Part 2 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A CONFERENCE

I was sleeping in the barracks, A week or so ago.

And in the midst of pleasant dreams I heard the whistle blow.

Lord, how I hate those whistles!

Well, it was time to ”rouse,”

So we marched down 'mongst the thistles Beside the old ice house.

I looked around in misery, At last I took a seat, With nothing to lean up against And no place for my feet.

As I sat there in the drizzle Of a good old Plattsburg rain, I wondered if I'd fizzle The lesson once again.

The captain, who, like Nero Observing Rome in flames, Was seated on a packing-box Perusing all the names.

”Mr. Whitney, won't you tell us Of patrols both front and rear?

Speak up, Mr. Whitney, So the men in back can hear.”

”And please now, Mr. Warnock, Just tell us if you will What you'd do with this problem If you were Sergeant Hill?”

”No! I'll ask you if I want you; Never mind the hands.

Warnock, _you_ are Sergeant Hill, Just call out your commands.”

”Whitney! Warnock! Gee, what luck!”

I chortled in my glee.

My name is Brown, t'was very plain He'd never get to me.

So I listened to the questions And the answers one by one, And wondered if that 3rd degree Was ever to be done.

I thought of cups with handles on, Of napkins and clean hands; I thought of all the pretty girls That live in _Christian_ lands.

I thought of cakes, and pies, and things, I thought of home in pain, And wondered if I'd ever sleep Till 9 o'clock again.

I wished I had some lager beer Or a nice silver fizz; When, ”Mr. Brown, you tell us What a special order is.”

I rose, saluted, brushed my pants Then mutely gazed around.

I stood transfixed; the Captain said ”_Sit down, Mr. Brown!_”

SUNDAY IN BARRACKS

Little silences Sit in the corners Munching their finger tips.

I lie stretched flat upon my bunk....