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Page 8 C" ■ v - 1 18 I I 11’ Sii; COII Prose and Poetry By Men at Camp Hancock DOES IT PAY? j BY ORLAND KAY ARMSTRONG. The other day, shortly after the pay checks were given out, a private strolled up to the desk to buy stamps. "Want a dollar’s worm,” he said. "Why so many?” 1 asked. “Do you need that many right now?" "No; of course not,” he answered, “but you see, I got to get enough to run me a month. If I don’t, I’ll have to do with out in a few day° I never have any money two days a.flrr pay day.” I grew' interested in the situation, and continued the conversation. "How much do 'ou draw per month?" "Thirty dollars,” he responded. “Can’t you save a little out of that during the month—at least to buy stamps?" 1 asked. “Does it take all that for extra, expenses?” "Well," he said, “l guess it wouldn’t take all that if 1 had a mind to hold onto some of it, but it just slips through a fellow's fingers before he knows it. I never try to save any of it. What’s the use, anyhow? 1 never expect to come bgck, and it won’t do me any good to save money.” I wondered if there were any others like him. Are there? ■ If there are, the trouble wnth them is, that first, they have the wrong viewpoint of things; and, second, they lack that great characteristic known as thrift. Let's sit down and talk over these two things for a moment. As to the wrong viewpoint: I refer to the expression, "What’s the use, any how? I never expact to come back.” More than one soldier has that idea. He feels that because of the slaughter going on in Europe his chances for coming back are not worth considering, there fore, "eat, drink and be merry, for to morrow we die.” The soldier with that idea needs to shake himself out of it. It’s wrong. In the first place, ail statis tics point out that fourteen out of fif teen men who go oyer are coming back. Peace may come before one out of a hun dred is killed. Even if the war should be bloody, and go on long enough, for half of ttie men enlisted to be killed, and this is hardly thinkable, a fellow would have a fifty-tifty chance at it, and that’s worth holding on to. But the point is. the man Who "holds the “tomorrow we die” idea of wgr, isn’t us good a soldier as the one who fights and hopes while he is fighting. .1 can prove that the soldier who hopes to come back after the war makes the best fighter. There are two reasons: First, he holies' to come back alive and feeling at the same time that he gave them all he had. He works harder; and gets the promotion up from the ranks. The fellow who doesn’t care what hap pens to him stays at the bottom. In the second place, the soldier who hopes'after the war to return, wants to come back a better man than when he marched away. He wants to have his health, in order to live a long life; his money, so that he can build up a successful trade, business or profession; and his habits formed in such away that he can rely upon his character for straight, clean, vigorous living—in fact, a credit to his home, his friends, and’the country he has fought for. The fellow' w'ith that idea of things is the best soldier. Now, as to the thing known as thrift: The trouble with the soldier who lets all that thirty dollars slip through his fingers is, that he hasn’t an idea of what it-is worth. Oh, of course, he may realize that it will buy thirty dollars’ worth of tobacco, street car fares, movie tickets, a good lime, or pay a few' debts. 1 win der if it isn’t worth more than that? How about that buck private 1 found the other day, who said he sent fifteen dollars home -every month? How about the one who said he kept track of every Tent in a littie notebook, and usually had from twenty to twenty-five for the bank? Tight-wads, were they? Not a bit. They had just as good time as the fellow who let it all slip through his fingers. To them, that thirty dollars was worth more than thirty. Money is worth exactly as it is saved and used for the right pur pose. The private who sends sls home will be SIBO dollars to the good in a year. Suppose the war goes on two years, liven if he is the one out of the fifteen not to return, his saving will benefit loved ones. If lie is one of the fourteen who return, his little fund lias prepared him to live. Do you know that -if the war goes on three years, and you deposit ten dollars per month, at four per cent, that it will amount to $870.10? Do you suppose that it will be worth anything to form the habit of depositing that $lO per? If you keep it up for twenty years, you will have $3,106.10. Is it worth while? Here’s a true story you can be thinking about: During the Civil War, a young man with some ideas of thrift and a de termination to come back from the busi ness of fighting with some preparation for the business of living, put away a few dollars every month. He wasn’t getting S3O per, either but sl3. What could he save out of that? Enough to buy a lit tle land and a calf or two, when the war was over. You see, through the war he carried a picture of some one, - and he wanted to come back ready to build her a hofiio. And he did. When his com rades were struggling to get a start, he Was making his past thrift work for him. He became a successful farmer, teacher, banker, judge, and legislator. This is a true' story, for that soldier is my grand father. The picture he carried in the fighting was that of my grandmother. is it worth while? PrepareVto live! The fellow who wants to come back worth more to his loved ones and to the world in general can do so. How about that picture you carry? flow apout the home you intend to build? Prepare to live!. The opportunity is all about you. Save an allotment each month. If the home folks don’t need it, deposit it! Use*’the army deposit fund. Take out government insurance. Buy - Liberty Bonds! It is worth while. A little money can be made to go a long way toward making children happy. —Albany Journal. When two or more women get together one of the things you don’t hear is sil ence.—Chicago News. In the interest of economy Great Brit ain proposes to abolish the waistcoat. Another blow at the vested Interests!— Boston Transcript. TRENCH ATI D CAMP Charge! Charge! Forward Dash! (TUNE: STAR SPANGLED BANNER) B. F. M. SOURS. Charge! Charge! forward dash, valor burnisned and bright, Charge! Charge! for ttie homes that are ravished and sundered; Go forth to the fray with the rage for the right, To slay the vile crimes at which earth has wondered— On the land, on the main, mothers, babes have they slain, And chastily died, in her tears, on the plain; Charge! Charge! God be with us to make our hands strong To wrench from the foe all his prowess of wrong. So we match neath the flag, with its fold upon fold, And our .hearts and our youth are the bright golden treasure That We lay on the altar, like patriots of old, Who with sorrow wrought glory in fruitfulest measure. And the record shall ring in the songs they shall sing We rejoice in their freedom, —THAT JESUS IS KING,— And His holy Democracy where we have stood, Shall abide through the price we have paid with our blood. So avaunt boasting kaiser!—we know but One King, And his sceptre is love, and his sol diers are purer Than the lust of the German whose crimes backward sting, And will bring to the dust manarchs’ spectres the surer. Then glory to God who avenges the blood Os the babes and the mothers and maidens down-trod; And we march, and we strike—r-and re member, He saith That the murderer must, like his victim, find death! THE KAISER’S BUSY DAY \ . (Episode No. 1.) The Kaiser was lounging at ease in a chair, In ati elegant office which showed every where The presence of Kultur—some gold- plat ed Krupps Were ranged ’long the walls—a few silver cups, Won by the Kaiser himself for his bravery, When the poor Belgians he took into slavery. A half dozen sabers, or possibly more— Rusty and twisted and covered with gore. One for each nation where this learn’d Aristocrat Ordered his soldiers to carry his Kultur at. A number of trophies were heaped in a pile, Relics of art treasures Straffed in style, Bits of cathedrals which “stood in the way,” Clothing of infants the Huns stopped to slay. * While in the corner in several huge pots, Wer% bushels of Iron Crosses cast in job Ifts. A few simple mottoes were hung on the wall, — Such mottoes as “Gott Strafe England” and all Os her Allies) —such peace loving ditties were seen, Intended to set forth'the Kultur of spleen. Showing how great were the deeds it had wrought. And on the front door. This sign and no more:—• “HER KAISER und Gott.” There rapped on the door a Kultured Lootenanter, Who goose-stepped his way in when bid den to Kam enter. Slauted the Kaiser, and scraped on the floor. Surrendered and bowed and saluted some more. Stood while the Kaiser his moustache did poke up, • And the great teacher of Kultur then spoke up: “Mein Herr Übeniehts, What kind of a fix. Iss everything in today? llass der Britons giff up? Vill Gott mit us sup? Vill der Frenchmans giff up and ’vay? Now open up. Übeniehts, giff me der news. Und some day I giff you a new pair off shoes.” “Ach, Kaiser, AU-hightest, der ruler off all, Dare ain’t any news I could tells you at all, Eggseept dat your Army hass von a great fight.— Dey captured some women in France in der night; Det shot at a hospital ofer in Belgium, ■ And burned down der same, viteh surely ( iss going some. Also Von Hindenburg von a pig victory, Und covered hisself mit crosses und Hun glory. He handed der British a crushing defeat; By sending der word der whole line t-o retreat.” “Ach gute,” quoth der Kaiser, "Go get on a steeple, Und say to der people, Der Army hass von der remarkable fight, Und war vill be ended by Saturday night.” Neath the Stars and Stripes, neath the glory that comes, Neath the God who is just,, and who sees the oppression, We march and we soar, and our flyers drop bombs, And the Eye of the Lord will direct our procession. Not in battleships, cannon, or numbers we trust, For all may alike quickly turn to the dust; But the Mighty, the Glorious, Omnip otent God Will bring peace to the lands where His loyal have trod. To “Go forward God” our hands must be clean, Our lives must be pure, our foes all victorious; No hate we know, and no passion unseen Defile the pure might of our man hood ail glorious. Then to victory go. for God wills it so, With valorous charge, hearts stain less as snow; ’’’» And the great God of battles our Triumph shall be, For the Red, White and Blue, and the laflds of the free. Be pure from all stain, from the sin that appeals; Let not a vile passion lay low by de filement; Let the -Red, White and Blue, as the glory reveals, O’er purity wave, till the war’s re concilement. And praises we sing until Jesus our King, Till peace shall our prayers for vic tory bring; Bo we march, march neath banners, all loyal and true. With otjr God. neath the Stars of the Red, White and Rlue. Meehan icsbur'g, Fa, FIFTEEN CENTS 1 " i ■" 1 About half PAST <* * * * Two the OTHER • * • Day I walked INTO My tent and ONE • » * Qf the boys said TO • • • Me, “Slim do YOU Happen to HAVE* • • • A copy OF • • » Trench and CAMP? * • * And I answered SURE, * » What did you WANT * * * To do with it? And HE * * * Said that he WAS • « • Going to send IT * * * HOME. • A « Then I said, "PAL, * * * Do you KNOW -i- , • • • lou can have IT • • » Sent homo TO * * » Mother and ALL The folks for THREE Months for ONLY * Fifteen CENTS?” * * ■■our hTtchTTn HELL.” (From Border Experiences. I!U6 ) I m sitting here and thinking things I lef behind, And I hate to put on paper what is run , nmg through my mind, vte ve dug a million trenches and cleared ten milles of ground, And a.meaner place this side of hell I know it can’t be found; ' But there’s still one consolation, gather closely while I tell. When we die we’re bound for Heaven for we’ve done our hitch in hell. ! We’ve built a hundred kitchens for the cooks to stew our beans, We’ve stood a hundred guard mounts, ,and cleaned the camp latrines, vve’ve washed a million mess-kits and peeled a million spuds, We’ve strapped a million blanket-rolls and washed a minion duas; The number of parades we’ve made is very hard to tell: But we need not drill in Heaven for we’ve done our hitch in hell. We’ve killed a million rattlesnakes that tried to take our cots. And shaken a hundred centipedes from out our army socks; We've marched a hundred thousand miles and made a thousand camps, And pulled a million cactus plants from out our army pants; But when our work oti earth is ended our friends behind will tell — “When thev died they went to Heaven, for they’d done their hitch in hell.” Whe nthe final taps are sounded and we lay aside our cares, And we’ve done the very last parade right up the golden stairs. And the angles bid us welcome, and harps begin to play, And we draw a million canteen checks and spend them in a day; It is then we’ll hear St. Peter tell us loudly with a yell— “ Just take a front seat, privates, for you’ve done your hitch in hell,” —By One of the Boys. Nov. 28, 1917. How The Cook Checked Swearing The editor of Trench and Camp has al ways believed in presenting bouquets to be living. And here goes a little story about a cook iii Camp Hancock. Every company lias ''its cook —some good, and some worse—but the cook of our story is a regular chef. He knows the game from beans to macaroni—ami then some. When he isn-’t supervising the savory dishes concocted for the men of Battery C. 108th Field Artillery, he's doing some thing more important. In fact, he’s at it, even while stirring the rich bean soup over the fire. lie’s trying to break up the habit 4f swearing. ». George M. Tomes is from Philadelphia. To the men of Battery C, he is known as “Dad,” and there’s a reason for it. He's a real father to the boys—officers and men. So far as a man can play the part, he's a mother, too. “Dad” Tomes is unique, as cooks go. Over t,he counter, where the men line up for the chow, is a placard on which is printed in bold, black type: CHRISTIAN SOLDIER Reverence THE HOLY NAME Os Jesus. Inside the kitchen is a similar sign star ing the men in the face. The editor takes an occasional meal with the battery and the presence of the placards aroused our curiosity and when asked who was re sponsible for the cards, the answer was “Dad” Thomas. We got acquainted right away with “Dad,” and if there’s a simon-pure 'Christian in Camp Hancock, we believe the cook of C is such a chap, and we hope “Dad” will not blush when he read this unsolicited eulogy. One day while we were waiting for the spuds to fall apart over the fire, ohe of the men got an attack of swearitis. It. was a virulent case. Instant treatment was applied by “Dad” in his own kind and tactful way and the malady disappeared suddenly. Every now and then it breaks out. but with “Dad” and the two'Signs on the job, there’s very little danger of an epidemic. One night, "Dad" was in his tent—and lus son sleeps with him—when one of the men became violently profane. He- ad dressed some lurid remarks at "Dad,” but without response. Finally, he stop ped in sheer amazement and asked .“Dad” what he was doing. .".I'm praying for you that God will not visit your profanity on your head,” was the reply, and that was the end of the long string of maledictions. Needless to say, “Dad” is a member of the Holy Name society of Philadelphia, and his friend, James J. McNamara, who has a printing shop, sent "Dad” the cards for his use. The editor liked the mes sage of the cards so well, that “Dad” exhausted his supply so the Y. M C. A huts might have them, and now it’s -up to friend McNamara to send some more. If you want one for your mess shack, send your application to "Dad” Tomes, Battery C, 108th Field Artillery. DEATH OF AN ARMY MULE Os all melancholy specimens of the army mule at Ambulance Company 109, Senator John held first rank. At first his outiook on life was hoptdess and his spirits drooped with the arrival of each new day. A painful object to behold and a depressing personality with which to associate, the only pleas - ure he appeared to get out of existence was in creating a graveyard gloom over the stable. He was lonesome and homesick—perfectly miserable. But he had one rival —Hell’s Fire Pete, who looked almost as .bad, felt almost as bad, and had almost as bad an in fluence over the morale of the corral. So he had lain down and died in des pair and Georgia sand. Then his friends in their glee packed up a corpse and a mule shoe, a wreath of pine needles and an epitaph, thus; DIED Suddenly, Tuesday, November 21st, at 5:11 p. m., Senator John, son of the late Luke, the Duke, age 101 years, 4 months and 10 days, at his late resi dence, Camp Hancock, Ga. Funeral services Thursday evening at 8. In terment Friday evening, Augusta Pack ing Company. HELL’S FIRE PETE, Pastor. AH mule-skinners and sergeants in vited. IN MEMORIAM O tragedies of tinfoil time, And fearful happenstances: %, Beneath the myrtle and the thyme, The happy houri dances. Beneath the. sinful chestnut tree,' Besidd the singing brook. No more his homelv frame we’ll see This mortal coil he’s shook. No more his clear and ringing voice Will call to reveille. No more his vicious s*eel clad heels. Will gyeet the double tree. For he is gone, dear Senator.-John, He’s hauling red-hot. coal. While we lament his sad demise, \Ve’re glad he’s left no foal. Oh. well, it’s as easy to lick a three cent stamp as a two!—Baltimore Ameri can. A man can love any kind of a face if there’s a girl back of it. —Bingham*' Press.