“I took just one drink, and it made me ill, Colonel,” began the first.
The second offenders alarm-clock had failed to work, and the third offender had bad news from home. There was nothing new in this, and each was given the limit.
However, the Colonel’s eyes brightened at the approach of the fourth culprit, an Irishman.
“Be original, Duffy. Tell me something new,” urged the Colonel.
“Well, Colonel,” Duffy began, with his eyes a-twinkle, “when Oi heard the sad news that you was goin’ to l’ave us, it made me so down-hearted that Oi wint to the nearest public house and drowned me sorrows.”
“You win!” exploded the Colonel. “Now get out!”
A long and patient but vain effort on the part of a khaki-clad driver to induce a mule, drawing what appeared to be a load of laundry, through the gateway of a local hospital, afforded considerable amusement to the doughboys who were watching the proceedings. The mule would do anything but pass through the gateway.
“Want any ’elp, chum?” shouted one of the boys to the driver, as he rested a moment.
“No,” replied the driver, “but I’d like to know how the devil Noah got two of these blighters into the Ark!”
American tourists who are shaky as to their French have often been embarrassed by the voluble replies which their carefully studied phrases bring forth from French lips. Just now the tables are frequently turned, and the Frenchman or woman is puzzled by the fluent American vernacular. An example:
Yankee Trooper—“Parly-voo English, mademoiselle?”
Yankee Trooper—“Good work! Say, could you put me wise where I could line up against some good eats in this burg?”
Married Recruit (absently)—“Yes, my dear.”
The Crown Prince mourns the passing of “The Day,” The low-down herd winds back to Germany. The loot-squad homeward plods its swagless way, And leaves the world to Peace and Victory.
Now fades the glimmering Weltmacht on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the Kaiser wheels his bonehead flight, And frowsy princelings streak for distant folds.
Save that from Nauen’s undismantled tower The moping Hun does to the Yanks complain Of such as, having tasted of his power, Decline to load him up with grub again.
Beneath those powdered walls, that abri’s shade, Where blasted dug-outs hide a mouldering heap, Each in his nameless hole forever laid, The Kultur-spreaders of the Rhineland sleep.