By J. L. Strang

Introduction

Alan L. Strang was born in Spokane, Washington, August 18, 1908. Living there until he was four years old, he came to California in 1913 with his parents, making their home in Redwood City.

He had a gentle, loving disposition, was always frail and delicate and possessed a mental development far in advance of his years. He was taken to the Great Beyond January 29, 1919.

The poems contained in this book were written prior to his tenth birthday. Considering the age of the author we feel that the work contains real merit, while the sentiment expressed betokens that patriotic spirit which never fails or hesitates when our country calls for men.

J. L. S.

To the Reader of this Book

This little book's a letter, I send direct to you; I hope that you will like it, And read it thru and thru. And after you have read it, Just send a thot to me; Your thots will help to make me The "Poet" I would be.

Yours very truly,

ALAN L. STRANG,

Redwood City, California.

Our Boys

Written after the United States entered the war, fighting on the side of the Entente Allies.

Halt! Attention! Salute the flag, The boys are marching by; They're going forth to win the war For us to do or die. Our country needed fighting men, Her liberty to save; These boys responded to the call, And all they had they gave.

All loyal hearts are beating fast, And hope our bosoms fill; For liberty shall reign supreme O'er ocean, dale and hill. With no regrets for parted hopes Or futures cast aside, Our soldier boys are marching by; They are our country's pride.

Our Soldier Boy

Written as a tribute to my brother, W. M. Strang, with the Engineers.

He said, "I'm Daddy's soldier boy," When he was five years old; And then went out and built snow forts, Although the day was cold.

The snowballs were his hand grenades, A stick his bayonette; And with a home-made wooden gun The foe he bravely met.

In five more years he joined the "scouts" And hiked across the hills; He learned to wear a khaki suit, And do military drills.

And so the years passed swiftly on, And now he is a man; He's in the trenches over there, Fighting for Uncle Sam.

I know he'll make the Huns regret They started this big fight, For he knows the cause he's fighting for Is liberty and right.

A Small Boy's Desire

Written for the first thrift stamp drive.

I want to be a soldier And march away to France; I want to find a wicked "Hun," And shoot him in the pants.

I want to be a soldier, And wear a khaki suit; I want to have a sword and gun And all the "Boches" shoot.

I want to be a soldier, And have an aeroplane To drop bombs on the German towns, And fly back home again.

I want to be a soldier And do my little bit; My country needs brave fighting men, While here at home I sit.

Some day I'll be a big, big man; I'll go to war and fight The wicked Hun, or any one Who does not do what's right.

But now the only way for me To help my country win, Is save my coin and buy thrift stamps, So, boys, let's save our tin.

The Storm

The rough old Mr. Storm Is whirling, swirling past He makes the treetops bow their heads And trembles at his blast.

He never stops to think Of the damage he may do, He's always rushing in and out And hitting, batting you.

He pushes big, black clouds Against the mountain tops; The rain and hail comes rushing down In large, round crystal drops.

The storm will soon be over; See the rainbow in the sky. The birds will sing on airy wing, And the bright sun shine on high.

Do Not Worry

Do not worry over trifles, though to you they may seem great, All your fretting will not help you, or your troubles dissipate.

If your sky is dark and gloomy, and the sun is hid from view, Bravely smile and keep on smiling, And your friends will smile with you.

Happiness is so contagious, and a smile is never lost; Then why worry over trifles, tho your heart seems tempest tossed.

Therefore go on life's journey with an optimistic smile, See the world is good to live in, and that living is worth while.

How can we Fool the Rooster?

Written when the clock was set ahead one hour on April 1, 1918.

Our Rooster wakes at half-past five And crows with all his might, He tries to wake the people up Before the day is light. When Daddy hears the rooster crow He knows he should awake And light the kitchen fire, so Ma Can cook the Johnny cake.

Now, maybe we can fool my Dad That it's half-past five when it's half-past four, And maybe the system's the best we have had To fool some thousands of people or more; But, how can we fool that rooster?

I have always thought our rooster had A clock inside of his head, And I don't know how we can fix it so We can set the clock ahead. I asked my Dad, and he said to me, "Why, son, you surely know A rooster's instinct wakens him And tells him when to crow."

Now the hands of the clock we can turn ahead, We can fool the people and feel content; But the thing that worries me night and day, And on which my entire thought is bent Is, how can we fool that rooster?

A Wreath Of Flowers

Written for Decoration Day, May 30, 1918.

I wove me a wreath of flowers To place in memories hall, In honor of the brave and fearless men Who had answered our country's call. The men who had answered, and fought, and died For the cause of freedom, our country's pride!

I wove me a wreath of flowers With many a sigh and tear, As a tribute to all the good and true Who were given few honors here. The man of humble piety Who lived and died in obscurity.

A wreath of flowers, a little thing For flowers wither and fade; But the fragrance they shed is not soon forgot By me, who the wreath has made. So the virtues of those who have gone before, Will always be treasured in memory's store.