8 THE WADSWORTH GAS ATTACK a n d RIO GRANDE RATTLER THE DREAM OF THE EDITORS We, the editors, came w a lking past Di vision H e a d q u a rters tow a rds the building in which T h e G a s A t t a c k has its editorial sanctum . We saw a long line of officers w a iting outside. They were all commis sioned officers. ‘W h a t’s the excitem ent?” we asked a by stander. '‘Are they giving away promo- m o tions?” “No. The officers are w a iting their turn to get into T h e G a s A t t a c k office to see the editors. They’ve all got contributions they w a n t to subm it.” “Well, well,” we m u rm u red casually. “They’ll have to w a it their tu r n .” We w ent into our office, rolled up our sleeves, and shouted to the w a iting line. First, a Lieutenant. “Now you can come in. W ho’s first? Oh, it’s you, is it, L ieutenant? L e t’s see, you have here an article on trenches for us. H ’m. I t ’s neatly typed, and fairly well w ritten, but you lack the punch. More short sentences, straig h t to the point. And you don’t seem to have handled your sub ject as well as we’ve been accustomed to having these things done. Now here’s an article by Private Jones. Look at th a t as a contrast. It’s better in every way. If you officers could only learn to w rite as well as some of these privates do, we would p rin t more of your stuff. Sorry, Lieutenant, but we can’t use this article of yours. How ever, we thank you for subm itting it. Try us again, won’t you? Ju s t pass out around to the right, please. W ho’s next? Then, A Captain. “Good afternoon, C a p tain! You don’t mind standing, do you? T h e re’s only room for one of us to sit a t a time. Ju s t let me glance over your contribution and I’ll tell you in a moment w h e ther or not we can use it. It seems to deal w ith the relation of artillery and infantry. T h a t’s a good subject, and w e’d like to p rin t more a r t i cles on topics of th a t nature. But, Cap tain, you’ve gone at it entirely wrong. You begin w ith a long-winded introduction th a t takes up most of your article, and you don’t get anyw h ere until near the end. Ju s t take up one of the copies of our magazine for last m o n th and exam ine th a t article we printed on page ninety-seven. It’s by P r i vate Smith. It’ll show you how these a r ticles should be w ritten. Now, after you’ve studied this other article, look at yours again. Now re-w rite it so it’s fit to print— if you can. Then come back and we’ll give it the once-over again. You’ve just got to keep at these things. T h a t’s all the criti cism we have tim e to give you to-day. Good-bye, Captain. Don’t get discouraged. And a Major, Too! “Come in, Major. W h a t are you holding in your h a n d ? A poem, eh? Stand at ease a m inute, Major, and I’ll look it over. H ’m. T h a t rhym e in the fourth line is atrocious! And here in the second stanza your m eter goes all to pieces. Now, Major it’s my un- THE GIRL FROM. YOUR OLD HOME TOWN. I was born somewhere in Heaven, On a street th a t they call Broadway, But the w isest fall for the bugle’s call— So I signed my life away. It made me m ighty sorry, Bud, To leave my I’ll old home, For you’re wise to the sighs and the terrible cries Of a New Y orker th a t has to roam. But when they said you’ll spend the W inter In the balmy, Sunny South, I thought of Irving Berlin and his barrels of tin, And his songs in everyone’s mouth. I thought of his hundreds of lyrics, Of wonderful, dear Dixie, And I w a sn’t so sad, in fact I was glad For it looked like a Palm Beach spree. A-living in a refrigerator, A-singing a snow bird’s song, W h a t’s that? Magnolias and cotton?—Yon Tilzer you’re rotten, And Irving B e rlin—you’re all wrong; If you really had to w rite som ething, If you had to put choruses down, W hy not sing of the one good thing: The girl from my own home town. She’s made the sam e old camp-fire Look like the lights of Broadway, And her New York pep and her big town step Ju s t brushes all the South aw a y ; For she made the drab-colored gloomy tent Seem ju s t like a cabaret, And the crackling sound of the frost on the ground Was a tune a jazz band m ight play. So Buddy, take this message From a boy who is far away, To the m a n who rhym e s about foreign climes—■ Oh, don’t forget Broadway! PVT. IRA D. BRALL, CO. D, 102d Engs. pleasant duty to tell you th a t you’ll never get on as a poet. W e’ve got no less than forty-seven privates who are turning out bet ter verse than this every day. In fact, we get more verse than we can use. W h a t we w a n t is prose. T ry some of th a t and see if you can’t tu r n out som ething w o rth while. Good-bye, M ajor.” We got up and w e n t to the door, from which the long line of officers still stretched a quarter of a m ile away. “Sorry, but we can’t see any more of you to-day. Call to-morrow, or send in your stuff by mail. W e’ve got to put our feet on the desk and sleep the rest of the after noon.” C. D. WADSWORTH FABLES Fable of the Boy Who P a rted His H a ir in the Middle. (W ith apologies to Geo. Ade.) By P rivate Howard A. H erty, Co. A, M ilitary Police, Camp W adsw o rth, S p a rtan burg, S. C. Artem u s Perw inkle was a Goof. In other W o rds he wore Tortoise-shelled Specs and liked the Smell of Sachet. He also wore a Size thirteen Collar. His favorite H e a d piece was a Yellow and Black H a lf-H a t and to M atch his B u ster Brown collar, he sport ed a Scream ing red Bow-tie resem b ling a Nosebleed. Long after he acquired the right to w e a r garters on his biceps, N u rsie would safely lead him by the H and across the T racks to School. A fter school was over, he’d Sit on T e a c h er’s lap, and they’d eat the F ruit he brought in the morning. W h en he brought his T e a c h e r an Apple, she K issed him. H e never brought W aterm elons. A rtie grew up to be a Cicero Hound. W h en the Low Brows of the Community would be Strangling them selves in a Play ful game of Football, our Gentle Hero would be cultivating Callouses on his Inverted nose, reading “The Development of A rt D u r ing the R enaissance.” As a Mixer, A rtie w as a Flivver, but as a Patrician, he was There to the Steenth Power. As he grew up he becam e W orse. H e hated Girls but was very fond of Old Ladies arid Em b roidery. To ask A rtie about Fril- ton’s chances against W illard or Joe Jack son’s best batting Average would be a W a n ton W a ste of B reath. As a H u m an Being, he Sinned and Fell short, but to hear him Strum a U k u lele or discuss “The N o thing ness of Zero” was an Education. His idea of E x trem e D issipation would be to leave the H ouse w ithout R u b b ers or carry a Forbidden box of M atches. Most of the R e g u lar Guys about Town were undecided as to w h e ther to em b race him or Kick him. He was queer and al m o st as U n p o p u lar as a Top Sergeant. sfs $ * They had him in K h aki, Somewhere in France. The door had been left open and A rtie had been Caught in the Draft. The Hun had been O p erating a Mean Stam p ede over H elpless Belgium when Uncle Sam peeled off his Coat. Uncle Sammie th o r oughly spanked the Boches and among those to R e turn Home was Artie. He had so m any B ravery Medals sprin kled over his Chest th a t he was actually Round-Shouldered. Now he lies on his Back at N ight and Rocks him self to Sleep. MORAL: Even a Pom e ranian will growl if you step on his toes.