4. General John Joseph Pershing was born in

Missouri, September 13, 1860. He was graduated from the West Point Military Academy; served in a number of Indian campaigns, was a military instructor; served with the Tenth Cavalry in the Cuban campaign, 1898, and in the Philippines, 1899-1903; commanded the U. S. troops in pursuit of the bandit Villa in Mexico in 1916; was in command of the American Expeditionary Forces in the World War. If possible, read an account of Pershing's early life and report on it in class.

BURIAL OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE

BY GERALD M. DWYER

This is part of a letter home from Private Dwyer, Co. A, 121st Engineers, A. E. F. It is used here by permission of The Springfield (Mass) Republican.

Even far behind the lines of battle, in this beautiful France, little scenes take place which bring home to one the seriousness and sadness of life. Picture to yourself a dark-green hillside divided into sections by the hedge fences which the French peasant makes so much use of. 5 In one of these fields soldiers are at work making roads and little pathways. At one end are a number of flower-covered mounds, each one marked with a wooden cross, for this particular little field is one of the American Expeditionary Force's cemeteries. 10

On the day which I have in mind, a drizzling rain comes softly, though steadily, down. A number of soldiers, hardly distinguishable from the mud in which they are working, are busy leveling off the ground around a flagpole which stands in the center of the cemetery. Presently they stop 15 work and stand listening to the drumbeats which can be heard faintly in the distance. The little group gathers about the flagpole, waiting.

Slowly up the roadway comes a procession headed by the band playing the sweetly solemn funeral march. Behind 20 it is carried a plain wooden box, draped with the Stars and Stripes, while a firing squad marches in the rear. They stop at a newly dug grave and gently lower the coffin. In clear, concise tones the chaplain reads the funeral service. A mist seems to creep up from the valley and wisps of it wind themselves through the air. In the neighboring field the sheep who have been grazing huddle together and gaze, as only sheep can, at the performance going on near them. Like the sheep, the soldiers in the cemetery gather closer to each 5 other, each one's eyes filled with tears, and each one conscious of a queer sensation going on within him. . . .

Now the chaplain has finished, the members of the firing squad take their places. A dead silence ensues, broken by the shots of their rifles. Two more salvos are fired and the 10 ceremony is finished. Finally, when the mist has become very dense, the clear notes of the bugle ring out, blowing taps for a soldier's last farewell sleep.

You will never really appreciate the beauty and pathos of the notes of taps unless you have heard them while lying 15 on your hard bunk some night at the end of a hard day. The music seems to say that some day things will be peaceful again, all these hardships will be merely incidents to laugh over in the happy days to come. And so, singing its farewell to you, the notes die away, leaving you to slip into 20 the balm of sleep.

The grave has now been covered and the procession and workers gone. The fields and valley seem forsaken and alone in the late afternoon. But no, there by the graves, flitting through the rain in their capes and hoods, and looking 25 like so many little sparrows, are some little French girls, daughters of the near-by peasants. Tenderly their little hands decorate the newest grave with flowers, their tribute to one who risked all for the safety of little maidens. Thus the grave is left, heaped with green branches and flowers, a 30 pretty resting place.

—The Springfield Republican.

OUR COUNTRY

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights, She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice, Self-gathered in her prophet mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.

Then stepped she down through town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men revealed The fullness of her face.

—ALFRED TENNYSON.

AMERICA FOR ME

BY HENRY VAN DYKE

Doctor van Dyke (1852-) is a noted clergyman, writer, and educator. He has long been connected with Princeton University. From 1913-1917, during the trying period of the World War, he was United States minister to Holland. His many visits to Europe have served only to increase his devotion to his native land. The following poem is a fine expression of the genuine homesickness of the traveled scholar for his own country. You should read it and re-read it until it has sung itself into your memory.

(From The Poems of Henry van Dyke. Copyright, 1920, by Charles Scribner's Sons.)

'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down Among the famous palaces and cities of renown, To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of the kings— But now I think I've had enough of antiquated things. 5

So it's home again, and home again, America for me! My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars, Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; 10 And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome; But when it comes to living, there is no place like home.

I like the German fir woods, in green battalions drilled; I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her 5 way!

I know that Europe's wonderful, yet something seems to lack; The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back; But the glory of the Present is to make the Future free,— 10 We love our land for what she is and what she is to be.

Oh, it's home again, and home again, America for me! I want a ship that's westward bound to plow the rolling sea, To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars, 15 Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

1. How many places are mentioned by name? Tell what and where each is.

2. What does the author admire in the Old World? What does he mean by his distinction between London and Paris? List the things the author misses in the Old World. How is America contrasted with Europe? Explain line 15, page 334.