“It isn’t war I hate at all—­
      ’Tis likely men must fight—­
    But, oh, these flags and uniforms,
      It’s them that isn’t right! 
    If war must come, and come it does
      To take our boys from play,
    It isn’t right to make it seem
      So beautiful and gay.”

    I left old Susan with a sigh;
    A famous band was marching by
    To make men glad they had to die.

Dependence

(An Englishwoman whose income has stopped owing to her two sons having joined the English army, was taken care of last night at the Florence Crittenden Mission.—­Press Clipping.)

    The young men said to their mother,
      “Hear us, O dearest and best! 
    Time cannot cool or smother
      The love of you in our breast;
    Here is your place and no other—­
      Come home and rest.”

    And the mother’s heart was grateful
      For the love of her cherished ones,
    And her labor, bitter and hateful,
      She left at the word of her sons,
    Till she heard far off the fateful
      Voices of guns.

    Their love did more enslave her;
      They did not understand
    That none could guard or save her
      When war was on the land,
    But herself, and God, who gave her
      Heart and mind and hand.

Playthings

    Last year the shops were crowded
      With soldier suits and guns—­
    The presents that at Christmas time
      We give our little sons;
    And many a glittering trumpet
      And many a sword and drum;
    But as they’re made in Germany
      This year they will not come.

    Perhaps another season
      We shall not give our boys
    Such very warlike playthings,
      Such military toys;
    Perhaps another season
      We shall not think it sweet
    To watch their game of soldier men,
      Who dream not of defeat.

Militants

    Hippolta, Penthesilea,
      Maria Teresa and Joan,
    Agustina and Boadicea
      And some militant girls of our own—­
    It would take a brave man and a dull one
      To say to these ladies:  “Of course
    We adore you while meek,
    Timid, clinging and weak,
      But a woman can never use force.”

A Lady’s Choice

    Her old love in tears and silence had been building her a palace
      Ringed by moats and flanked with towers, he had set it on a hill
    “Here,” he said, “will come no whisper of the world’s alarms and
        malice,
      In these granite walls imprisoned, I will keep you safe from ill.”

    As he spoke along the highway there came riding by a stranger,
      For an instant on her features, he a fleeting glance bestowed,
    Then he said:  “My heart is fickle and the world is full of danger,”
      And he offered her his stirrup and he pointed down the road.