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´╗┐Title: Our Boys and Other Poems
Author: Strang, Alan L.
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Our Boys and Other Poems" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.


Alan L. Strang

Born August 18th, 1908
Died January 29th, 1919

[Illustration: Alan L. Strang]

Our Boys
Other Poems




Copyrighted, 1919



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

    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.


    Our loved ones lay them down to sleep
      And leave us here to grieve and mourn,
    While we, our silent watches keep,
      O'er their low graves whence they are bourne.
    Some heroes are in battle slain,
      Their names are honored far and near,
    While others die on beds of pain
      And no sad mourner sheds a tear.

    This day we honor each and all
      Whose soul has left its temporal case;
    And be he great, or be he small,
      We'll reverence his resting place.

Part Second

The poems and story of Masata in part second of this book were written
during the last month of the young Author's life.

He was taken to the Spirit Land, January 29, 1919.

The Lily of the Valley

    I've a lily of the Valley
    That I'm keeping here for you;
    I care for and protect it,
    And water it with dew.
    It is a living emblem
    Of the wonderful domain,
    Where all is pure and love-like,
    And where we feel no pain.

    Yes, the Lily of the Valley
    Is a tie twixt you and me;
    For every time you see one
    Think how happy I must be.
    I'm an atom of the infinite,
    How wonderful it seems;
    Yet from your sphere the finite
    But a thin veil intervenes.

The Roses

    I have roses in my garden,
    And their fragrance fills the air.
    How I love to watch them blooming;
    For they all are very fair.

    Some have deep red velvet petals,
    Some again are snowy white;
    And the little baby pink ones,
    Surely give you such delight.

    Pretty birds come to my garden,
    And sing there the live-long day;
    Yes the birds and pretty flowers
    Help and cheer us on our way.

The Seasons


    Spring time is here with its sunshine and showers,
    All nature is waking from its long winter sleep.
    The gardens are blooming with beautiful flowers,
    The song-birds are carolling melodies sweet.


    The summer comes with glaring heat,
    And we will have vacation;
    We pack our grips for the seashore trips,
    Or other recreation.


    The harvest moon is shining bright,
    The leaves are falling everywhere;
    How glorious is the autumn night,
    How cool and bracing is the air.


    Jack frost is stalking through the land,
    The ground is covered white, with snow.
    We like to sit beside the fire
    And tell the tales of long ago.



    I'm wishing a happy birthday,
    To you my dear sweet friend;
    And may every day be a happy day
    Is the wish I will always send.


    A Merry Christmas Wish to you,
    And may your heart be gay;
    May Santa bring you many things,
    This Merry Christmas day.


    A happy happy, New Year,
    We all are wishing you;
    We hope no sorrow you shall know
    This whole year through.


    Away o'er the hills in the valley green
    Away from the noise of the busy town;
    I dream sweet dreams of the olden days
    Of you in your beautiful wedding gown.

    I dream that you come and sit by me
    And you hold my hand and ruff my hair;
    Your eyes shine with a sweet delight
    That I used to see so often there.

    Then my heart is filled with a hallowed love
    And I know t'is but a little way
    To the spirit land, and I know that I
    Shall meet you there some glad sweet day.

    Then our wedding day in the spirit land
    Will be filled with love and joy serene;
    And the infinite hand will guide us where
    The waters are still and the valleys green.


Masata was an Indian boy, he lived on the banks of the Ohio River in
Kentucky. During the Revolutionary War in 1771, the Americans were
taking over the land very fast, and when Masata was ten years old his
parents moved to the wild regions of the Dakotas, taking Masata with

Here he enjoyed life although it was much colder than in his native
Kentucky, and in the Winter months he wore coats of fur made from bear

The days soon became filled with interesting things for Masata. One day
when he was roaming through the wilds, he heard a wild buffalo
approaching. He seemed almost helpless, as he had nothing but a small
bow and a few arrows, and the buffalo was only a short distance from
him. He began to run in what he thought was the direction of his home,
but instead he was going in the opposite way. In a few minutes he saw
the smoke of a camp fire and ran toward it. By this time the beast was
very close to him and he was almost in despair, when the buffalo lurched
forward, then rolled over dead. Three Indians hunting near by had hit
him in a vital spot with an arrow.

The Indians belonged to a tribe which was his father's most bitter
enemy, and they took him before their chief. The chief ordered that he
be let live for two moons, and he was given a bed of dry twigs to sleep
on as the night was drawing near.

Time passed quietly for Masata until the approach of the morning of the
second moon. He had been planning how he would escape from his father's
enemies. Finally one morning he slipped into a bear skin and hopped
bravely off toward the woods. The Indians thinking he was a bear, shot
arrows at him and wounded him in the right arm, but Masata kept
bravely on and was soon out of range of the arrows. Then he bandaged his
wounded arm the best he could and set out for his father's wigwam.

He arrived safely the same evening, and his parents were overjoyed to
see him and know he was safe once more, and the tribe made a great
feast, or as they call it, Pow Wow, as a welcome to his home coming.

While Masata was still a young "brave" their chief died and after a
great ceremony, Masata was made Chief of the tribes, and was known as
great and good ruler.

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