Page:Slabs of the sunburnt West.djvu/38

24 {| If when the clockticks counted sixty, when the heartbeats of the Republic came to a stop for a minute, if the Boy had happened to sit up, happening to sit up as Lazarus sat up, in the story, then the first shivering language to drip off his mouth might have come as, " Thank God," or " Am I dreaming?" or " What the hell " or " When do we eat? " or " Kill 'em, kill 'em, the . . ." or "Was that . . . a rat . . . ran over my face? " or "For Christ's sake, gimme water, gimme water," or "Blub blub, bloo bloo" or any bubbles of shell shock gibberish from the gashes of No Man's Land. Maybe some buddy knows, some sister, mother, sweetheart, maybe some girl who sat with him once when a two-horn silver moon slid on the peak of a house-roof gable, and promises lived in the air of the night, when the air was filled with promises, when any little slip-shoe lovey could pick a promise out of the air.
 * (So people far from the asphalt footing of Pennsylvania Avenue look, wonder, mumble — the riding white-jaw phantoms ride hi-eeee, hi-eeee, hi-yi, hi-yi, hi-eeee — the proclamations of the honorable orators mix with the top-sergeants whistling the roll call.)
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