So when I whispered in father’s ear,
He wouldn't believe me–would you, dad?
There! I must hurry… hear him cry?
My new little baby.… See! that’s him.
What are we going to call him? Why,
Jim, just Jim.
Jim! For look at him laughing there
In the same old way in his tiny cot,
With his rosy cheeks and his sunny hair,
And look, just look… his beauty spot
In the selfsame place.… Oh, I can’t explain,
And of course you think it’s a mother’s whim,
But I know, I know it’s my boy again,
Same wee Jim.
Just come back as he said he would;
Come with his love and his heart of glee.
Oh, I cried and I cried, but the Lord was good;
From the shadow of Death he set Jim free.
So I’ll have him all over again, you see.
Can you wonder my mother-heart’s a-brim?
Oh, how happy we’re going to be!
Aren’t we, Jim?
II
In Picardy,
January 1915.
The road lies amid a malevolent heath. It seems to lead us right into the clutch of the enemy; for the star-shells,
