join the Army and see the World,”
My fingers around my last dollar were
curled.
So I went around where they hung out the
flag.
But that 7-year hitch made my interest
lag.
They explained it, however, and made it
quite plain
That to join the Army would be my gain.
So here I am in the damn Philippines,
They feed me nothing but bacon and beans.
The land of the goo-goo is no place for
me,
The reason porque is easy to see.
I never was strong for bugs and lizards,
Or the amoebic bug that tickles your gizzards.
I have a reverse on fleas and snakes,
And I hate the noise the Gekko makes.
I have three square feet of prickly heat,
And some dhobie itch that can’t
be beat,
I’ve had the dengue and also the
fever,
Of all diseases I’ve been the receiver.
I’m bitten by all that’s invented
to bite us,
At the end of the year I’ll have
Philippinitis.
A long centipede just crawled in my bunk,
This tropical service is certainly punk,
Not a chance in the world to go over the
hill,
And half my time is spent in the mill.
But why should I worry, I’ll soon
be free.
A “G. C. M.” does the
trick for me.
From the Halls of Montezuma,
To the shores of Tripoli,
We fight our country’s battles
On the land as on the sea.
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean,
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.
From the Pest Hole of Cavite
To the ditch at Panama,
You will find them very needy
Of Marines—that’s
what we are;
We’re watch dogs of a pile of coal
Or we dig a magazine,
Tho’ he lends a hand at every job,
Who would not be a Marine?
Our flag’s unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun,
We have fought in every clime or place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far off northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes,
You will find us always on the job—
The United States Marines.
Here’s health to you and to our
corps
Which we are proud to serve,
In many a strife we have fought for life
And never lost our nerve;
If the army and the navy
Ever look on heaven’s
scenes,
They will find the streets are guarded
by
The United States Marines.
HERE’S TO THE SIXTEENTH!
(A toast by an officer at San Antonio banquet.)
Here’s to the “Sixteenth Cavalry,”
A “Colt” that
has just been foaled;
Bred with no “Past,”—but
a Future,
Which Training and Time will
unfold.
This “Colt,” with his milk-teeth
gives promise
Of growing to be some fine
horse,
And if we give him “right raising,”
Be sure that he’ll “come
across.”
Our “Colt” is as “sound”
and as “quiet”
As any old horse you will
see,
And, as for his “fit conformation,”—
That’s just as fine
as can be.
Here’s hoping that he gets good
“grooming,”
Good “grazing’”—good
“stable”—good “stall;”
So when they sound “Boots and Saddles,”
The “Colt” can
answer their call.
Here’s hoping that he gets good
“forage,”
Well “watered”—with
“all-fours” well cleaned;
And not have to patrol the hot Border,—
At least,—until
he is “weaned.”
We’ll swear by this “Colt,”
who is “hoof-marked”
With the “16th Cavalry”
brand;
And we’ll warrant when he “cuts
his molars,”
He’ll be as good as
the best in the land.
We’ll see that he gets fearless
riders,
Who are “kindly”
and know every “aid;”
So if ever a battle is brewing,
He’ll go to the “Charge”
unafraid.
He’ll compare with all Cavalry horses,
No “I. C.”
marks for his neck;
Instead, upon his new brow-band
Resetted Blue Ribbons bedeck.
No matter the “sire,” no matter
the “dam,”
His “strain” is
“pure-blood”—tho “unregistered”
yet;
He’ll “run in the money,”—when
put to the test,
To “win in the stretch,”—on
that you can bet.
So here’s to the “Sixteenth
Cavalry,”
The youngest of Cavalry “mounts;”
He hasn’t a “Past” and
a “Pedigree,”
But ’s “all-horse,”—and
that is what counts!
(From a Marine’s Diary)
(A one-day hike)
Rise and Shine, the bugle’s calling!
Spring up lively from your
beds!
Into line we’ll soon be falling—
Shake a leg, you sleepy heads!
Better make a hasty toilet,
Like the other fellows do,
For I’ll guarantee you’ll
spoil it,
Long before the day is thru!
Better see the shoes you’re wearing
Have a heavy pair of soles;
Or you’ll do some awful swearing
When the rocks come thru the
holes!
Have your canteen filled and ready
Haversack swung on your belt,
Where it will swing good and steady
And its weight is scarcely
felt!
At your breakfast don’t you hurry—
Eat another dish of beans;
For you’ll need it—don’t
you worry—
Hiking in the Philippines!
Up the dusty road we’ve started—
Rout Step—walking
at our ease;
Soon the even lines are parted—
All are walking as they please.
Long before the sun has ambled
O’er the green hills
on our right,
Far along the road we’ve rambled
In the early morning light.
Thru the narrow trail we’re walking,
Sticking to the narrow path.
Just behind us some are talking,
’Way ahead we hear a
laugh.
Now a slender bridge we’re crossing,
Over to a “goo-goo”
farm—
Where a Carabao is tossing
Up his head, in great alarm.
Here we stop to rest a trifle—
Sip a drop from our canteens.
Gee! It’s tough to “pack”
a rifle—
Hiking in the Philippines.
’Round the narrow path we’re
turning;
Tho it’s early morning,
yet.
Down the sun is fiercely burning—
Bringing out the drops of
sweat!
Where the tropic trees are shading
Out the sunlight overhead
Leggings, shoes and all, we’re wading
Thru a shallow river-bed.
You can hear the bamboo cracking
Underneath our heavy tread,
While the forest trails we’re tackling—
Following, where we are lead.
You have got to be a Hiker
To keep up with these Marines,
Not a big four-flush or piker—
Hiking in the Philippines!
Where the big mangoes are growing,
We have halted—Stacking
Arms,
Far away, a rooster’s crowing
On one of the native farms.
Under branches of big palm trees,
We are resting easy now—
Welcoming the cooling sea breeze
While we’re waiting
for our Chow.
Plainest fare is a fiesta
When you’ve Hiked for
half a day;
And a little noon siesta
Helps to pass the time away!
Like a ribbon all unraveled
Starts the line at half past
two,
There are new trails to be traveled
Back to old Olongapo!
THE MOUNTAIN BATTERY SONG
1.
Fall in. Fall in. Attention,
you red-legged mountaineers,
With your gun and pack and box of tack,
“non-coms.” and cannoneers,
Baptized in Mindanao, beside the Sulu
Sea.
Here’s How, and How,
how, how, to a mountain battery.
Here’s How, and How,
how, how, to a mountain battery.
2.
I’d rather be a soldier with a mule
and mountain gun
Than a Knight of old with spurs of gold,
a Roman, Greek or Hun,
For when there is trouble brewing they
always send for me
To start the row with a row,
row, row, from a mountain battery.
To start the row with a row,
row, row, from a mountain battery.
Here’s to pack and aparejo, the
cradle, gun trail,
And that darned old fool, the battery
mule, that was never known to fail.
So raise your glasses high and drink this
toast with me:
Here’s How, and How,
how, how, to a mountain battery.
Here’s How, and How,
how, how, to a mountain battery.
Come, listen unto this song, I’m
as happy as can be,
I’m masher and dasher in the U.
S. Cavalrie;
I stand up straight with legs apart; bowed
slightly at the knee,
With folded arms across my chest, ’tis
the pose of the Cavalrie.
Chorus:
So fill your glasses to the brim
And brace your courage with
slow gin,
I will tell you all it is a sin
To serve in the Infantrie.
I’m a cavalryman so fierce and bold,
a soldier thru and thru,
I ride a horse because of course ’tis
the proper thing to do.
I wear my spurs both night and day that
every one may see.
Whatever else I might have been, I’m
not in the Infantrie.
We went to fight the China horde with
sabre, horse and gun.
We’d meet them and we’d beat
them just the way it should be done;
But we left our horses, corn and hay out
on the ships in Taku Bay
And consequently had to stay while the
dough boys hiked away.
I’m a man of experience, I’ve
been to Fort Monroe,
I’ve garrisoned Fort Hamilton and
the Presidio.
I went out to the Philippines and in the
Walled Citie.
I fought the Filipino War in the Coast
Artillerie.
Chorus:
So make way for the red stripe man,
The pride of our armee
And let him tell the glories of
The Coast Artillerie.
About another soldier man I’d like
to say a word:
He’s neither fish nor flesh nor
fowl, but he is a bird,
He finds his way o’er foreign seas
by sun and moon and star,
But he could not find his way across the
Island of Samar.
Chorus:
So make way for the web-foot man
The good U. S. Marines.
They need four guides for every man,
Out in the Philippines.
THE RED GUIDON
Come, fill up your glasses. I’ll
give you a toast.
We’ll drink to the red and the blue,
The first in the battle, the last from
its post,
Old comrades so faithful and true.
Here’s to friends who have passed
o’er the last long divide,
Their spirit is still marching on,
As it did in the days when we marched
side by side
As we followed the red guidon.
Chorus:
Then here’s to the crossed cannons,
they never will run,
The limber and rolling caisson,
The clank of the collar and rumble of
gun
As we follow the red guidon.
We’ve soldiered together, brave
hearts ever true,
We’ve marched, we have fought and
we’ve bled
For the dear old flag with its red, white
and blue
That floats in the breeze overhead.
We’ve joked and we’ve laughed
around the camp fire’s red glare
From Cuba to distant Luzon,
As we told the old stories that drive
away care
’Neath the folds of the red guidon.
Come, toss off your tankards, we’ll
drink long and deep,
Brave hearts ever gallant and true,
To friends who now rest in their long
peaceful sleep,
Who once wore the red and blue.
We’ll prove true in the future as
they in the past,
Old comrades of gun and caisson;
We’ll fight like true soldiers from
first to the last
As we follow the red guidon.
Chorus:
Then here’s to the crossed cannons,
they never will run,
Here’s the limber and rolling caisson,
The clank of the collar and rumble of
gun
And Hurrah for the Red Guidon!
“Life is real; life is earnest”—but
a Gamble after all,
“Ten million Conscripts”
are answering the Call;
Ten million men of which I am One—
What were the “odds”
when “the wheel was spun”?
What were the “odds” that
Fate would select
Me for a Conscript—another
reject?
Fate was the Gambler; I was a “chip,”
Death was the “stake”
held in Life’s grip;
I am a Conscript played in Fate’s
hand,
When the Game’s over—how
will I stand?
Death, will it lose, or Life, will it
win,
Who’ll be the “winner”
at the great “Cash-in”?
Ten million Conscripts to answer the Call,
And at the gusts, the leaves
must fall:
With submarines launching torpedoes below,
Which troop ship to atoms
are they to blow?
Ghosts of disease lurking in camp,
Spectral sickness in trenches
so damp;
Ten million bullets ripping the air,
Which Conscript to be stricken,
and when and where?
Ten million shrapnel shrieking o’er
head,
Which Conscript to reckon
THE SLACKER
Why don’t he volunteer to serve
In Uncle Sammy’s grand reserve?
He knows quite well his country’s
call;
Has no regard for this, at all.
He never thinks to do his part,
Because he has a Slacker’s heart.
He walks along the street quite spry—
To feign indifference he must try,
When suddenly he takes affright,
It’s just a picture (what a sight)
Of Uncle Sam with pointing finger.
Take it from me! He doesn’t
linger.
“Why don’t you do it? do it
quick!”
The Slacker’s skull is very thick.
It never penetrates the gray,
What Uncle Sammy, has to say.
“I want you now!” Oh,
what a Mutt.
The words fall on a brainless nut.
He lied on registration day—
Conscription’s law he’ll not
obey.
He seeks the nuptial vows to take,
Or any other useless fake.
Whatever else, he’ll never fight.
He has the Slacker’s ear-marks right.
Oh, what a useless, shameless pest,
A blot on human kind at best.
His feelings are for Self alone.
He would not give a dog the bone.
Behold his attitude—his pose.
The Slacker’s ring is in his nose.
For country’s call—for
country’s sake—
For Liberty he will not stake
His bit, nor will he ever be
But half a man. Not he—not
he.
His formula contains no sand—
It’s plain, he is the Slacker “Brand.”
A sneak—a snake—a
cur—a blasted
Dirty rotten scourge, dodgasted
Coward, thief, and all the rest—
Can’t spell the name that suits
the best.
There’s just one place for such
as he—
Not on the earth—eternity.
I never had no warlike mind,
I b’long to the plowin’
peaceful kind
Thet stays at home and works along,
Sun to sun—I’m
good and strong—–
But, neighbor, let me speak my mind:
When my country sez to back
her,
I hates to leave the old home-folks,
They hates to see me go,
But I’d rather tote a rifle,
Than be shoulderin’
a hoe.
When Uncle Sammy’s needin’
men—
And needin’ ’em
so much,
I ’lows how he can call on Bill,
To help ’im lick them
Dutch.
For preacher sez: “God will
protect
Me out thar,” so, then,
by Heck!
I am all O.K.
’Cause yisterday I gits
insured,
And jined the church today.
The paper ’lows the fightin’s
bad,
As awful as can be—
Guns a-roarin’—blood
a-flowin’—
And boats belo’ thet
sea.
But I’m ready—and I ain’t
a-feered
To die—if they
do git me.
’Cause I ain’t no skunking
slacker,
If I am a “Georgia cracker,”
And if I don’t come home no more,
The wolf won’t come
to my house door,
I am goin’ when they say,
’Cause yisterday I gits
insured,
And jined the church today.
“BEANS”
A dog there lived in many towns,
And he has wondrous wiles;
He travels in the Philippines,
And visits many isles.
“Ubiquitous” should be his
name,
He’s seen so many scenes,
But all his soldier friends prefer
To call him simply: “Beans”!
As a proper, first class passenger,
Is “Beans” name
on ship’s log;
You’d think his name was pedigreed—
The way he “puts on
dog”!
Yet he is not a full blood pup,
But just a “yellow cur”:
A “Nervy-Natty Gentleman”—
With all his fuzzy fur.
He chows awhile at Grande Isle;
And there he’ll make
a stay,
Until he tires of their mess;
Then promptly sails away.
He’ll take a boat down Subic Bay,
To far Olongapo,
And when things get monotonous,
Then “Beans” is
prompt-to-go!
He goes o’er to Corregidor,
And visits “C.
A. C.”
And if he don’t like visiting—
He merely sails the sea!
He visits Fort McKinley,
And Cavite, too;
Now, where Beans has not been, forsooth,
I wish I only knew.
I know that all the sailors,
And all the soldier men
Do call him “Beans,” and love
him
For he is their dandy friend.
He wags his tail in greeting,
And barks at friends with
joy;
But when his ship’s a-sailing,
For Beans, it’s Ship-A-hoy!
So here’s to “Beans”
old “Sea-dog,”
Who loves so well to roam;
I wish he’d try to settle down
And make our place his home.
Better start in soldiering and mind
your P’s and Q’s,
Cut out going absent and ease up on the booze,
Don’t kick because, you’re on fatigue,
but mind what you are about,
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don’t
watch
out.
Don’t go a-missing reveille;
and be in bed by check,
Don’t buck against the captain, or you’ll
get it in the neck.
Be sure to turn out promptly when you hear the sergeant
shout,
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don’t
watch
out.
Because you’ve got some service
don’t think you know it all,
You’ll get your extras just the same if you
should miss a call.
Take what they hand you weekly. Don’t
grumble, frown or pout.
For the Summary Court will get you
if
you
don’t
watch
out.
THE SCENT OF THE COCOA
You have heard of the ancient incense;
Of the dew of Hermann you’ve read;
You have been told of the precious ointment
That poured down on Aaron’s head;
But tell me—with all your knowledge,
Your theory, study and toil,
Have you heard of an equal or sequel
To the scent of the cocoanut oil?
At first it is always repulsive,
Makes you gag and back off
in despair;
But when you’ve got the scent of
the cocoa,
Just a scent, a mere whiff
in the air,
Then you’re gone, boy, yes, and
forever,
Where’er in this world
you may roam;
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
You forget all the precepts
of home.
You forget those most noble teachings
Of fortitude, temperance and
truth
When you once get the scent of the cocoa.
You’re gone, boy, gone
and forsooth
Though you try hard and strive to recover,
Pray to God and his angels
as well,
If you’ve once got the scent of
the cocoa
You’re destined—your
future is Hell.
But why should you be predestined
By the scent of an innocent
oil?
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
No more can you break from
its toil
Than a gambler can break from his ventures,
The drunkard turn away from
his rye.
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
The longing is there till
you die.
The great world at large doesn’t
know all,
The guilty ones seldom confess
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
Wafted up from the bright
passing dress
That their thoughts are not those of angels
Sweet and pure as the dew
of the rose,
That it’s not just the scent of
the cocoa
But the perquisite that with
it goes.
There are times when the righteous are
doubtful,
There are times when no man
doubts.
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
There’s a man and his
conscience at outs;
Reckless of moral destruction,
Fearless of anguish and pain,
When you once get the scent of the cocoa
’Tis that scent that
you long for again.
One may part from the Orient gladly,
From its garlic and dhobie
and goats;
But if he’s once got the scent of
the cocoa
As he sits and in reverie
dotes,—
His thoughts will revert to the eastward,
To the land of yellow and
brown
And he sighs for the scent of the cocoa,
And the sight of a pina gown.
They, too, have heard the drum-beat,
They follow the bugle’s call,
Those who are swift with pity
On the field where brave men fall.
When the battle boom is silent
And the echoing thunder dies,
They haste to the plain, red
sodden
With the blood of sacrifice.
The flag that floats above them
Is marked with a crimson sign,
Pledge of a great compassion
And the rifted heart divine.
And so they follow
the bugle
And heed the drumbeat’s
call,
But their errand
is one of pity:—
They succor the men who fall.
GARRISON LIFE
I want to go home, wailed the private,
The sergeant and corporal the same,
For I’m tired of the camp and the
hikin’,
The grub and the rest of the game.
I’m willing to do all the fightin’,
For that is a game two can play;
But I want to go home, for me goil’s
all alone,
An’ I want to go home
to-day.
For I’ve marched ’til me throat
was a-crackin’,
’Til crazed for the want of a drink,
I’ve drilled ’til me back
was a-breakin’,
An’ I haven’t had time to
think.
And I’ve had me share of policin’,
And guard and I’m tired of me lay;
For me goil’s all alone, an’
I want to go home,
An’ I want to go home
to-day.
Do they heed us a-dying in garrison life?
They say it’s the water and such,
We think that more apt it’s the
hikin’,
For the life of a private ain’t
much;
But we know we can fight if we have to,
And they won’t have to show us the
way,
But me goil’s all alone, an’
I want to go home,
An’ I want to go home
to-day.
My friend, have you heard of the town
of Manila,
On the banks of the Pasig River,
Where blooms the wait-awhile flower fair,
And the “some time other”
scents the air,
And the soft-go-easy grow?
It lies in the Valley of What’s-the-use,
In the province of Let-her-slide.
That old tired feeling is native there,
It’s the home of the listless I
don’t care.
Where the Put-it-off abide.
The East is a’calling
They say that the East is alluring;
The balmy green isles of the
sea.
But with all their wild splendor assuring,
They have no fascination for
me.
I camped with the boys at Siassi,
Way down in that sequestered
isle,
Where the garb of a primitive lassie,
Was naught save a gee string
and smile.
I hiked o’er the hog trails of Jolo,
In the blistering rays of
the suns,
As the wild savage wielding his bolo,
Fell beneath the onslaught
of our guns.
With a cartridge belt, rifle and knapsack,
I tramped through the wooded
ravine,
On a ration of hard tack and bacon,
And a swig from a rusty canteen.
In Mindanao island so dreary,
From Malabang to Hawaiian
hill,
Ever faithful though footsore and weary,
I shouldered my Krag for the
drill.
On the outpost when night darkened o’er
us
A lone vigil I kept through
the rain,
And watched for the bloodthirsty Moros,
That prowled through the desolate
cayan.
I have seen the half clad Filipino,
In his nipa thatched shack
in Luzon,
Dispensing the tuba and bino,
Amidst our gay laughter and
song.
At eve the brown-hued senoritas,
Strolled leisurely over the
green,
In hobbles and gaudy camisas,
Their more loving than handsome
queens,
They may say the East is a’calling,
The picturesque isles of the
sea,
But with all their wild splendor enthralling,
They have no fascination for
me.
TELL YOUR TROUBLES TO THE CORPORAL OF THE GUARD
If number one you are walking,
And to a comrade talking,
While around the country gawking,
Keeping neither watch nor ward,
And an officer unsaluted,
Swears at you with voice polluted,
Tell your troubles to the
Corporal of the Guard.
If you are at the bridge of Spain,
And a foreign lady vain—
While a native with a rein
Jerks the skinny pony hard,
When to her aid you’ll turn,
Tell your troubles to the
Corporal of the Guard.
If on the Escolta posted,
And the sun your back has roasted,
And rebel chieftain boasted
As he handed you his card—
That he soon would clean you out
And put your Dewey’s fleet to rout,
Tell your troubles to the
Corporal of the Guard.
If to the canteen you are sent,
And your frame with thirst is rent,
And your spirits drooped and bent,
And the soldiers and the sailors bottle-crazed—
All are drinking fizzes cool,
Do not rave and act the fool,
Tell your troubles to the
Corporal of the Guard.
If you should a bottle get,
No matter on which beat,
Or a morsel sweet to eat,
In the dreary times so hard;
You will find a friend to share it—
Call promptly for the Corporal
of the Guard.
My General Orders are:
1. To take charge of these spuds and all gravy in view.
2. Dish slum in a military manner; keeping on the alert and observing all meat balls that go within sight or hearing.
3. To report any private or non-com who asks for thirds.
4. To receive, transmit and obey all orders from and allow myself to be relieved by the Mess Sergeant, first and second cooks only.
5. To quit the coffee only when properly relieved.
6. To repeat all calls for “seconds” from the dining room.
7. To hold conversation with no one who asks for onions.
8. To allow no one to pass the cooks tobacco or booze.
9. To salute all slum not incased in an overcoat.
10. In any case not covered by instructions call the first cook.
11. In case of fire take out the ashes and get a bucket of coal.
12. Between reveille and retreat turn out the cook and the cook’s police for all objects found in the slum, such as bedbugs, lizards, cockroaches, snakes and other insects not on the bill of fare.
By order of
General R. U. Hungry:
Peelem Spud,
Commanding Kitchen
Police Brigade.
Official:
O. U. Meatball,
Major,
3rd Cook Corps,
Brigade
Adjutant.
You’ve heard of the famous six hundred,
who at Balaklava
fell;
Who charged like death’s avengers
straight
into the mouth
of hell.
But there’s deeds unsung, unheard
of;
brave deeds gone
by unseen,
Just listen to the tale of a soldier,
told in
ought thirteen.
Part of the Colonial Army for duty in
the
Philippine group.
If I had the gink that sent me I sure
would
make him loop
the loop.
Our valor is tested daily. We fight
the
mosquitos and
heat.
The country is fine for a Gu-Gu, but I
long
for old Market
Street.
The hiking is fine for a soldier, you
fill up
on dust on the
road,
And to eat on a dusty stomach makes you
feel like any
toad.
You may talk of a seven-year enlistment,
God help me get
this one in,
When you do one on the Archipelago,
you will never
be free from sin.
They work you from morning till evening.
They’ve
got you, there’s no pulling out.
Can you blame us for drinking, old timer,
no chance, here’s
to you, old scout.
Our troubles may be all imaginary and
caused by too
much sun,
But how much imagining is called for in
the war games
they play for fun.
I try to do all they require me, but,
God,
who can do all
that?
The man is not made who can obey all
orders of a man
with a gold cord on his hat.
Some are better than others, they don’t
feel the polish
and such,
But I’ve learned my lesson—they’ll
get
you in dutch.
Don’t think for a minute I’m
a sorehead
because I am in
for bob,
My muscles shure got hard in the army;
I can d——!
easy get a job.
And if some time, in the future, I would
hate someone to
think me a friend,
I’ll advise him to enlist in the
army, good
night, I know
that sure is his end.
Never any style about him,
Not imposing on parade,
Couldn’t make him look heroic,
With no end of golden braid.
Figure sort o’ stout and dumpy,
Hair and whiskers kind of
red,
But he’s always moving forward,
When there’s trouble
on ahead.
Five foot five, of nerve and daring,
Eyes pale blue, and steely
bright,
Not afraid of man or devil,
That is Funston in a fight.
Fighting since he learned to toddle,
Soldier since he got his growth,
Knows the Spaniard and the savage,
For he’s fought and
licked ’em both,
Not much figure in the ball room,
Not much hand at breaking
hearts,
Rotten ringer for Apollo,
But right thing when something
starts;
Just a bunch of brains and muscles,
But you always feel somehow
That he’ll get what he goes after,
When he mixes in a row.
Weyler found out all about him,
Set a price upon his head;
Aguinaldo’s crafty warriors
Nearly filled him full of
lead.
Yellow men and yellow fever,
Tried to cut off his career;
But since he first hit the war trail,
He has never slipped a year.
And the heart of all the nation
Gives a patriotic throb,
At the news that Kansas Funston
Has again gone on the job.
YEAR 2016 IN CHIHUAHUA
Through the mesquite in old Chihuahua,
Aimlessly one day I strode,
Till I chanced upon a figure
Standing silent in the road.
Such an odd, ungainly figure!
I stopped, then staggered
back,
Thinking it an ancient spirit
That had wandered from its
track.
A campaign hat was on his head,
With strap beneath his chin,
On his legs some battered leggins,
And his shoes were old and
thin.
On his shoulder was a musket,
Red with the rust of years,
Like himself, the whole equipment,
Seemed to justify my fears.
“What masquerade is this”?
said I,
Though my breath came quick
and short,
Then he, from force of habit,
Brought his rifle to a port.
“Long years ago,” he answered,
In a mild and patient tone,
“There was trouble in Chihuahua,
Where Villa used to roam.
“When I left the States for Mexico,
With the Regular Cavalry,
We numbered several thousand,
Young, healthy, strong and
free.
All the others,—they are sleeping
On the hillside over there,
Far from home and loving kindred
And the native country dear.
“Perhaps twenty died from sickness,
Victims of the fever’s
rage,
Or amoebic dysentery,
All the rest,—from
ripe old age!
I’m the last of all those thousands,
Through this place I still
must roam,
Waiting for expected orders—
Welcome orders to go home.”
When I’ve served out this enlistment,
And my time in the Reserves,
Why, I am going to treat yours truly
To the treat that he deserves.
For I am tired chasing Villa,
In this God-forsaken land,
When there’s nothing much but cactus
And the useless miles of sand.
Where the Rio Grande is flowing,
By El Paso near Fort Bliss,
There’s a little girl worth knowin’,
And she’s a’savin’ me
a kiss.
Oh, I met her once a’walking,
With red corals in her hair;
Where the greasers sit a’talking,
In the little public square.
There’s real food there; white women;
Most things a man could want;
And a pool to go in swimmin’
And a Chinese restaurant;
Where, across the hot Chop Suey;
If you give the Chink a wink,
He’ll produce a little teapot,
Full of something good to drink.
Oh, I’m tired of Cactus whiskey,
That they stop the trucks to sell;
For one bottle’s mighty risky,
And two starts a man for hell.
And the first time that I’m able,
When they hand me my discharge,
Watch me lean across the table,
And say: “Bo, give me a drink
of ‘large.’”
So good-bye, Adobe ladies;
My regards to Uncle Sam;
Let old Pancho go to Hades;
Adios to Col. Dublan!
They can’t bind me with a lasso,
Once this little Doughboy’s free;
There’s a girl right in El Paso,
That I’m bound he’s going
to see.
For she’s waitin’, my Anita;
In the Plaza, in the Square;
Where the little fenced-in fountain
Throws its water in the air;
Where the old pet alligator stays,
And winks his knowin’ eye,
And says, “Patience, Senorita,”
He’ll be with you by an’ by.
OLD BALDY
The “Black Eagle” said, “I
think it but fair,
That I should be ruler of both land and
air,
And have all the other birds under my
reign.
How great I shall be over such a domain.”
The others protested, saying, “This
you can’t do;
We’ll never submit to a swell-head
like you.
Before we’ll come under your despotic
rod,
We’ll fight to the very last drop
of our blood.”
But the “Black Eagle” answered:
“I’ll have what I wish;
I’ll pay you for suckers, and catch
a big fish;
I’ll clip your wings off with a
big pair of shears
That I have been grinding, the last forty
years.
“I’ll hook my big talons right
into your breast,
And get a wild ‘Turkey’ to
help do the rest.
We’ll pluck that fine plumage all
off from your back;
And you’ll find desolation the brand
of my track.”
And so the fight started. It waxed
fierce and long;
And proved the “Black Eagle”
unusually strong.
With three years of fighting, he still
was intact,
And seemed to be victor—in
fight and in fact.
But at this very moment of luck for the
“Black,”
A venerable eagle flew into his track.
He was gray, he was bald, he was ancient
as well;
And just where he came from, there’s
no use to tell.
This “Bald-headed Eagle” was
hailed with delight,
When the other birds saw he was going
to fight;
But when they beheld the tactics employed,
By “Baldy the Great One,”
they were overjoyed.
For he hooked his curved bill in the top
of the head
Of “Old Blackey the Terror,”
then quietly said:
“Just watch my talons clip up to
his throat.
With one still free, I will pick this
old bloat.”
The struggle was fierce, and the feathers
flew high;
The “Black One’s” fine
plumage came off rapidly;
“Old Baldy’s” quick
work, and to make good his word,
Left nary a feather stick on the Black
bird.
The fight at last ended; the “Black”
gave it up,
With “Baldy” victorious, awarded
the cup;
But the “Black One” was stripped
of all honor and fame.
Has a place in this world with a dishonored
name.
It may be a fable, but history records
This defeat of the “Fowl of Great
Boasting Words.”
How the “Prussian Black Eagle”
that thought he could scratch,
Found in “Old Baldy” far more
than his match.
“Kaiser bill”
There’s a Guy across the Sea,
And the “Devil’s
own” is he.
Death! Destruction! Misery!
That’s the Kaiser.
Don’t you fancy he’s a fool.
Satan ne’er had such a tool—
Whether demon, fiend or ghoul
As the Kaiser.
At the bottom of the ocean
Lie the victims of his notion.
Bathes in human blood for lotion
Does the Kaiser.
While his Teuton Choir sings,
In the military rings,
Of the “Divine Right of Kings.”
Kaiser Bill.
Kinder erst, und den de vimmen—
Shood dem ub vile dey is schwimmen,
Den you gif der men a trimmen,
Kaiser Bill.
For der voorit must pe mine own,
So I’ll pe der King alone,
Mit a unifersal throne
Kaiser Bill.
But we’ll toss you out the tip,
(Though the censor seal the lip)
That he’ll soon be “on the
hip”—
Will the Kaiser.
For his submarines are sinking,
And his men in trenches, stinking,
While the Western world is linking
’Gainst the Kaiser.
He’ll be picked up in a basket,
With a U-Boat for a casket,
And a name plate, if he ask it.
“Kaiser bill.”
Then “submerge” in kerosene,
Kept in memory ever green
As the profligate, obscene
Kaiser Bill.
Ses Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
Be gob, ye’re a bad
’un;
Now turn out your toes;
Yer belt is unhookit
Yer cap is on crookit
Ye may not be dhrunk,
But be jabers, ye look it;
Wan-two!
Wan-two!
Ye monkey faced devil, I’ll jolly
ye through!
Wan-two!
Time! Mark!
Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Park.
Ses Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
A saint it ud sadden
To dhrill such a mug;
Eyes front! ye baboon ye!
Chin up! ye gossoon, ye!
Ye’ve jaws like a goat—
Halt! ye leather lipped loon,
ye!
Wan-two!
Wan-two!
Ye whiskered orang-outang, I’ll
fix you!
Wan-two!
Time! Mark!
Ye’ve eyes like a bat, can ye see
in the dark?
Ses Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
Yer figger wants padd’n—
Sure man, ye’ve no shape;
Behind ye yer shoulders
Stick out like two boulders;
Yer shins are as thin
As a pair of penholders;
Wan-two!
Wan-two!
Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!
Wan-two!
Time! Mark!
I’m as dry as a dog—I
can’t spake but I bark!
SERVING IN TEXAS
To old Satan Texas was given
By the Lord who lives in Heaven,
And the Devil quoth “I’ve
got what’s needed
To make a good Hell,”
and he succeeded.
He put sharp thorns all over the trees,
And mixed up sand with millions
of fleas;
He scattered tarantulas along the roads,
Puts thorns on cactus, and
horns on toads.
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,
And put an addition to the
rabbit’s ears;
He put a little devil in the bronco steed,
And poisoned the feet of the
centipede.
The rattlesnake bites, the scorpion stings,
The mosquitos delight with
their, buzzing wings;
The sand burs prevail, and so do the ants,
And those who sit down, need
half-soles in their pants.
The heat in the summer is one hundred
and ten,
Too hot for the Devil and
too hot for the men;
The wild boar roams thru the back chaparral,
’Tis a hell of a place
that he picked for a hell.
O’Reilly was a soldier man, the
pride of Battery “B.”
In all the blooming regiment no better
man than he;
The ranking duty Non Com., he knew his
business well,
But since he’s tumbled down the
pole, O’Reilly’s gone to Hell.
Chorus:
O’Reilly’s gone to Hell, since
down the pole he fell.
They drank up all the bug juice the whiskey
man would sell.
They ran him in the mill. They’ve
got him in there still.
His bob tail’s coming back by mail,
O’Reilly’s gone to Hell.
2.
O’Reilly hit the bottle after six
years up the pole,
He blew himself at Casey’s place
and then went in the hole,
He drank with all the rookies and saved
his face as well.
The whole outfit is on the bum, O’Reilly’s
gone to Hell.
Chorus:
3.
O’Reilly swiped a blanket and shoved
it up I hear;
He shoved it for a dollar and invested
that in beer,
He licked a coffee cooler because he said
he’d tell,
He’s ten days absent without leave,
O’Reilly’s gone to Hell.
Chorus:
4.
They’ll try him by Court Martial,
he’ll never get a chance
To tell them how his mother died or some
such song and dance.
He’ll soon be in Company “Q”
a-sleeping in a cell
A big red “P” stamped on his
back, O’Reilly’s gone to Hell.
ON THE “BORDER”
This is the Land
That God forgot.
Arizona.
This is the land
That the Devil be-got.
Arizona.
In respects, it’s possibly
Better than Hell,
In Naco.
Hot air, mixed
With sulphur smell,
In Naco.
There every acre
Is desert sand,
To take the place
Of the “Brim-stone”
Land.
In Hell.
Also, we have the Prickley-pear,
In Naco.
Sage-brush and cacti
That might compare
To pitch-forks.
But should you ask me
Where I’d dwell—
Naco, or in that place below—
Just three words
From my mouth would flow:
“Me for
Hell.”
Conditions are settled
Down in Hell;
While on the Border,
You never can tell.
Arizona!
Hell, yes!
No watchful waiting,
No peace at a price,
Like Naco.
The Devil’s policy
Is firm and concise,
In Hell.
No friendly raids,
Nor Mexican strife;
Like Naco.
One’s die is cast:
To boil for Life,
In Hell.
In case of trouble,
Of any kind,—
The Devil acts
Without change of mind.
Naco—Hell.
Think of the wonderful
Peace Sublime,
In Hell.
I only wish
That peace were mine.
(From a Marine’s Diary.)
5:05 A. M.—First call
I heard the First Call sound, and then—
Just yawned and went to sleep again.
5:10 A. M.—Reveille
At Reveille I shook the dope,
Broke out a towel and a hunk of soap.
5:20 A. M.—Roll call
My name rang out upon the air;
I hollered, “Here,” for I
was “there.”
5:25 A. M.—Setting-up exercise
Took exercise, without a rest;
I like the Breathing Movement best.
5:45 A. M.—Chow
Oh, what a difference breakfast makes!
’Twas Punk and Java, Dog and Cakes.
6:10 A. M.—First call for drill
First call for Drill reminded me—
I’ll try the rear rank—“number
three.”
6:20 A. M.—Drill
Street Riot Drill and Company square;
I nearly went up in the air.
7:20 A. M.—Recall from drill
Recall was music to my ears;
I hadn’t felt so tired for years.
8:00 A. M.—Colors
The Guard turned out for Uncle Sam
And handed him the “Grand Salaam.”
8:10 A. M.—Sick call
One fellow went to show his corn
For there’s a Hike to-morrow morn.
8:20 A. M.—First call for troop
I shaved and washed, then cleaned the
Gat,
And had ten minutes left at that.
8:30 A. M.—Troop
The Captain sized us up for fair,
But no kick comin’ anywhere.
8:45 A. M.—Guard mount
Guard Mount, my name wasn’t booked;
How is it I was overlooked?
Respite
No more calls to answer now
Til I hear them holler, “Chow”
For this is my easy day:
Guess I rate it anyway.
12:00 N—chow—liberty
Chow was the regular menu,
Spuds et cetera—carabao.
I heard “Liberty”
when it went
But I didn’t have a
cent.
1:00 P. M.—Police
Glad I have no work today;
I’ll turn in and hit the hay.
Afternoon—no calls
Woke up promptly, half past two;
Walked around Olongapo.
Came in—played
a checker game;
Wrote a letter
to my dame.
5:00 P. M.—Chow
Supper surely was some class!
Steak and Onions—Apple “sass.”
6:00 P. M.——Colors
Six o’clock when colors went;
Guard turned out and gave “present.”
8:30 P. M.—Tattoo
Came in early, took a shower,
Read a book for half an hour.
9:15 P. M.—Call to quarters
Let down my Mosquito net—
Puffed a Durham Cigarette.
Taps—P. M.
Safely in my bunk I curled
And was soon—dead to the World.
That uniform
Tis strange, but yet ’tis true,
we see
Sane men who seem to think that we,
Who wear the blue, are not the same
As other men. We have a name
Scarce thought of with respect; ’tis
used
To frighten children, and abused
By those who only wish to show
A few of the many things they don’t
know.
We read “the soldiers came to town
And raised particular ——,”
and so on down
A column or more of such vile stuff;
’Twould make us all cry “Hold!
Enough!”
You see, there’s scarcely anything
To write about. While these things
sting,
What’s that to us? We may
lose by it;
But the public’s fed, ye gods, the
diet.
An old saw, which, perhaps, e’en
you
Have heard, and some thought true,
Seems to have been forgotten, quite,
Or else we do not think it right.
Our fathers used to think that way,
But we are wiser (?) in our day.
Try to remember it, if you can,
Tis this: “The clothes don’t
make the man.”
Don’t turn the soldier down.
You may,
For aught you know, or others say,
Be entertaining, unawares,
An angel; and, if not, who cares?
For, be he good, bad, weak or strong,
’Mid summer’s sun or winter’s
storm,
You call on him to right your wrong,
Altho he wears a uniform.
In the cold Grey dawn of the morning after
Bring me a dry Martini, waiter,
Chase in something that’s
wet,
I was out to a clam bake yesterday,
And I haven’t got over
it yet.
Throw me a pleasant look, waiter,
Smile at me pretty, don’t
frown,
And pour some glue on my breakfast
So I can keep it down.
I hear they have discovered the pole,
waiter,
I wish I had it here now,
They can’t come any too cold for
me
To put on my aching brow.
Many a schooner was wrecked last night,
And the waves ran mountain
high.
Personally, I was soused to the gills,
But today I’m awfully
dry.
It was a terrible night at sea, waiter,
And many are missing, I think,
But as near as I can remember
I never missed a drink.
The one in blue got my purse, waiter,
Her side-kick got my clock,
I don’t want to know what time it
is,
Please lead me down to the dock.
Lead me down to the dock, waiter,
For a watery grave I pine,
The place for a man that is pickled
Is over my head in brine.
Tell them in Olongapo,
I died as a hero should,
Up to the neck, in cold, cold suds
Guaranteed drawn from the wood.
I’d like to leave you a gift, waiter,
Just to remember me by
And to show you that I’m not tight,
You can have my piece of pie.
And after I sink in the water, waiter,
You’ll do me a favor, I hope.
Tell them, if I blow up bubbles
It wasn’t from eating soap.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE POSTER
They told me that the Army was a joy for
evermore;
They told me of the pleasures I’d
have in it by the score;
They told me of its comforts and the jolly
life I’d lead,
But by thunder they have fooled me and
I’m sorrowful indeed—
I ever joined the Army.
They told me of the polished boots and
the buttons bright I’d wear,
And of the splendid things I’d find
upon the bill-of-fare;
But never a word they told me in the fine
recruiting shop,
Of hoeing weeds upon the roads, or hauling
out the slops—
When I joined the Army.
They told me of the pleasant hours, away
from every care,
I could spend when not on duty, in town
or anywhere;
But a thing they never told me is the
punishment they’d mete
Out to a luckless rookie who went absent
from retreat—
In Uncle Samuel’s Army.
They told me of the canteen, where good
lager beer is sold,
And of the fine post hospital, that cures
all kinds of colds;
But a hint about the guard-house they
never to me gave,
That skeleton they kept hidden as though
buried in a grave—
Until I joined the Army.
They showed me good looking chromos of
good looking soldier men,
With little V’s upon their sleeves
and hats they shone like tin;
But there is one uncanny picture they
never to me showed
Of a soldier with a knapsack, and he hitting
up the road—
In the U. S. Army.
They told me of the nice soft bunk, made
out of woven wire,
Where I could lay my carcass, whenever
my bones would tire;
But a whisper of the pick and shovel was
never to me told,
So I’m pondering o’er my contract,
and I think I was sold—
When I came into Uncle’s
Army.
They told me of the non-coms, who knew
a soldier’s worth,
Who made the Army jolly, a place of endless
mirth;
But not a word they told me of the amount
of beer I’d buy,
Just to keep a “stand in”
with those that rank up high—
In Sammy’s splendid
Army.
They told me of the bill-of-fare that
changed with every day,
And when landed in the Army for thirty
years I’d stay;
But not a word they told me (No wonder
they were mum),
About the stuff they feed us, commonly
known as “Slum”—
In our conquering Army.
It is hinted that experience of all others
is the school,
Where common sense alone is learned, by
him that plays the fool;
And though I hate the medicine, I must
take it with a will,
And keep convincing myself, it does me
good—
It’s time to leave the
Army.
When your first hitch is over, and you
have cashed your finals few,
And a breakfast and a boat ride are all
that’s left for you,
And you toy with your collar as you don
your suit of “citz,”
While your bunkie, sitting near you, has
the bluest kind of fits;
You a-bubbling over with pleasure at the
thoughts of going out;
The friends at home will welcome you,
of that there’s not a doubt;
And it never seems to strike you that
you have made a beaten track,
In these years you’ve been a soldier—that
you might come back.
So you hasten out as boat call goes—last
call you have to stand—
And you wave farewell to comrades as you
push away from land.
First call for drill is sounding from
the bugler’s throat of gold,
But you are free—“don’t
have to stand no drill in heat or cold.”
Altho’ you get to wondering as things
fade from sight,
If drilling really was so bad as walking
post at night.
You think, of course, when first discharged,
one feels just sort of sad;
But it’s Army fever symptoms—And
you’ve got ’em bad.
You’re in business on the outside,
and you’re making good, it seems;
But the bugle keeps a-calling, and a-calling
through your dreams.
Then some day you meet a soldier on a
furlough for a week;
And you think it only friendly to go up
to him and speak;
And you find you knew his brother, or
his cousin, or his friend,
And your job upon the outside has found
a sudden end;
For a longing fierce comes over you, and
you cannot resist—
It’s the crisis of the fever—and
you reenlist.
ONE TO THE ARMY BEAN
I’ve eaten funny dishes on Luzon’s
tropical shore,
I’ve eaten Japan’s bamboo
shoots and oysters by the score.
Of caviar I’ve had my share, I love
anchovies, too,
And way down in old Mindanao I’ve
eaten carabao;
Of Johnny Bull’s old rare roast
I nearly got the gout,
And with chums at Heidelberg I dined on
sauerkraut;
In China I have eaten native rice and
sipped their famous teas;
In Naples I, ’long with the rest,
ate macaroni and cheese;
In Cuba where all things go slow, manana’s
their one wish;
I dined on things that had no names, but
tasted strong with fish.
In Mexico the chili burnt the coating
off my tongue;
And with Irish landlord I dined on pigs
quite young,
Yet you may have your dishes that is served
to kings and queens,
But I am happy and contented with a dish
of Army Beans.
Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand
Make the mighty ocean
And the desert land.
Little hours of drilling,
Little “rifle shoots”
Make efficient soldiers
Out of raw recruits.
Little hours some spend in
Breaking liberty,
Oft’ amount to something
More than E. P. D.
Little words of kindness,
When you spare a few,
Sound all right to some one;
Do they not to you?
SING-A-SONG-A-SIXPENCE
Sing-a-song-a-sixpence
Every-body dry—
Half-a-dozen Privates
Opening some rye.
When the rye was opened
The Bucks began to sing:
Every blessed one of them
Feeling like a king.
The Sergeant at the Guard-house
Saw them walking straight—
Marked them “Clean and Sober,”
When they passed the gate.
But, when Taps was over,
They sang and danced a jig,
Along came a Corporal
And slammed them in the Brig.
If you wake, why, call me early—call
me early, won’t you, bunk?
The captain says I’ll be a non-com.,
if I don’t get on a drunk.
Then some day I’ll be a sergeant
with three stripes upon my arm,
Zig zag, like the old rail fences on Dad
Posey’s Country farm.
Call me early, though I’m dreaming,
wake me up that I may see
How the sun that sinks in grandeur rises
in obscurity.
I’ve been a private, bunkie, such
as privates seldom are,
Borne my share of public censure, let
it heal without a scar.
Till upon the fair escutcheon of my name
and humble rank
Captain says he’ll add the title
and a stripe on either flank.
Then I’ll be a non-com., bunkie,
wake me up that I may see
My own glory bubble appearing, hear it
burst at reveille.
Wake me early from my slumbers, henceforth
A YOUNG ROOKIE’S LAMENT
As I sit in the gleam of the camp fire,
’Neath the Oriental skies,
In fancy I picture the homeland shore
And a town I highly prize;
It’s Gardner, dear old Gardner,
A town so dear to me,
But I’m many miles away
Across an endless sea.
I at the age of 17 was—
Fickle as a clam
I took a train for Fitchburg
And joined old Uncle Sam.
They sent me on to Slocum,
And filled me up on beans.
They made me take a rifle
And a pair of khaki jeans.
They sent me to the Philippines,
We call it no man’s land.
We never see a flake of snow,
We bake our eggs in sand,
We hike o’er burning mountains
’Til it drives us near insane,
We pitch our camp in a rice field
In a storm of drizzling rain.
At night we walk our outpost
With a great big heavy gun
And 90 Dum-Dum bullets
To make the Moros run.
They’re accurate as a weasel
And, boys, they never fan,
You have to keep your ears pricked up,
For they’ll get you if they can.
Now, boys, you may think Gardner slow,
But that notion you’ll destroy
If you ever hold your hand up
To be a soldier boy.
You have no dear old Mother.
To mend your tattered pants,
When you stick yourself with a needle,
With rage you’ll fairly prance.
So, boys, I found my big mistake,
I was altogether wrong,
And that’s the simple reason
I sing this little song.
So take a piece of fool’s advice,
And never run away,
Just stay in dear old Gardner
Where life is bright and gay.
“Where’re all the soldiers
goin’ to?” asked Files-on-Parade,
“What are they all a-goin’
to do?” the Color Sergeant said;
“I dunno where they’re goin’
to,” said Files-on-Parade,
“I dunno what they’re goin’
to do,” the Color Sergeant said.
For they’re goin’ back towards
U. S. A. and leave the Philippines,
They’re tirin’ of the Islands
and the Army “pork and beans,”
That “single time,” and “two
per mile”—they all know what that
means—
So now they’re all a’goin’
to leave the Army.
“Where is the ‘Doughboy’
goin’ to?” asked Files-on-Parade,
“And what is he a-goin’ to
do?” the Color Sergeant said;
“Back to his farm! Back to
his farm!” said Files-on-Parade,
“Behind the plow! Behind the
plow,” the Color Sergeant said.
No hiking o’er rice paddies,—but
furrowed fields of corn,
To go to bed real early and get up in
the morn’,
To be his own “K. O.”
once more, in the country where he’s born,
So soon he’ll be a-quittin’
of the Army.
“Where is the Trooper goin’
to?” asked Files-on-Parade,
“And what is he a-goin’ to
do?” the Color Sergeant said;
“Perhaps he’ll pack an Army
mule,” said Files-on-Parade,
“Or go out West to ‘cow-boy,’”
the Color Sergeant said.
He’s fond of his “caballo,”
and he loves his old “outfit,”
And if they’d change those Army
bills, he wouldn’t ever quit,
But Chairman Hay, and others, have forced
him into it.
So soon he’ll be discharged from
out the Army.
“Where is the ‘Gunner’
goin’ to?” asked Files-on-Parade,
“And what is he a-goin’ to
do?” the Color Sergeant said;
“He’s goin’ to be a
‘jackie,’” said Files-on-Parade,
“A sailor lad a’fore the mast,”
the Color Sergeant said.
For he’d rather try the Navy, and
draw a sailor’s pay,
Than “single-time” in Jolo
with three long years to stay,
Where there ain’t no “two-cent
mileage,” while a’cruisin’ across
the Bay,
So now he’ll soon be quittin’
of the Army.
“Where is the Army goin’ to?”
said Files-on-Parade,
“And what is it a’goin’
to do?” the Color Sergeant said;
“The boys will soon have done their
time,” said Files-on-Parade,
“And few of ’em will ‘hitch’
again,” the Color Sergeant said.
For the Transports bring one “rookie”
to take the place of ten,
“Old Timers,” who are goin’
home, and won’t “hitch” up again,
And they’ll have a Rookie Army—instead
of Soldier Men.
For they’re breakin’ up the
Army in the Islands.
PUZZY LAPPINS
When a crude and hopeful rookie
To the Philippines I came
To hike the glorious pathway
On to shoulder straps and fame,
I thought of mother’s counsel,
And I scorned the drunkard’s cup,
But I landed on the sick report,
And that’s what did me up.
“You’ve been drinking,”
said the surgeon,
“You’ve been drinking on the
sly.
You’ve been disobeying orders;
’Tis useless to deny.
Let me tell you on the Q. T.
That I am going to mark you ‘duty’
You’ve been drinking unboiled water
I can read it in your eye.”
I’ve a bunkie who is a restless
dog,
And he doesn’t care a fig,
So they marched him to the guard-house
And they made him do fatigue.
He’s a gamblin’, ramblin’
rascal,
An all around jovial sport.
They had him up the other day
Before a summary court.
“Charged with drinking,” says
the captain,
And he seemed to “wink an eye.”
“For you could not stand temptation
And you drank when you was dry.
You are grinning, Private Brady,
And you will draw five less next pay-day,
And for drinking unboiled water
Don’t forget I cinched you high.”
Since old Pharoah followed Moses,
And was followed by the sea,
Sergeant Potter’s been a soldier
And ’til Gabriel’s reveille
He’ll be answering to the bugle
call
At sunset, noon, and morn,
But he’s got the Dengue fever,
And it makes him flush and worn.
“You’ve been drinking unboiled
water,”
Says the captain, “that is why.”
“No, the captain is mistaken,”
Says the sergeant with a sigh.
“I never do drink water,
Though maybe at times I aught’er;
I never do drink water
When ‘John Stink’ and Tuba’s
nigh.”
The band it played a mournful tune;
The soldiers crowd around
As a comrade wrapped in Glory’s
flag
Is lowered in the ground.
There are three resounding volleys,
Taps die out in tender tones
And we’re marching to the quick
step
From the grave of Corporal Jones.
“It was drinking,” says the
captain
As a tear was in his eye.
“It was all through drinking water
That the corporal came to die.
’Twas the unboiled water that killed
him,
With germs and things it filled him
But now he is drinking from the Jordan
Where we’ll join him by and by.”
Once I was a farmer boy, a tiller of the
soil,
I liked the work—I never was
a chap to shirk from toil.
But I thought I’d choose a broader
life (I must have been an ass).
I took on in the Army—and now
I’m cutting grass.
I thought my farm life narrow, for there
my simple work
Was planting things and tending them,
and this I did not shirk.
I’d charge of all the horses, too,
and handled them first class,
But since I joined the Army, I am simply
cutting grass.
I get up in the morning to the sound of
martial strain.
The sergeant says: “Go get
that scythe and sharpen it again.
The grass has grown six inches, men, while
we have been in bed,
So hustle, soldiers, hustle—don’t
let it get ahead.”
The Chief of Staff sits up above and wonders
“wot fell?”
The money goes by millions, but the Army
is a sell.
We privates, if we dared to, could easy
hit the mark,
It’s grass that takes up all our
time from early dawn to dark.
We all would like to soldier and get prepared
for war;
It’s what we left our happy homes
and joined the Army for.
We’d like to learn our duties from
“skirmish drill” to “mass.”
But all we learn with Uncle Sam is grass,
grass, grass!
I hate the sight of anything that has
a color green;
My disposition’s ruined and I have
a swoolen spleen.
And when my time to cash in comes, I pray
a gracious God,
That I’ll be buried out at sea—not
placed beneath the sod.
THE SONG OF THE SHOVEL AND THE PICK
The Sergeant says: “My gun
is rusty,
And I guess it must be right.
But you ought to see my pick and shovel;
They are always shining bright.”
Chorus:
Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave
you,
And leave you mighty quick
For I’ll be d——d
if I can soldier
With a shovel and a pick.
There is hash that’s hot, and hash
that’s cold;
There’s hash that’s new and
hash that’s old;
And Hash that’s mixed into skilligbee;
But with me they don’t agree.
Chorus:
So, Farewell, Bunkie, I must
leave you,
And I leave you with a dash;
For I’ll be d——d
if I can soldier
On Uncle Samuel’s corn
beef hash.
B-ache—to complain.
Beans—the commissary sergeant.
Bean-shooter—a commissary officer.
Belly-ache—to complain.
Black strap—liquid coffee.
Blind—sentenced by court-martial to forfeiture of pay without confinement.
Bob-Tail—a dishonorable discharge, or a discharge without honor; to be “bobtailed”—to be discharged or to be given a discharge without honor.
Bone—to study; to try; to cultivate.
Bone bootlick on—to cultivate the favor of.
Boots and Saddles—trumpet call.
Bootlick—to flatter.
Brig—guard-house.
Bow-legs—cavalrymen.
Buck-private—a term sometimes used in referring to a private.
Bucking for Orderly—giving clothing and accoutrements extra cleaning so as to compete for orderly.
Bunkie—a soldier who shares the shelter of a comrade.
Bust—to reduce a non-commissioned officer to the grade of a private.
Butcher—the company barber.
Canned Horse—canned beef.
Chief—name by which the chief musician of the band is usually called by the enlisted men.
Cit—a civilian.
Cits—civilian clothes.
C. O.—commanding officer.
Coffee Cooler—one who seeks easy details away from troops; one who is always looking for an easy job.
Cold-feet—fear, lack of courage (to have cold feet is to be afraid, to lack courage).
Commissaries—groceries.
Crawl—to admonish.
Dog-robber—name by which the enlisted men call a soldier who works for an officer. (An offensive term, the use of which generally results in trouble.)
Dough-boy—infantryman.
Dough-puncher—the baker.
Down the Pole—to drink, after having stopped.
Duff—any sweet edible.
Fatigue—extra work.
File—a number on the lineal list.
Fogy—ten percent increase in pay for each five years’ service.
Found—to be found deficient or wanting in anything, especially an examination.
French leave—unauthorized absence. Absent on French leave—absent without authority.
Goat—junior officer in post, regiment, etc.
Goaty—awkward, ignorant.
Guard House Lawyer—a soldier with a smattering knowledge of regulations and military law; quite loquacious and liberal with advice and counsel to men in the Guard House or other trouble.
Hand-Shaker—a soldier who tries to win the favor of first sergeant or troop commander.
Hardtack—hardbread, biscuits.
Hash Mark—enlistment or service stripe, worn on sleeve.
Hike—a march; to hike; to march.
Hitch—a term for enlistment period.
Hive—to discover, to catch.
Hobo—the provost guard.
Holy Joe—the chaplain.
Hop—a dance.
How—form of salutation in drinking, meaning
“Here’s to your health,”
“My regards,” etc.
I. C.—condemned by an inspector.
Jaw-bone—credit (to get things on “jawbone,” is to buy on credit).
Jump—to admonish.
K. O.—the commanding officer.
Major—name by which the sergeant-major is usually called by the enlisted men.
Mill—Guard-house.
Mule-skinner—a teamster.
Non-Com—non-commissioned officer.
O. D.—the officer of the day.
Officers Line, or Officers Row—the row of houses where the officers and their families live.
Old Issue—an old soldier.
Old File—an old officer.
Old Man—the company commander.
On Official Terms—not to be on speaking terms except officially.
On the Carpet—called before the commanding officer for admonition.
Openers—cathartic pills.
Orderly Buckle—a soldier when going on guard who strives by extra neatness of appearance to be designated as orderly for the commanding officer.
Orderly Room—company office.
Outfit—one’s organization in the army.
Over-the-Hill—to desert.
P.—Prisoner.
Pills—the hospital steward.
Punk—light bread.
Q. M.—the quartermaster.
Q. M. D.—quartermaster’s department.
Ranked-out—to be compelled to vacate by a senior, as “to be ranked out of quarters.”
Red-tape—official formality; that is, the close or excessive observance of forms and routine in the transaction of business.
Regimental Monkey—the drum major.
Re-up—to re-enlist at once.
Rookie—a new recruit.
Sand-rat—an officer or soldier on duty in the rifle pit at target practice.
Saw-bone—the doctor.
Shave-tail—a new second lieutenant. So called, after the young, unbroken mules in the Quartermaster’s Department.
Shoved up—to pawn.
Shutters—camphor or opium pills.
Sinkers—dumplings.
Sky-scout—the chaplain.
Sky-pilot—the chaplain,
Slap-Jacks—pan cakes.
Slum—a stew of meat, potatoes and onions, mostly potatoes and onions.
Soap Suds Row—the laundresses’ quarters.
Soldier, to—to soldier, to serve; also to shirk.
Soldiers’ One Per Cent—one hundred per cent.
Sow-belly—bacon.
Stars and Stripes—beans.
Striker—a soldier who works for an officer.
Take-on—to re-enlist before the expiration of three months after discharge.
The Old Man—term sometimes used by officers and soldiers in referring to the commanding officer; sometimes used by soldiers in referring to their company commander.
To Take Another Blanket—same as “Take-on.”
Top Sergeant—first sergeant.
Up the Pole—to swear off drinking.
Yellow-leg—cavalryman.
Youngster—a young officer (a first or second lieutenant).
Wagon-soldier—light or field artilleryman.
Wind-jammer—a trumpeter or bandsman.
Wood-butcher—company artificer.
Gravel Crushers—infantry soldiers.
Poultice Wallahs—Royal Army Medical Corps men.
Doolally Tap—when a soldier becomes mentally unbalanced he is said to have received the “Doolally Tap.” “Doolally” is a corruption of the name of an Indian town, Deolali.
Bun Wallah—a soldier who drinks nothing stronger than tea, and is in consequence supposed to eat voraciously of buns.
Chips—the regimental pioneer sergeant, who is usually a sergeant.
Lance Jack—a lance-corporal.
Quarter Bloke—the quartermaster.
Rookey—a recruit.
Scrounger—a man with plenty of resource in getting what he wants.
Yob—one who is easily fooled.
Bobygee—a soldier cook. In India a native one.
Baggies—sailors in the Navy.
Badgy—an enlisted boy.
Long-faced Chum—a cavalryman’s term for his horse.
Rooty—bread.
Slingers—a meal of bread and tea.
Muckin—butter.
Bully Beef—the tinned meat ration.
Lamping—eating heartily.
C. B.—confined to barracks.
Chucking a Dummy—when a man faints on parade he is said to “have chucked a dummy.”
Clink or Mush—the guard room.
Brief, Cheque or Ticket—discharge documents.
Dock—a military hospital.
Swinging the Lead—the equivalent of “telling the tale.”
Weighed off—when a soldier has been awarded punishment for an offense he is said to have been “Weighed off.”
High Jump—an appearance before the C.O. to answer a charge of breaking regulations.
Lost His Number—a man is said to have “lost his (regimental) number” when he is reported for any offense. It is “lost” because it is placed on the report sheet.
Stir—imprisonment in a detention barracks.
Chancing His Arm—committing an offence in expectation that it will not be discovered. A N.C.O. is said to be “chancing his arm” because he may be deprived of his stripes.
Jankers—defaulter’s drill.
Dog’s Leg—the first stripe received on promotion.
Bundook—a rifle.
Bobtack—powder mixed into a paste to clean buttons and brass work on equipment.
Muck-in—share in.
Square-Pushing—courting. Your best boots, cap, etc., are called square-pushing boots, etc.
Square-bit—your best girl.
Atcha—all right.
Blighty—home.
Reveille:
I can’t get ’em up, I can’t
get ’em up, I can’t
get ’em up in the morning;
I can’t get ’em up, I can’t
get ’em up, I can’t
get ’em up at all;
Corp’rals worse than the privates;
Sergeants worse than the corporals;
Lieutenants worse than the sergeants,
And the capt’n’s the worst
of all.
Chorus—
I can’t get ’em up, I can’t get ’em up, etc.
Mess call:
Soup-y, soup-y soup,
Without a single bean.
Pork-y, pork-y, pork,
Without a streak of lean;
Coffee, Coffee, Coffee,
Without any cream!
(Or, the weakest ever seen!)
Sick call:
Come and get your quinine, come and get
your pills,
Oh! come and get your quinine, come and
get your pills.
Stable call:
Come all who are able and go to the stable,
And water your horses and give ’em
some corn;
For if you don’t do it, the Col’nel
will know it,
And then you will rue it, sure as you’re
born.
Taps:
1 2
Fades the light; Love, good night. And afar When the day Goeth day, Must thou go Cometh night; And the night And a star Day is done Leadeth all, Leave me so? Speedeth all Fare thee well; To their rest. Night is on.
Another version.
When your last
Day is past,
From afar
Some bright star
O’er your grave
Watch will keep,
While you sleep
With the brave.
The following hints are only intended as a reminder to assist you when in doubt.
To stop bleeding.—Place a pad of clean cloth on the wound and bandage firmly. Raise the part affected. If raising the limbs or applying the pad does not control the bleeding, compress with your two thumbs over bone and as near the wound as possible. Give no stimulants as long as bleeding remains uncontrolled.
Burns and scalds.—Exclude the part from the air at once, by dusting flour on it and covering with cotton wool. If there is a blister do not pick it for 24 hours.
Soothing applications are Carron Oil, Salad Oil, Vaseline, Lard, etc. If there is severe shock, give it immediate attention, even before attending to the burn or scald.
Fractures.—The two main classes of fractures are simple and compound and the first aid treatment you give is to prevent the simple fracture from becoming the more serious compound fracture, which has a wound caused by the jagged end of the broken bone.
Attend to the patient on the spot, and fix the injured limb, at once, by splints and bandages. Use great gentleness.
If there is a wound, cleanse it and apply antiseptic dressing before putting limb in splints.
Disturb the limb as little as possible and make the patient comfortable until arrival of doctor.
Snake bites.—Tie something tightly around the limb, between the wound and the heart. Give patient a good dose of brandy or some other spirit.
Encourage the bleeding by squeezing the bitten part and bathe with warm water. If breathing is bad, use artificial respiration.
Poisons.—In the first place endeavor to find out the poison. If you cannot, and there are no stains about mouth or lips and no burning sensation in mouth and throat, give an emetic or tickle throat to make patient vomit. Emetics are: three-teaspoonfuls of mustard in pint of tepid water; salt and water, two tablespoonfuls to pint of warm water. (See First Aid for Poisoning.)
When there are stains, etc., give cream, white of eggs, olive or linseed oil (no oil with phosphorus poisoning). Antidotes to follow.
Grit in the eye.—Do not rub the injured eye. By rubbing the other eye you will bring tears, which may wash the grit out. If not, roll back the upper eyelid over a match or pencil, and remove the grit with the corner of your handkerchief or small camel hair brush.
If lime in eye, wash out at once with water, then drop olive or castor oil between the lids.
Do not attempt to remove anything deeply imbedded—drop in olive oil and bandage.
Fainting—–The patient is very faint and partially or completely unconscious. Pulse is weak and rapid and breathing quickened. No convulsions.
Place the patient in a lying position with the head lower than the rest of the body. Loosen his clothing at neck and chest. Give patient plenty of fresh air. Sprinkle face and chest with cold water and apply smelling salts to nose. Rub the limbs toward body. Give stimulant when patient is able to swallow.
Sprains.—A sprain is the tearing of the ligaments or capsule of a joint and bursting of small blood vessels, and swelling.
Apply cold water dressings as long as they give comfort, and afterwards apply hot fomentations. Rest the part in an easy position. If movement of limb be essential, bandage it tightly. If in doubt, treat as a fracture.
[*]French money
5 centimes (one sou) ......= 1 cent 25 " ......= 5 cents 50 " ......= 10 " 1 franc ......= 20 " 2 " ......= 40 " 5 " ......= 1 dollar
Half Penny ...............= 1 cent One " ...............= 2 cents Three Pence ...............= 6 " Six " ...............= 12 " One Shilling...............= 24 " Two " ...............= 48 " Half a Crown or Two Shillings Six Pence .. = 60 " Five Shillings ........... = $1.20 Ten " ............. = 2.40 1 Pound .................. = 4.80
[*]French currency has depreciated since the war about 10 per cent., so that ten per cent. deduction should be made for accurate reckoning.
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