INTERRUPTED CHOW.

I've had some mighty narrow calls —

Some close shaves not a few,

But one of the fairly closest

I'll now narrate to you.

‘ Twas midnight — hush! the plot grows thick —

Crowd close, and hold your breath —

‘ Twas midnight — and the slum-cart came

Upon its round of death.

( It is n't really that the slum

Was quite as bad as that,

But the playful Boche so often dropped

A shell where it was at. )

‘ Twas midnight — and our appetites

Were whetted large and keen,

As trench feed, once a day, must leave

An interval between.

And so we sought the buzzy-cart,

“Mess-kits alert” and found

It standing in a quiet spot

Where never came a sound —

Excepting that of bursting shells

Across the field a way,

( But as I said before, the Boche

Is very given to play ).

All innocent and hungry-like

And empty to the core,

I came upon that buzzy-cart,

With never thought of war.

More calm, beneficent and mild —

More free from things of strife —

I promise you I never was

In all my mortal life.

The air was fair, the stars were out,

The mocking-bird sang clear;

The poppies bloomed, the sergeants fumed,

And food was very near.

When suddenly the ground gave way —

It seemed a mile or more —

And the whole adjacent landscape leapt

To heaven with a soar.

Earth, rocks and stars commingling

In a swirling mass arose,

Where I, recumbent in the hole,

Assumed an easy pose.

And when I found that I was there —

Both arms, both legs, and head,

I picked me up and cogitated

Why I was n't dead.

For information looked I‘ round

North, south and east and west —

But the good platoon had up and cleared

Some several feet with zest.

( And the strangest phase of the whole strange thing,

For me to understand,

Was that when I got up I had

My mess-kit in my hand. )

And there I stood and gazed me down

Upon the hole and mud,

And found I was alive because

That blamed shell was a “dud.”

A dud's a shell that fails to burst —

Whose crater's microscopic —

And as I'd just sunk down in it,

My Fates were philanthropic —

For had the bally thing gone off —

Instead of sitting jake —

You'd ne'er have found my scattered parts

With a hair-comb or a rake.

You'd ne'er have found your humble slave —

For, sprinkled east and west,

My sad remains would scarce have bulged

The pocket of your vest.

A finger in Benares —

A toe in Timbuctoo —

And on the Mountains of the Moon

A portion of my shoe.

An eye on Kinchinjanga —

To greet the snow-peaked morn;

An ear at Cape Lopatka,

And my dog-tag at the Horn.