When, Gunner, through the breech you passed
That wingéd messenger of death,
And having made the breech-block fast,
With pounding heart and bated breath
Drew back the rod of tempered steel
That frees the charge and fires the fuse,
I would have given much to feel
My feet in your distinguished shoes.
But when your deadly missile burst
Right on the rover, checked his speed,
And made him rock like one whose thirst
Has frankly caused him to exceed,
You must have felt as feels a god
To whom whole nations bend the knee--
Whichever of the dozen odd
Disputant gunners you may be.
* * * * *
"Who can tell but what Rumania's watchful eye will yet sound the
bugle note which at the psychological moment will unite the
Balkan thrones?"--_Shanghai Mercury._
Rumania seems to have something more than a speaking eye. It even plays
tunes.
* * * * *