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381.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


137

381.

Who is this man they bury today,
Out of the cheerful sun?
“He was a ‘cop,’” I heard them say;
“That was his number, by the way—
381.”
That is his helmet, on the pall,
There is his belt, undone;
There is a wreath of flowers let fall—
Making just three figures in all—
381.
There is a medal on his breast,
For some brave deed done;
Still, he was not of fame possessed;
He was only, at worst and best,
381.
Stopped a horse, once, running away,
Saved a wife and son;
It was remembered half a day;
“Only his duty,” I heard them say;
“381.”
Rushed up into a house one night
(Danger ne'er to shun);
Dragged three children into sight,
Out of the fire; yes, that was right,
381!
Clubbed a man, one day, half dead
(People said “for fun”);

138

Still, there was this much to be said:
He came near being stabbed instead—
381.
Yes, he had faults! and such as might
Your pure excellence stun;
But he was perfect in a fight;
When in trouble you loved to sight
381!
Always sought and called-for first,
When there was risk to run;
Asked for his best amid the worst—
When it was over, often cursed,
381!
Still, some threads of love and glee
Into his days were spun;
He had a wife and children three—
And they weep for him, as we see—
381!
And he had comrades, as have you—
Willingly foe to none;
And they are out, once more to view
Him that to them was ever true—
381.
Under the Great Chief let him trust,
In the new life begun;
Soul to soul, and dust to dust,
And a God that is ever just—
Now that his work is done.