Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter
As each one glides to his waiting grave;
But here at the end of their last endeavor
However their stark dreams leap the foam
There is one set rule they will keep forever:
"Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"


NOVEMBER ELEVENTH: RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of
a great play-ground,
And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields
that ringed them round,
But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off
sound.

"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't
you hear the bells?"
"Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used
to hear the shells.
Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."

"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are
only names.
Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes
and fames!
Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."

But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent