this song today,
That wherever we may roam, we'll sing a song of home
For the dear old Mississippi far away.

You may boast of Irish Nora, or sweet Bessey of Dundee,
The charm of England's Geraldines so fair;
You may choose the maids of Belgium or Ma'm'selles of Picardy
All famed for grace and beauty everywhere.
But if you will but listen, and leave the choice to me
I'll point with pride to dear old U. S. A.
Where there's maidens fair to see, sweet and dear as Liberty
And never cloud o'ershadows beauty's day.

CHORUS:

Then sing this song, my comrades,
O we'll sing this song today,
That wherever we may roam, we'll sing a song of home
For the maidens fair back home in U. S. A.

A trench mirror four inches by six hung on the wall of my billet. There
was a mad scramble for a last facial and tonsorial inspection; for each
fellow boldly made his boast, "Just watch me, Bo, make the hit of the
evening with Ma chere Miss Frenchy."

Down the village street in column of twos we made our way.

"All gentle in peace and all valiant in war,
There never was Knight like the young Lochinvar."

As we went singing carefree, secretly my heart was sad. As a Staff
Officer I knew, although the boys did not, that this was to be their
last evening party; that on the morrow they were to leave for the front
line trenches; that many weary days, weeks and months of stern, bitter,
deadly realities lay just before them; and I wanted them to at least
enjoy this one last evening of home-spun, joyful valedictory.

The Moidrey residence stood back a little from the road, protected by a
tall iron fence of artistic design. As we drew near, my Minstrel Boys
prudently "soft pedaled" their singing, so as not to over-alarm our kind
host. Responsive to our sounding the huge brass, lion-headed knocker on
the massive gate, the house door opened. Monsieur, Madame and
Mademoiselle Annette came down the winding garden path to admit and
welcome us.

Introductions followed, formal, gracious and charming. Quite true it was
that our kindly hosts could not speak a word of English, nor the
Buddies of French, at least of French fit to grace the occasion. There
is a language, however, that is not of the tongue, but of the heart. It
is expressed in the flash of a love-lit eye; it is felt in the pressure
of a kindly hand. It is spoken and understood the world over and needs
no inte