Rookie Rhymes, By The Men Of The 1st And 2nd Provisional Training Regiments, Plattsburg, New York Part 3

And when it said: "What do you do?"

He always did just right.

VI

He memorized the map from Chestnut Hill to Steven's Run; He didn't have to draw a scale, As we have always done; He _knew_ that you could see Five-Six-- Ty-Six from Six-O-One.

VII

And then this tragic episode Of which I write occurred.

It happened sometime in the night Of June the 23rd That Montmorency stole away, And left no sign or word.

VIII

We found at dawn that he had gone And left us in the lurch.

The Colonel sent detachments out For miles around to search; A strong patrol to every knoll, To every house, and church.

IX

They found no trace in any place; It caused a lot of talk; They wired down to every town From Plattsburg to New York.

As it was plain he took no train He must have had to walk.

X

'Twas well into the Fall before The mystery was cleared.

(They'd never heard a single word Since Monty disappeared), When the Colonel had a caller, An old farmer, with a beard.

XI

He said his name was Topper, And he lived in Table Rock, And what he told the Colonel Gave the Old Man quite a shock; They were closeted together Until after ten o'clock.

XII

From Gettysburg to Plattsburg Mr. Topper came to say How he'd found a man in uniform Down near his home one day, Who, judging from his clothing, must Have walked a long, long way.

XIII

He told the sad and tragic tale Of how he came to find, While on his way to Hershey's Mill With a load of corn to grind, The young man wandering on a hill, And wandering in his mind.

XIV

He took him to his farmhouse, where For seven weeks he lay And talked and muttered to himself In a most peculiar way.

He gave his name before he died As Montmorency Gray.

XV

He seemed more sick than lunatic, Mr. Topper had to grant; As meek and mild as a little child, He did not rave or rant, He only cried, until he died: "You ought to, _but you can't_!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: ALWAYS WITH ANOTHER FELLOW]

GIRLS

They wander everywhere about The dears in pink, the dreams in yellow, With fetching smile, with pretty pout, And always with another fellow.

They spend their mornings baking cakes, Their afternoons in making cookies; And, oh! the soul within me aches-- Their sweets are all for other rookies.

Often, when 'neath their eyes we pa.s.s, I hear some maiden sigh divinely, And murmur to another la.s.s, "Dear, isn't _Jackie_ marching finely?"

Ah, girls, a sorry lot is his-- Dull are his days, his nights are dreary-- Who knows no maiden where he is, Who has no dame to call him "Dearie."

A LAMENT

(AFTER C. LAMB)

All, all are gone, the old familiar gla.s.ses That used to range along the fragrant bar; Gone, all are gone, and in their places Milk, Pop and Dietade its beauty mar.

The Big Four now has turned to Prohibition, Anhauser Busch no longer sells at par, Bar-maids have joined the Army of Salvation, The voice of Bryan governs from afar; All, all are gone, the old familiar gla.s.ses, Where once they glistened on the fragrant bar.

THE MANUAL

Did you ever run into the b.u.t.t of your gun, Or dig the front sight with your nose?

Did your stomach turn over and stand up on end, When you dropped the d.a.m.n thing on your toes?

When coming to Port did the rifle fall short, And the swivel ram into your fist?

When the rest did present did you so intent Find a count that the others had missed?

And when at "Inspection" you clutched to perfection, Then shot up the piece with a thrust, Was there some dirty pup who pushed your cut-off up So your bolt dug a cave in the dust?

Then when on the range your windage you'd change For the flag that the Anarchists wave, And the old c.o.c.king piece smeared your nose with red "grease,"