Blue is your star in its field of white, Dipped in the red that was born of fight; Born of the blood that our forbears shed To raise your mother, the Flag, o’erhead.
And now you’ve come, in this frenzied day, To speak from a window--to speak and say “I am the voice of a soldier-son Gone to be gone till the victory’s won.
“I am the flag of the Service, sir; The flag of his mother--I speak for her Who stands by my window and waits and fears, But hides from the others her unwept tears.
“I am the flag of the wives who wait For the safe return of a martial mate, A mate gone forth where the war god thrives To save from sacrifice other men’s wives.
“I am the flag of the sweethearts true; The often unthought of--the sisters, too; I am the flag of a mother’s son And won’t come down till the victory’s won!”
Dear little flag in the window there, Hung with a tear and a woman’s prayer; Child of Old Glory, born with a star-- Oh, what a wonderful flag you are!
In this piece of work Mr. Runyon presents a good specimen of a large class, a young fellow who was going the trifling way to the Everlasting Bonfire when the war caught him up and made a man of him. Thousands of such cases, before the war little better than waste human material, went out to fight, and found themselves, and made good, and came home sobered, serious men, worthy to stand among those to whom the nation’s destinies were confided.
Son o’ ol’ Miz McAuliffe, the widder o’ Box-Car Jack, An’ ol’ time shack on the Santa Fe, who run to Dodge and back. He was killed in a wreck at La Junta, and he left the wife and boy-- A kid knee-high to a hop-toad, and tagged by the name o’ Roy.
This Roy was sort o’ onery, and he never would go to school. He spent the most o’ childhood days in learnin’ the game o’ pool. His shoulders grew somewhat rounded, and his chest it grew rather thin-- But, gosh, he grew to a marvel at knockin’ them pool balls in!
Pool-shootin’ Roy, we called him, and many a night I’ve set Watchin’ him clean the table, and puffin’ his cigaret. Sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and playin’ so ca’m and cool-- If ever a lad was born for a thing, he was born for playin’ this pool!
Fifteen balls was a cinch for him--fifteen balls from the break; One ball loose from the bunch a bit, and the whole darned rack he’d take. He was great on a combination, and great on a cut-shot, too-- He’d make those pool balls talk to him when he started handlin’ a cue!