A SONG OF VICTORY

Many of the alumni will remember that when in December, 1915, the American Relief Clearing House of Paris issued a call for volunteer ski men to carry on relief work in the Vosges under its direction, the first American to respond to the call was Charles Dabney Horton '15. He sailed for France in January, 1916, and went at once to the Vosges. The project of doing effective work of relief on skis proved impracticable, however, and Horton transferred to the American Ambulance Corps. After serving for six months as an ambulance driver, he again changed the nature of his work, enlisting in the American Escadrille and serving the usual term in the school of instruction in flying. For nearly three months now, however, he has been engaged in the actual work of flying over the German lines as an observation pilot. On his return one afternoon from a successful flight over the enemy's lines, he wrote a little impromptu poem, which he sent to one of his friends on the Dartmouth faculty. This poem has proved so interesting to all who have heard or read it that the editors of the MAGAZINE are printing it here. They believe that the alumni at large will thereby be brought nearer to a realization of the thrilling work that is being done in France by one of Dartmouth's many patriotic sons.

Horton prefaces his verses with this modest note: "This is not meant to be poetry; just a song of victory—winged victory—after blowing up a munition depot this afternoon. September 5 1917."

RÉGLAGE DE TIR

White clouds of Heaven and black clouds of shell Nearer the angels, but much nearer Hell— I wonder just what the gunner feels As he bursts his shrapnel beneath my wheels, To the right, to the left, below, on high.

Is he really anxious to see me die?

To see me fall with a brcken neck?

To transform this beautiful flying thing, So graceful in flight, so light of wing, Into a shapeless and blackened wreck?

Or is it a game that he plays in the sky, A glorious game with the men that fly?

Watching that little white streak below— It's a trench full of men like myself, I know; And I strain my eyes to cover the spot And signal the guns to repeat the shot.

But the men down there in the dust and smoke, Is it life and death, or a practical joke?

Though many a well-aimed shot falls there, It seems so harmless through a mile of air,' Until "Tiens! ca y est!" and a burst of flame In their magazine puts an end to the game, The curious game that they play in the sky, The glorious game of the men "that fly!