OJarncU Iniucraitg Htbrarg attjaca, New ^attt BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF HENRY W. SAGE 1891 Cornell University Library 1694.F2S6 Songs of the average man, 3 1924 021 991 603 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 924021 991 603 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN BOOKS BY SAM WALTER FOSS. Back Country Poems. With 12 Full-page Illustrations. Cloth $i.;o Whiffs from Wild Meadows. Fully Illustrated. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed 1.50 Dreams in Homespun. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed - - - i.so Songs of War and Peace. Cloth. Gilt Top. Boxed - - - 1.25 LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON. All the pbuit that's dropped and mellowed since the Knowledge tkee was shaken. — Page 140. SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN BY SAM WALTER FOSS AUTHOR OF "BACK COUNTRY POEMS," "WHIFFS FROM YTILD MEADOWS," " DREAMS IN HOMESPUN," AND "SONGS OF WAR AND PEACE" ILLUSTRATED BY MERLE JOHNSON BOSTON LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. t Published, August, 1907, Copyright, 1907, by Lothkop, Lee & Shepard Co. All Rights Reserved^ Songs of the Average Man. Korlmoiiti 39tesg J. B. CuBhiug Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, MaBS., U.S.A. THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER LET me cry when there's no help for crying And dance when the dancers spin; And join in the selling and buying, And laugh where the laugh comes in. Let me mix with the short men and tall men, With brain men and brawn men be free, And knowing forever that all men Are good-enough fellows like me. Let me mix with these good-enough fellows, For they stretch from the Pole to the Pole, And the blacks, and the browns, and the yellows Are all fairly white in the soul. Though some men are better than some men, And some men are wiser than some, The numb men, in time, may become men As proper as men may become. For we know that the perfect and proper May grow from the dirt of the dump. And Destiny grinds from her hopper Some very good stuff in the lump. 7 PREFATORY POEM For the world has a knack for advancing, — 'Tis the chrysalis habit to burst; Though the First shall be Last, 'tis entrancing To know that the Last shall be First. Oh, we know that 'twixt here and Australia Are promiscuous souls not a few, But none who is more of a failure, And none who is better than you. And we know that 'twixt here and New Guinea Are various men, low and high, But none who is more of a ninny Or more of a wonder than I. So I mix with the good men and bad men, Who are much the same fellows as I, And I find they are glad men and sad men. But men it is good to get nigh. Let me cry when there's no help for crying And dance when the dancers spin, And join in the seUing and buying And laugh where the laugh comes in. CONTENTS PAGE Business 15 The Higher Fellowship 19 Jim Pettigrew's Big-headed Boy 22 A Masterpiece of Prayer 25 Two Gods 28 Himselfing 30 Large Eternal Fej-lows 32 The Poster- painter's Masterpiece • • • . 35 The Creedless Love 37 The Novelist 39 The Logic of the Gun 41 Jed Fuller's Stone Wall 43 The Higher Catechism 46 Stay thou in thy Skull and Fear Not ... 52 The Firm of Grin and Barrett 54 I shall not Pass this Way Again .... 56 Rest and Work 58 Modern Reformers 59 Sence Mary jined the Club 61 The Man from the Crowd 65 Elder Ford's Two Candidates 67 The Turn of the Road 69 A Sailor of Seas 71 The Song of the Water Tower .... 75 9 lO CONTENTS PAGB A Misfit Halo 77 The Pessimist Firefly 79 The New Journalism 81 When the Old Clock strikes Thirteen ... 83 Mehitable 85 The Coming War 89 The Deep-down Things 92 The Song of the Wheel 94 The Higher Pioneering 96 Toil's Sweet Content 99 Your Girl and my Boy 102 A Thanksgiving-day Song 104 The Perseverance of Jacob Bean .... 106 The Growth of the Critic 109 From Butte to Boston iii The Cosmic Way 113 The Saving Salt 114 A Railroad Song 115 A Life 117 When Benjy played the Fiddle . . . .118 "It" 121 My House in the Air 122 If a Man could be born when he's Old . . .124 The Last of a Line 126 We who are about to live salute You . . .129 The Eighth Day of the Week 131 How's the World To-day? 133 A Tomb of a Prophet 13^ CONTENTS II POEMS FOR OCCASIONS PAGE The Song of the Library Staff .... 140 The World-cleaners 146 Ode 150 Montana 153 Lines 155 The Flag of Prospect Hill 157 Lines 161 The Quarter-century Graduate . . . .165 Where's the Baby? 169 The Half-man and the Whole-man . . . .176 Jamestown 179 ILLUSTRATIONS All the fruit that's dropped and mellowed since THE Knowledge tree was shaken (Page 140) • 'Frontispiece FACING PAGE It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I'd rehearsed it IN the barn 26 For I jest soak in literacher sence Mary jined THE CLUB 64 "Hurry up and split the kindlings," said his wife 89 I KNOW they stopped AN' LISTENED, . . . WeN WE SHASHAYED DOWN THE MIDDLE AN' OL' BeNJY PLAYED THE FIDDLE ... AT OUR OL' SHAKEDOWNS Il8 See the Cataloguer in the act of cataloguing . 140 See the Reference Librarian and the joys that appertain to her 141 See the Children's gay Librarian ! . . . .142 See the Gleeful Desk Attendant . . . .143 Sing, O Muse ! the Head Librarian . . , .144 13 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN BUSINESS "How is business ?" asks the young man of the Spirit of the Years; "Tell me of the modem output from the factories of fate, And what jobs are waiting for me, waiting for me and my peers. What's the outlook? What's the prospect? Are the wages small or great?" "Business growing, more men needed," says the Spirit of the Years, "Jobs are waiting for right workmen, — and I hope you are the men, — Grand hard work and ample wages, work piled up in great arrears — 'Don't see any Job particular?' Listen, and I'll tell you, then. "There are commonwealths to govern, there are senates to be swayed, There are new States still undreamed of to be founded, 'S l6 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN New empires in far oceans to be moulded — who's afraid ? — And a couple polar oceans to be sounded. Come, ye jolly empire-builders, here is work for you to do. And we don't propose to get along without it. Here's the httle job of building this old planet over new. And it's time to do the business. Get about it. "Get to work, ye world-repairers. Steer the age and guide the years. Shame the antique men with bigness of your own ; Grow ye larger men than Plutarch's and the old long- whiskered seers; Show the world a milhon kings without a throne. 'What's your business?' Empire-building, founding hierarchies for the soul, PrincipaHties and powers for the mind. Bringing ever-narrowing chaos under cosmical control. Building highways through its marsh-lands for mankind. "Sow the lonely plains with cities; thread the flower- less land with streams; Go to thinking thoughts unthought-of, following where your genius leads. Seeing visions, hearing voices, following stars, and dreaming dreams. And then bid your dreams and visions bloom and flower into deeds. BUSINESS 17 'What's your business?' Shaping eras, making epochs, building States, Wakening slumbering rebellions in the soul. Leading men and founding systems, grappling with the elder fates Till the yoimger fates shall greaten and assume the old control. ' ' ' Business rushing ? ' Fairly lively. There's a world to clean and sweep, Cluttered up with wars and armies ; 'tis your work to brush 'em out ; Bid the fierce clinch-fisted nations clasp their hands across the deep; Wipe the tired world of armies; 'tis a fair day's work, no doubt. 'Business rushing?' Something doing. You've a contract on your hands To wipe out the world's distinctions, — country, color, caste, and birth, — And to make one human family of a thousand aUen lands. Nourishing a billion brothers with no foreigner on earth. "Have you learned yet," says the Zeitgeist, "the old secret of the soul? Make the sleepy sphinx give answer, for her riddle's long unguessed. Tell the riddle ; clear the mystery ; bid the midnight dark uproU ; 1 8 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Let the thought with which the ages long have travailed be expressed. Go and find the Northwest Passage through the far seas of the mind, — There, where man and God are mingled in the darkness, go and learn. Sail forth on that boumless ocean, shrouded, chartless, undefined : Pluck its mystery from that darkness; pluck its mystery, and return. "'What's your business?' Finding out things that no other man could find, — Things concealed by jealous Nature under locks, behind the bars ; Building paved and guttered highways for the onward march of mind Through the spaces 'twixt the planets to the secrets of the stars. 'What's your business ? ' Think like Plato, — he did not exhaust all thought; Preach like old Savonarola; rule like Alfred; do not shirk; Paint hke Raphael and Titian ; build like Angelo — why not? Sing like Shakespeare. 'How is business?! Rather lively. Get to work ! " THE HIGHER FELLOWSHIP 19 THE HIGHER FELLOWSHIP Are you one of my gang? Yes, you're one of my gang. The same job is yours and mine To fix up the earth, And so forth and so forth. And make its dull emptiness shine. The world is unfinished ; let's mould it a bit With pickaxe and shovel and spade; We are gentlemen delvers, the gentry of brawn, And to make the world over our trade. And I love the sweet sound of our pickaxes' clang, I'm glad to be with you. You're one of my gang. Are you one of my crew? Yes, you're one of my crew, And we steer by the same pilot star. On a trip that is long And through storms that are strong; But we sail for a port that is far. O, the oceans are wide, — and we're glad they are wide And we know not the thitherward shore, — But we never have sailed from the Less to the Less But forever from More to the More. 20 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And we deem that our dreams of far islands are true. Let us spread every sail. You are one of my crew. You belong to my club ? Yes, you're one of my club, And this is our programme and plan: To each do his part To look into the heart And get at the good that's in man. Detectives of virtue and spies of the good And sleuth-hounds of righteousness we. Look out there, my brother ! we're hot on your trail. We'U find out how good you can be. We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub; We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club. Do you go to my school? Yes, you go to my school. And we've learned the big lesson, — Be strong ! And to front the loud noise With a spirit of poise And drown down the noise with a song. We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate ; We have spelled it, and dare not to shirk — For its first and its greatest commandment to men Is, "Work, and rejoice in your work." Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool — You are one of my classmates. You go to my school. THE HIGHER FELLOWSHIP 21 You belong to my church? Yes, you go to my church, — Our names on the same old church roll — The tide-waves of God We believe are abroad And flow into the creeks of each soul. And the vessel we sail in is strong as the sea That bufifets and blows it about; For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship So we know not the meaning of doubt. And we know, howsoever the vessel may lurch We've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church. 22 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN JIM PETTIGREW'S BIG-HEADED BOY Jim Pettigeew's big-headed boy Possessed in his skull cap, 'twas plain, A mammoth large spatter of vital gray matter And a mighty deposit of brain — An expansive protuberance of brain. And we thought there was shut in that boy's occiput Pure intellect void of alloy, A generous sufficience of general omniscience, In this truly phenomenal boy — In Pettigrew's big-headed boy. And Pettigrew's big-headed boy Strewed wisdom to North and to South, And he poured on us natives, the saints and the caitiffs, His mighty momentum of mouth — The ponderous power of his mouth. And we heard the great roar of his onrushing lore Such as none but that youth could employ; And all rushed from under the cataract thunder Of that learned reverberant boy — Of Pettigrew's big-headed boy. JIM PETTIGREW'S BIG-HEADED BOY 23 Ted Fullerton's tow-headed kid Was a neighbor that Pettigrew had, And the fellow was dumber than snowbirds in summer, A silent, secretive young lad — Taciturn, irresponsive young lad. And we said it was plain he'd an absentee brain For his mental machinery was hid; A great superfluity of mental vacuity Invested this commonplace kid — Ted Fullerton's tow-headed kid. Ted Fullerton's tow-headed kid He always had nothing to say. And the silence unbroken by words he had spoken Was audible nine miles away — Coherent for three leagues away. But the tow-headed kid knew a lot, for he thought and he thought and he thought. And the things that he thought of he did — Put his thought in transaction, his dream into action, This prosy and practical kid — Ted Fullerton's tow-headed kid. Ted Fullerton's tow-headed kid Now sits in a senator's chair. And, comfortably corpulent, easy and opulent, Is reckoned a great millionnaire — A bloated, blas6 millionnaire. Jim Pettigrew's lad is still vocal and glad. 24 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And talk his perpetual joy, They call him "professor" — a first-class hair-dresser, A barber is Pettigrew's boy — Jim Pettigrew's big-headed boy. A MASTERPIECE OF PRAYER 2$ A MASTERPIECE OF PRAYER Wen our new church was dedicated we had a jubilee, They chose a lot of speakers, but were bound they wouldn't choose me. They knowed my faculty for speech, — how I could lift and soar, An' how I had the gift of tongues as few men had before. But they wuz narrer, Jealous souls, an' 'fraid of my renown. An' meant to choke me off the list an' keep my genius down. But I got even with 'em. See ? Purtended I didn't care. But said I'd like to close the day with a few words of prayer. An' so they put me down to pray — thought that would shet me off, An' stuck it on the programme there, "A Prayer, by Deacon Goff." So I sot still an' waited, till they all had had their say, — An' then to close the programme up they called on me to pray. 26 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Well, did I pray ? I guess so ! They got it fair and square, — It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I had studied on that prayer; It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I had tinkered the con- sarn. It warn't ten weeks for nothin' I'd rehearsed it in the barn; An' I jest put it to 'em good without a haw or hem — No crowd was ever prayed to quite the way I prayed to them. Wen you pray an' want to fetch 'em, an' jest stir 'em through and through, W'y, you've got to make a study of the crowd you're prayin' to. Well, I knew my crowd exactly, an' I knew jest what would suit ; I knew the crowd I prayed to, an' I knew my prayer to boot. An' I stood for twenty minutes there without a pause or rest An' socked it to the audience an' prayed like all pos- sesst. But them programme committee men sot on the plat- form there An' the narrer, jealous critters were the pictures of despair, It wasn't ten weeks foe nothin' I'd keheaesed it in the BAEN. — Page 26. A MASTERPIECE OF PRAYER 2/ But I kep' on a-prayin' for my mind was made up firm, An' now an' then I'd give a peek to see the cusses squirm. You'd ought to seen the dum things wince, an' w'en I closed my prayer, No madder set er fellers, sir, was livin' an)nvhere. 28 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN TWO GODS A BOY was born 'mid little things, Between a little world and sky, — And dreamed not of the cosmic rings Round which the circling planets fly. He lived in little works and thoughts, Where little ventures grow and plod. And paced and ploughed his little plots, And prayed unto his little God. But as the mighty system grew. His faith grew faint with many scars; The Cosmos widened in his view — But God was lost among His stars. II Another boy in lowly days, As he, to little things was bom, But gathered lore in woodland ways. And from the glory of the morn. TWO GODS 29 As wider skies broke on his view, God greatened in his growing mind; Each year he dreamed his God anew, And left his older God behind. He saw the boundless scheme dilate, In star and blossom, sky and clod; And as the universe grew great. He dreamed for it a greater God. 30 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN HIMSELFING When Shakespeare was shakespearing, he knew not he shakespeared, And Meyerbeer meyerbeering knew not he meyer- beered, Thucydides thucydidesing, Demosthenes demosthenesing Did their own work in their own way and did it as they pleased, But knew not they thucydidized or they demosthe- nesed. When Chaucer was a-chaucering, he chaucered on unknowing, And Edgar Allan Poe poed on and knew not he was peeing; Unconscious Poe poed poingly, And Shelley shelled unknowingly, And Kant he kanted all his life and knew not he could kant; And Dante danted evermore but knew not he could dant. HIMSELFING 31 When a man is socratesingyou may know he's Socrates, And a man themistoclesing he must be Themistocles ; By the way a man's behaving Be he neroing or gustaving, He is Nero or Gustavus and no other man can be, For no other man can do his job — no other man than he. So let Briggs keep on a-briggsing, and Smith keep smithing on, And Griggs keep on a-griggsing, nor Johnson cease to John; Magoun keep on magouning, And Spooner keep a-spooning. And Bagster bag, and Jacobs jake, and Logan always loge. And Rider ride, and Snyder snide, and Hogan always hoge. Let Stubbs keep on a-stubbing but try not to Shake- speare, And Grubb continue grubbing nor try to meyerbeer; Let Streeter keep a-streetering. And Peters keep a-petering; For in somebody-elsing there is no fame or pelf, Let each man go himselfing and each man be himself. 32 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN LARGE ETERNAL FELLOWS There are large eternal fellows making music here- about, And large eternal men are yet to be ; And long will be the long, long years before the breed runs out, Strong as iron in the mountains, clean as saltness in the sea. There were large eternal fellows and they lived before the Flood, And they fought the sHmy dragons of the old Deu- calion mud, — And still the good earth nourishes the same eternal brood. There are large eternal fellows yet to be. There were large eternal fellows with the Cave-men long ago, Hairy Platos, stammering voices for the dumb. Men who felt the streaming up-gush of great Nature's overflow, — And great Nature has her darlings yet to come. There is iron in the mountains, there is saltness in the sea. LARGE ETERNAL FELLOWS 33 There shall flower higher corn-blooms on the stalks of destiny, There's a race of giants growing for the long years yet to be, — There are large eternal fellows yet to come. There was workmanship put in it, and the world was made to last, And it wears as well to-day as hitherto; And the large, eternal fellows that it grew there in the past — It shall match and overtop them with the new; In its green irriguous valleys lilies grow as fair as then. There are giant pines and redwoods towering from the watered glen. Nor has Nature lost the cunning yet of making giant men, — There are large, eternal fellows yet to be. From the star-dust of wide spaces did the mighty worlds cohere — And there's star-dust for a million worlds to be; There are many things that happen in the long Pla- tonic year, — There are new stars yet unmoulded that the coming days will see. The cosmic stuff for stars and men the years shall not debase, — 34 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And greater stars than throng the skies shall newly loom in space, And greater men than yet have been shall yet redeem the race. There are large, eternal fellows yet to be. THE POSTER-PAINTER'S MASTERPIECE 35 THE POSTER-PAINTER'S MASTERPIECE "Let us paint a landscape in June," he cried; "A landscape in high June." And the poster-painter swelled with pride And trilled a merry tune. And he painted five cows in Antwerp blue (For he was a poster-painter true), And the grass they browsed was a light €cru And a dark maroon. And the foot of one cow was in the sky, And her horns were pink and green; Her amber tail it curled on high — A bright and beauteous scene. And a lavender river flowed at her feet With gamboge lilies fragrant and sweet. But some were the color of powdered peat, Some light marine. And another cow's tail was round the sun (Her horns hung limply down) ; And her tail was white as wool new-spun, And the sun was a neutral brown. In the drab background was a pale-blue lamb Who stood by the side of her turquoise dam, 36 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And the sky — a pink parallelogram — On the lamb closed down. And the rhomboid hills were of ochre hue With trees of lilac white, And rectihnear forests grew In a limpid cochineal light. An isosceles lake spread fair and pink, And, gathered about its damask brink, Triangular swans came down to drink With glad delight. Then a milkmaid came with cheeks of dun And a smile of dark maroon. One arm was on the setting sun, One on the rising moon. And she seemed to float from a Nile-green sky, With an ebony arm and an ivory eye. And her gown swelled down from a point on high, Like a pink balloon. But all the things the painter drew 'Twere hard to tell — The cow, the sky, the swans of blue, Lamb, maid, he painted well. But which was the cow and which the maid, And which were the swans or the trees of shade. And which were the sky or the hills, I'm afraid. No soul could tell. THE CREEDLESS LOVE 37 THE CREEDLESS LOVE A CREEDLESS lovc, that knows no clan, No caste, no cult, no church but Man; That deems to-day and now and here, Are voice and vision of the seer; That through this lifted human clod The inflow of the breath of God Still sheds its apostolic powers, — Such love, such trust, such faith be ours. We deem man climbs an endless slope Tow'rd far-seen tablelands of hope; That he, through filth and shame of sin, Still seeks the God that speaks within; That all the years since time began Work the eternal Rise of Man; And all the days that time shall see Tend tow'rd the Eden yet to be. Too long our music-hungering needs Have heard the iron clash of creed». The creedless love that knows no clan. No caste, no cult, no church but Man, 38 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Shall drown with mellow music all, The dying jangle of their brawl ; — Such love with all its quickening powers, — Such love to God and Man be ours. THE NOVELIST 39 THE NOVELIST His heart is like no lonely peak, No cloud-robed, thunder-blasted crest; His heart is like a wayside inn Where every traveller can rest. They come from far and over-sea. From North and South — he lets them in ■ His door swings wide for men of grace, He shakes the hands of men of sin. The lofty great among his guests With placid pose ignore the small, Th' unnoted small avoid the great But he, their landlord, greets them all. He lives there where the cross-road meets The turnpike road, that stretches far; He greets the wanderers of the world Who come from under every star. And guests who wear their hearts concealed Who shroud themselves in silence grim, Reveal to him their secret shrines And show their inmost souls to him. 40 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN He finds them; and they cannot hide/ For every man he meets his plan Is, to go forth from out himself And straightway to become that man. And to the world-inn of his heart, That stands beside the world's highway, They throng from all the roads and lanes And come and enter night and day. His heart is hke no lonely peak No cloud-robed, thunder-blasted crest; His heart is like a wayside inn Where every traveller can rest. THE LOGIC OF THE GUN 41 THE LOGIC OF THE GUN He wrote in letters plain to see, That all could understand: All Persons carrying Firearms Forbidden on this Land. And through his hundred-acre woods, To stay through calm and breeze, He nailed this minatory sign Upon two hundred trees. So all who wandered through those wilds Could read and understand: All Persons carrying Firearms Forbidden on this Land. Ben Bean, the Nimrod of the town, Went shooting through the land; His vocal musket banged in tones That all could understand. And then the owner of the woods Who placed the warning signs. Went after Ben and talked to him Of penalties and fines. "Do you not see these signs?" said he, "A child can understand. 42 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN 'All persons carrying firearms Forbidden on this land ? ' " "But how'U you get me ofi?" asked Ben, And spoke without a wince, "A person carrying firearms Ain't easy to convince." "Go off!" the farmer cried; "Begone!" "Come drive me off," Ben said. And raised his musket toward the man. And aimed it at his head. "Why, I have right upon my side," The farmer said. "Now run!" "You may have right, I don't deny't, But I have got the gun." And there are empires, just like Ben, Who hunt the world around. Whose purpose 'tis to use the world For their own hunting-ground. And there's no potentate or power. No premier or prince. Who's well-equipped with firearms, That's easy to convince. And when their victims prate of rights They say to every one, "You may have right, I don't deny't, But I have got the gun." JED FULLER'S STONE WALL 43 JED FULLER'S STONE WALL An' awful change has taken place in old Jed Fuller's heart, His moril natur' has collapsed an' fallen all apart; He once was jest as honerble an' good an' jest an' true An' honest an' respectable as either me or you. But I'm 'fraid he's given over to the adversary's grip An' let ol' Satan conquer him an' never raise a yip; In pitfalls of iniquerty he's tumbled headlong in To etamal reperbation an' to everlastin' sin. His ol' stone wall laps over ten inches on my land, An' 's done so for two hunderd years or more, you un- derstand. I says to him, "You move that wall an' pay me the arrears. An' damages thet wall hez done the past two hunderd years." A reasonable request enough as any gump can see. There's jest five hunderd rods of wall thet runs 'twixt him an' me, 44 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN An' for two-fifty-cents a rod the scamp could move it back — But his whole moril natur' has completely gone to wrack. I sez to him, "You move that wall and then plank down the stuflf. One thousand dollar damages — thet's reasonable enough ; You've had ten inches of my land two hunderd years or so, I want one thousan' damages; fork over what you owe." An' he wouldn' do it. No, siree ! Wall, did you ever know A case where human natur' got so miser'ble an' low. There's eighty acres in the lot. I hain't no land to lend. An' I won't have ten inches there jest chopped right off the end. There's eighty acres — parsture land — I've alius kept it well Ev'ry acre'U fetch two dollars any time I want to sell. An' he's got ten inches on it, thet he uses as his own. W'y, I never see a critter yet with sich low moril tone. JED FULLER'S STONE WALL 45 An' then he had the cheek to say the whole long strip er land Wam't worth more'n thirteen cents or so, an' nothin' but w'ite sand, An' wam't more'n thirty spears er grass along the whole fence line, "I want them thirty spears," said I. "I want 'em — they are mine ! " There's a great prinserple at stake. I stan' for right- eousness. An' I want perfect jestice done an' won't hev nothin' less. For I'm a strong, religious man, an' I'm prepared to fight For honor an' integrity, moralerty an' right. But Jed said he wouldn' move the wall. The way thet he behaved Shows me he's given up to sin an' totally depraved. In pitfalls of iniquerty he's tumbled headlong in, To etamal reperbation an' to everlastin' sin. 46 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE HIGHER CATECHISM Let ite ask ourselves some questions; for that man is truly wise Who can make a catechism that will really catechise. All can make a catechism — none can keep it in re- pair. Where's the workman can construct one that he'll guarantee will wear ? We are fronted from our birthday onward to the day we die With a maximum of questions and a minimum reply. So we make our catechism; but our work is never done — For a father's catechism never fits a father's son. What are we here for ? That's the first one; that the first we want to know. We are here and all born little, just because we're here to grow. What is sin ? Why sin's not growing ; aU that stops the growth within, Plagues the eternal upward impulse, stunts the spirit — that is sin. THE HIGHER CATECHISM 47 Who are sinners? All are sinners; but this is no hopeless plaint, For there never was a sinner who was not likewise a saint. What's the devil ? A convenient but imagined elf Each man builds to throw his sins on when he won't "own up" himself. And where is hell ? And where is heaven ? In some vague distance dim? No, they are here and now in you — in me, in her, in him. When is the Judgment Day to dawn ? Its true date who can say ? Look in your calendar and see what day it is to-day ! To-day is always Judgment Day; and Conscience throned within Brings up before its judgment-seat each soul to face his sin. We march to judgment, each along an uncompanioned way — Stand up, man, and accuse yourself and meet your Judgment Day. Where shall we get religion ? Beneath the open sky, The sphere of crystal silence surcharged with deity. The winds blow from a thousand ways and waft their balms abroad, 48 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN The winds blow toward a million goals — but all winds blow from God. The stars the old Chaldasans saw still weave their maze on high And write a thousand thousand years their Bible in the sky. The midnight earth sends incense up sweet with the breath of prayer — Go out beneath the naked night and get religion there. Where shall we get religion ? Beneath the blooming tree, Beside the hill-encircling brooks that loiter to the sea, Beside all twilight waters, beneath all noonday shades. Beneath the dark cathedral pines and through the tangled glades; Wherever the old urge of life provokes the dumb, dead sod To tell its thought in violets, the soul takes hold on God. Go smell the growing clover, and scent the blooming pear. Go forth to seek religion — and find it anywhere. What is the church? The church is man when his awed soul goes out. In reverence to the Mystery that swathes him all about. THE HIGHER CATECHISM 49 When any living man in awe gropes Godward in his search ; Then, in that hour, that living man becomes the living church, Then, though in wilderness or waste, his soul is swept along Down naves of prayer, through aisles of praise, up altar-stairs of song. And where man fronts the Mystery with spirit bowed in prayer, There is the universal church — the church of God is there. Where are the prophets of the soul? Where dwells the sacred clan ? Ah, they live in fields and cities, yea, wherever dwells a man, Whether he prays in cloistered cell or delves the hill- side clod, Wherever beats the heart of man, there dwells a priest of God. Who are the apostolic line? the men who hear a voice Well from the soul within the soul that cries aloud, "Rejoice!" Who listen to themselves and hear this world-old voice divine — These are the lineage of seers, the apostolic line. 50 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And what is faith? The anchored trust that at the core of things Health, goodness, animating strength flow from ex- haustless springs; That no star rolls unguided down the rings of endless . maze. That no feet tread an aimless path through wastes of empty days; That trusts the everlasting voice, the glad, calm voice that saith That Order grows from Chaos, and that hfe is bom from death; That from the wreck of rending stars behind the storm and scathe. There dwells a heart of central calm; — and this, and this is faith. What is the world's true Bible — 'tis the highest thought of man. The thought distilled through ages since the dawn of thought began. And each age adds its word thereto, some psalm or promise sweet — And the canon is unfinished and forever incomplete. O'er the chapters that are written long and lovingly we pore — But the best is yet unwritten, for we grow from more to more. THE HIGHER CATECHISM 51 Let us heed the Voice within us and its messages re- hearse ; Let us build the growing Bible — for we too must write a verse. What is the purport of the scheme towards which all time is gone ? What is the great aeonian goal ? The joy of going on. And are there any souls so strong, such feet with swift- ness shod, That they shall reach it, reach some bourne, the ulti- mate of God? There is no bourne, no ultimate. The very farthest star But rims a sea of other stars that stretches just as far. There's no beginning and no end. As in the ages gone. The greatest joy of joys shall be the joy of going on. 52 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN STAY THOU IN THY SKULL AND FEAR NOT Stay thou in thy skull and fear not, Though the sons of thunder are loud, Though the strenuous brawlers are hot And a clamor goes up from the crowd; Though there's tumult and turmoil without. Though there's frenzy and fury and doubt, Stand calm in the midst of the rout — Stay thou in thy skull and fear not. Stay thou in thy skull and fear not, For the thunderers ever have roared. In peals of omniscience have burst. And the smoke of their torment has poured In sulphurous clouds from the first; While they warned of the thunder-storm's stroke The sun-burst forever outbroke. And the world floated out of the smoke — Stay thou in thy skull and fear not. Stay thou in thy skull and fear not; The world has been thrown at a goal STAY THOU IN THY SKULL AND FEAR NOT 53 By a hand that fails not of its mark, And straight to its aim doth it roll Through the shine and the murk and the dark. No whirlwind can blow it aside. And the drift and the stress of no tide. And straight to its aim doth it ride — Stay thou in thy skull and fear not. 54 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE FIRM OF GRIN AND BARRETT No financial throe volcanic Ever yet was known to scare it; Never yet was any panic Scared the firm of Grin and Barrett. From the flurry and the fluster, From the ruin and the crashes, They arise in brighter lustre. Like the phcenix from his ashes. When the banks and corporations Quake with fear, they do not share it; Smiling through all perturbations Goes the firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett? When the tide-sweep of reverses Smites them, firm they stand and dare it, Without wailings, tears, or curses. This stout fijm of Grin and Barrett. Even should their house go under In the flood and inundation. THE FIRM OF GRIN AND BARRETT 55 Calm they stand amid the thunder Without noise or demonstration. And, when sackcloth is the fashion, With a patient smile they wear it. Without petulance or passion, This old firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett? When the other firms show dizziness. Here's a house that does not share it. Wouldn't you like to join the business ? Join the firm of Grin and Barrett? Give your strength that does not murmur, And your nerve that does not falter, And you've joined a house that's firmer Than the old rock of Gibraltar. They have won a good prosperity; Why not join the firm and share it? Step, young fellow, with celerity; Join the firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett ? 56 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN " I shall not pass this way again." — William Penn. Right words and shrewd, good William Penn, I shall not pass this way again. My long way and the winding track Which I pursue will bend not back. Mayhap it stretches very far, Mayhap it winds from star to star; Mayhap through worlds as yet unformed Its never-ending journey runs, Through worlds that now are whirling wraiths Of formless mists between the suns. I go — beyond my widest ken — But shall not pass this way again. So, as I go and cannot stay And never more shall pass this way, I hope to sow the way with deeds Whose seed shall bloom like May-time meads. And flood my onward path with words That thrill the day like singing birds; I SHALL NOT PASS THIS WAY AGAIN 57 That other travellers following on May find a gleam and not a gloom, May find their path a pleasant way, A trail of music and of bloom. 4: * if: N: * Strew gladness on the paths of men — You will not pass this way again. S8 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN REST AND WORK Where is rest? In what isles of the summer-glad seas? In what gardens of balm? 'Neath what sleep-drop- ping trees ? By what still-flowing waters, what lily-fringed streams ? In what meadows of silence, what valley of dreams ? 'Neath what thunderless skies, by what hillsides of sleep ? On what moon-lighted mountain or star-lighted deep ? Yes, where on the earth's or the ocean's wide breast Is the home of release and the harbor of rest ? Why, here in the corn-field — and take up your hoe ! Right here in this mill — make the paddle-wheel go ! Right here with your engine — up steam and away ! Right here with your sewing-machine every day. Where there's work, there is rest, and it's nowhere beside. Though you travel all lands, and you sail every tide. Where is rest? Go to work, and your spirit renew. For no man can rest who has nothing to do. MODERN REFORMERS 59 MODERN REFORMERS The world has had reformers, men who were sternly just, Who smote the thrones of wickedness and laid them in the dust. Meek, tender men, made mighty by mankind's blood and tears. Strong men with words like thimderbolts to smite the wrong of years. Were all these old reformers of a breed too weak to last? Did all the great wrong-smiters wane and perish in the past ? Did they fight a losing battle ? Were they conquered in the fray? Why are there no reformers fighting in the world to-day ? Well, 'tis but a thing of labels ; the reformers have not gone, But they're mixing with the people with misleading placards on; 6o SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN For we label them fanatics, visionaries, dolts, and fools — Men denounced by clubs and churches, by the jour- nals and the schools. There are men who wear these placards daily in the market-place, Heroes of an ancient lineage, kings, and saviours of the race; But we never see their greatness through life's trivial events. But our children's sons will read it on their granite monuments. SENCE MARY JINED THE CLUB 6l SENCE MARY JINED THE CLUB Yis, life 'ith us hez alius bin a pooty serious rub ; But somehow things is pleasanter sence Mary jined the club. Mary's a marster han' to talk, a reg'lar talk ex-pert; But w'at she useter talk about wuz cleanin' house an' dirt; Bout bringin' mud in on my feet, an' hangin' up' my clo'es; Of Tom's protrudin' elbows an' of Dick's protrudin' toes; An' 'bout her pies that got baked-on, 'bout her per- serves that soured, An' 'bout her tin an' pewter pans she never could keep scoured; An' 'bout the everlastin' flies she driv out twice a day. 'Bout rats that et her cheeses up an' cats that sp'ilt her whey; 'Bout cramp-spells with her scrubbin' brush, an' backache at her tub — An' all that ar I useter hear 'fore Mary jined her club. But now she talks 'bout Tennerson — the potery man, you know — 62 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN The potery man who writ so much — whose writin's jingle so ; About Jonmilton's bunkum verse, the best thing of its kind. In his book about the devil w'ich he writ w'en he wuz blind ; An' 'bout a man named Shakespeare, too, whose geenyus had no clogs. Who spent his life in writin' down a mess er dia- logues ; An' a man who writ long stories that her club folks greatly prize — George W. Eliot, I believe — they seem to me like lies ; — An' 'bout a chap named Blueing too — no — Brown- ing — that's his name, Who writ a book of puzzles with no answers to the same; An' ol' Alf. Walter Emerson an' WenduU Phillips Holmes, James Rustle Lynn — No ? Lowell ? — Yis ? — who writ so many pomes ; Sence all this stuff I hear about my life ain't such a rub. An' now I hear this ev'ry day sence Mary jined the club. An' sometimes she gits talkin' 'bout the rennysarnce of art. SENCE MARY JINED THE CLUB 63 I don't know nothin' w'at it means, but she duz — she is smart ! W'y, the words she uses sometimes they is pufiSckly immense, 'Bout the "re-hah-bil-i-tashun of the scientific sense." An' she talks of everlution: Say? you know what that ar is ? Yer don't? Wall then I'll tell ye jest to show she knows her biz : It is matter's intergration With conkomertant disserpation Of motion From incoherunt Homer G. Nierty To a koherunt Hattie Rowe G. Nierty — Cute notion. Yes, sir! that is everlution. There yer hev it plain an' flat, — An' Mary knows a lot er things that's pootier than that; An' now Mary talks 'em to me, w'y, my life ain't sich a rub. It's one sweet song of pooty words sence Mary jined the club. Sometimes she talks for hours 'bout the planet Satan's rings, The neberler hypothemuse an' them ar sort er things; About the lates' theories of bisickle research, An' lots er new theology I never heerd in church. 64 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN She knows the oP philosophers that any man can know, She knows John Stuart Factory an' Edward Ev'ritt Snow; She describes the great procession that the equernoxes made, — An' I thought the way she told it 'twas a tarnal long parade. Oh, life ain't w'at it useter be, 'tain't no sich grind an' scrub, For I jest soak in literacher sence Mary jined the club. Fob I JEST SOAK nr i,itebacher sbncb Mabt jittbd the CLUB. — Page 64. THE MAN FROM THE CROWD 65 THE MAN FROM THE CROWD Men seem as alike as the leaves on the trees, As alike as the bees in a swarming of bees ; And we look at the millions that make up the state All equally little and equally great, And the pride of our courage is cowed. Then Fate calls for a man who is larger than men — There's a surge in the crowd — there's a movement — and then There arises a man that is larger than men — And the man comes up from the crowd. The chasers of trifles run hither and yon, And the little small days of small things still go on, And the world seems no better at sunset than dawn. And the race still increases its plentiful spawn. And the voice of our wailing is loud. Then the Great Deed calls out for the Great Man to come, And the crowd, unbelieving, sits sullen and dumb — But the Great Deed is done, for the Great Man is come — Aye, the man comes up from the crowd. 66 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN There's a dead hum of voices, all say the same thing, And our forefathers' songs are the songs that we sing. And the deeds by our fathers and grandfathers done Are done by the son of the son of the son, And our heads in contrition are bowed. Lo, a call for a man who shall make all things new Goes down through the throng! See! he rises in view! Make room for the man who shall make all things new! — For the man who comes up from the crowd. And where is the man who comes up from the throng Who does the new deed and who sings the new song. And who makes the old world as a world that is new ? And who is the man ? It is you ! It is you ! And our praise is exultant and proud. We are waiting for you there — for you are the man ! Come up from the jostle as soon as you can; Come up from the crowd there, for you are the man — The man who comes up from the crowd. ELDER FORD'S TWO CANDIDATES 67 ELDER FORD'S TWO CANDIDATES Now, I don't want to brag at all; but this is my idee: It takes a purty scrumptious man to git ahead er me. I've got a brain for plannin' things, I've got an eye that's peeled. An' the chap who gits ahead er me hez kep' himself concealed. I opened up my grocery-store down here two year ago, An' thought if I should jine the church, I'd have a better show; For this is a religious place, an' I seen very well The piouser a feller was, the more goods he would seU. So I applied to jine the church, let no time run to waste. "This is a solium step," they said, "an' shouldn' be took in haste." "Go home an' pray about this thing. Go pray," says Elder Ford, "An' talk it over prayerfully an' deeply with the Lord." I see they didn' want me then; but this is my idee: It takes a purty scrumptious man to git ahead er me. "I'll come an' see ye later, sir," sez I to Elder Ford, "Wen I've talked it over prayerfully an' deeply with the Lord." 68 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN So two weeks later I appeared before the church ag'in An' asked politely as I could if they would let me in. "I've talked it over with the Lord," said I, "for many a day." "An' what, pray tell," asked Elder Ford, "what did the good Lord say ? " "'I'm tryin' to git in,' sez I, 'to the church of Elder Ford, An' they won't let me in at all.' 'Don't worry,' sez the Lord. 'You're not the only one,' sez he, 'they've laid upon the shelf. I've tried ten years without success to git in there myself.' " THE TURN OF THE ROAD 69 THE TURN OF THE ROAD A New Year's Song Ah, here is another turn of the road, Another league is gone; Take a strong new grip and grasp of your load, And then — go on ! Go on ! For we follow a Voice down the long, long road That travels hither and yon. And the Voice is the voice of the hastening years, — "Goon! Goon! Goon!" And the Voice is here at the turn of the road Of the highway of the years; And there's nothing of fear in the tone of the voice, Though it speaks from the midst of fears. There are blasted cliflts and chasms of dread In the journey we have gone; There are stony hills on the road ahead; But the Voice says, " On ! Go on ! " There are gardens abloom on the way we have come, And fountains, and arbors of shade; yo SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN There are bleak, dark pines in the cold snows, dumb, And the thunder-smitten glade; There are orchards of bloom and firs of gloom On the journey we have gone; There are bloom and gloom on the way ahead; But the Voice says, " On ! Go on ! " We are glad for the Voice at the turn of the road, 'Tis tuned to the heart of man; It has cheered his way, and lightened his load From the day when the world began. For the heart of man said, "Yea" to the Voice In all the years that are gone; And its words are a music that thrill in his blood, — "Goon! Goon! Goon!" A SAILOR OF SEAS 71 A SAILOR OF SEAS " If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea." — Channing. I SAIL upon a mighty sea Before the blast; The waves of God encompass me; Borne on the deeps of Deity I float from Vast to Vast. I sail upon a mighty quest Through deep and shoal; The waves of many dimes I breast Tow'rd unknown islands in the West And Indias of the soul. A star I follow from afar: I quit the shore; I sail from out the harbor bar, Mom's twilight gilding sheet and spar — And I return no more. I sail beyond the horizon's marge, And on I tend; And Fear begins her ominous charge, "Behold the seas of God are large, And whither is the end?" 72 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN "The seas of God are large. Away! Stout sailors we. Behold above the surge and spray, Behold, my Star — it shines alway — Sail on ! Put out to sea ! "My caravel shall sail afar And find, some day, Cipango under many a star, And many a new America, And many an old Cathay." "And when we find those far lands, when Shall we have rest?" "We'll tarry for a space, and then We'll seek new nations of new men Within the farther West." "And when we've crossed the Seas of Snow And Seas of Fire, Ah, whither, whither, shall we go ? " "Go where the outward currents flow To the Isles of our Desire." "And when those Western strands we win. Shall we find rest?" "Our voyage ends but to begin; We'll seek new continents within The West beyond the West." A SAILOR OF SEAS "What gulfs," says Fear, "are in that West Far in the night ? What Isle of Demons hfts its crest ? What kraken heaves the ocean's breast? What spectre shapes affright?" "There may be spectres on this sea, Afar and near; But waves of God encompass me, And on the deeps of Deity There is no place for fear." "But lo ! the seas of God are wide And deep," says Fear. "Hear ye the tumult of the tide? God's wrath is strong; where shall we hide?" " On ! on ! Right onward steer." "From stranger seas new stars arise With baleful rays; Strange winds are blown from alien skies; From wrecked Armadas come the cries Of djdng castaways. "O for one rood of solid sod ! Oiu" timbers groan ! On midnight seas we are tossed abroad — There is no light — mayhap no God — And we are all alone ! 73 74 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN "Ah, we are all alone," Fear saith. "All light has fled; I fear the whirlwind's merciless breath May blow us on the Crags of Death." — "Sail on!" I said. "The Crags of Death by Fate's decrees May wreck us. Then?" "Ah, then we sink to other seas, And wider seas are they than these — And then we sail again." THE SONG OF THE WATER TOWER 75 THE SONG OF THE WATER TOWER I STAND above my town, I loom o'er all the land And toss the largess of the clouds With unwithholding hand. The Phantom of the plague Looms in the summer glare, It sees my shadow 'gainst the sky And fades into the air. The Phantom fades away, The pestilence goes by: — Within my iron veins is health Drawn from the earth and sky. I stand above my town. The huddled people sleep; The fire-gong smites the midnight air, The skyward flames upleap. Sleep on and take your rest Nor heed the bell's acclaim, I potir the fountains of the hills Upon the baffled flame. Heed not the threatening plague, Heed not the clamorous bell; 76 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Look to the tower on the hill And know that all is well. I stand above my town, And every flower-bed Looks toward the tower on the hill And blooms a rosier red. And in the breathless noon The rainbows arch the spray; Fed by the tower on the hill A thousand fountains play. The dead town blooms with trees, Like any forest glen ; I make the stone-paved brookless town A fit abode for men. A MISFIT HALO 77 A MISFIT HALO A HALO is a handsome thing For any man to wear. I wish I might have one myself, If kept in good repair. Jim Baxter wore a halo fine That all his features lit; But Jim he had a secret woe — His halo did not fit. For Jim could smile and cheat the while, And, with seraphic features, Cherubic innocence and grace, Defraud his fellow creatures. And while he plundered, lied, and stole His face with love was lit; He had a halo round his head — But, ah, it did not fit. And Jim was lauded to the skies With eulogistic phrases. Was lauded loud and eulogized With universal praises. 78 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN But praise was like a dagger-thrust. As if a serpent bit; The halo round his head was hard Because it did not fit. Men pierced him with their praises sweet Whose sure aim never swerved. There are no curses half so deep As praises undeserved. Men stxmg him with their words of love, Ah, hard and deep they hit; He had a halo roimd his head — But, ah, it did not fit. But Jim was caught and sent to jail, Where he had long belonged. Bent 'neath the blame of men he'd harmed, The curse of those he'd wronged. But all their curses did not bite As once their praises bit; For now he'd thrown his halo off Because it did not fit. The sheep's coat on the old wolf's back Can never keep him warm. Nor keep his conscience comfortable, Nor shield him from the storm: And sad the man whose beaming face A halo's flame has lit, If he is conscious in his heart His halo does not fit. THE PESSIMIST FIREFLY 79 THE PESSIMIST FIREFLY A PESSIMIST firefly sat on a weed In the dark of a moonless night; With folded wings drooped over his breast He moped and he moaned for light. "There is nothing but weeds on the earth," said he, "And there isn't a star in the sky; And the best I can do in a world like this Is to sit on this weed and die; Yes, all that I need Is to sit on this weed. Just sit on this weed and die. "There is naught but this miserable swamp beneath, And there isn't a star overhead." "Then be your own star! then be your own star!" An optimist firefly said. "If you'll leap from your weed, and will open your wings And bravely fly afar, You will find you will shine like a star yourself, You will be yourself a star; And the thing you need Is to leap from your weed And be yourself a star." 8o SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Then the pessimist firefly leaped from his weed And floated far and free; And he found that he shone hke a star himself, Like a living star was he. And the optimist firefly followed and said: " Why sit on a weed and groan ? For the firefly, friend, who uses his wings Has plenty of light of his own; He has plenty of light For the darkest night, He has plenty of light of his own." Ye firefly souls with your folded wings, Why sit with the weeds in the night ? Lift up your wings and illumine the dark With your own self-luminant light. For darkness comes with the folded wings And shrouds the starless land; But there's light enough for the darkest way. If you let your wings expand. There is plenty of light For the darkest night. If you let your wings expand. THE "NEW" JOURNALISM 8l THE "NEW" JOURNALISM Ply yoiir muck-rakes, thrust them in To the fetid bogs of sin; Lift them dripping with the slime Of the cesspools of our time; Search through every social sewer, Search for all that's most impure. Hunt for every deed of shame And for deeds without a name; Let the eager public see All our moral leprosy. For it is our daily stint The imprintable to print; 'Tis the glory of our clique The unspeakable to speak. Rim we through our printing-press Myriad miles of nastiness ; Smear with slime its league-long rolls ■ Food, my masters; food for souls. Pour we through our printing-press Tons of moral putridness; Let it through the land be spread, Let the people all be fed. 82 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Ply your muck-rakes with all haste, Lest some filth shall run to waste; Rake out every carrion shape, Let no noisome thing escape; Heave it from your sewers vast, We will scatter it broadcast. This is stuff supremely good For our hungry children's food. Let the printing press be whirled. Smear this sewage o'er the world; Let not your supply grow less. Dump it through our printing-press; Smear again its league-long rolls — Food, my masters; food for souls. WHEN THE OLD CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN 83 WHEN THE OLD CLOCK STRIKES THIRTEEN Life will be a swelling anthem, with no discord in the tune, In the dim and rainbowed distance of some thirty-first of June; Then we'll find the Happy Valleys dressed in ever- lasting green, Skied with rich, purpureal splendor, when our old clock strikes thirteen. We shall glide through halcyon waters, with no labor- ing oar to pull, When the morning sun is setting and the bright new moon is full; Bask in fair irriguous meadows lapped in satisfying rest When the Polar Star is shining at the threshold of the West. We shall fijid the Enchanted Islands — they are rest- ing over there. Where the square peg fits the roimd hole, and the round peg fits the square; 84 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN They are resting in the centre of the world's third hemisphere — When to-day shall catch to-morrow, we shall find them; never fear. Swathed in Hesperidean hazes on the mystic sea they rest, 'Twixt the North Pole and the South Pole, just be- tween the East and West; Let us bravely go to seek them, put our bold prows out to sea; All we've got to do to find them is to go where they may be. Then we'll hear hfe's swelling anthem with no dis- cord in the tune. And we'll pluck time's full fruition on that thirty-first of June; And we'll till those Happy Valleys, dressed in ever- lasting green. Skied with rich purpureal splendor — when our old clock strikes thirteen. MEHITABLE 85 MEHITABLE I NEVER shall forget the day, For it is unforgettable, When I by moonlight used to stray With my divine Mehitable. Mehitable ! Mehitable ! The beacon of my lonely way, My goddess, my Mehitable ! Since then I've wandered wide and far, And time has worked its ravages, In every clime 'neath every star With civilized and savages — The savages, the savages — The brutes who love to scalp and scar, The sanguinary savages. I've communed since with many minds - With wits and literarians. With seers and bards of divers kinds, With authors and grammarians — Grammarians, grammarians — With leamdd and Unguistic minds — With eminent grammarians. 86 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN With princes and charges d'affaires, With great potentiaHties, I've mixed and talked of state affairs Without the least formalities — Formalities, formalities — I've tracked these statesmen to their lairs Regardless of formalities. I've sat beside the erudite And heard the metaphysical; I've listened to the sons of light Until their lungs grew phthisical — So phthisical, so phthisical — Till their thoracic tubes grew tight, Grew wheezy, hoarse, and phthisical. I've talked with great celebrities, With pugihsts and fistigogues. With pundits and profundities, With magi and with mystagogues — With mystagogues, with mystagogues ■ With murky, mazy prodigies, — With most mysterious mystagogues. But all the talk of these great lights Seemed commonplace and pitiable Beside those talks on moonlit nights I held with my Mehitable, — Mehitable ! Mehitable ! MEHITABLE 87 Those mad meanderings of delights With my divine Mehitable. Though she was not profoundly wise, Her ways were inconceivable; And, oh, the way she arched her eyes Was simply unbelievable — Believable ? Believable ? I wish to loudly emphasize It sure was not believable. She had no knowledge that would harm, Her learning was debatable — But, oh, the way she squeezed my arm Was simply untranslatable — Translatable ? Translatable ? I wish to state, in accents calm, Her squeeze was untranslatable. Like stellar splendors beamed her eyes — But I've no language sizable — And why attempt to poetize On things un-poetizable ? Derizable ! Derizable ! To agonize and poetize On things unpoetizable. Depart, O poet, pimdit, sage. Your comfort is so pitiable — SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Return once more my callow age And bring my lost Mehitable ! Mehitable! Mehitable! Bring back, my yearning to assuage, My goddess, my Mehitable 1 Hubby up and split the kindlings," said his wife. Page 89. THE COMING WAR 89 THE COMING WAR "There will be a war in Europe, Thrones be rent and overturned," ("Go and fetch a pail of water," said his wife). " Nations shall go down in slaughter, Ancient capitals be burned," ("Hurry up and split the kindlings," said his wife). " Cities wrapped in conflagration ! Nation decimating nation ! Chaos crashing through creation ! " ("Go along and feed the chickens," said his wife). "And the war shall reach to Asia, And the Orient be rent," ("When you going to pay the grocer?" says his wife). "And the myrmidons of thxmder Shake the trembling continent," ("Hurry up and beat them carpets," said his wife). "Million myriads invading. Rapine, rioting, and raiding. Conquest, carnage, cannonading!" ("Wish you'd come and stir this puddin'," said his wife). 90 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN "Oh, it breaks my heart, this conflict Of the Sclav and Celt and Dane," ("Bob has stubbed his rubber boots out," said his wife). "Oh, the draggled Russian banners! Oh, the chivalry of Spain ! " ("We have got no more molasses," said his wife). "See the marshalled millions led on With no bloodless sod to tread on, Gog and Magog ! Armageddon ! " ("Hurry up and get a yeast cake," said his wife). "Oh, the grapple of the nations. It is coming. Woe is me ! " ("Did you know we're out of flour?" said his wife). "Oh, the many-centuried empires Overwhelmed in slaughter's sea ! " ("Wish you'd go and put the cat out," said his wife). "Death and dreadful dissolution Wreak their awful execution. Carnage, anarchy, confusion ! " ("Let me have two cents for needles," said his wife). "All my love goes out to Europe, And my heart is torn and sad," ("How can I keep house on nothing?" said his wife). "O, the carnival of carnage, O, the battle maelstrom mad ! " ("Wish you'd battle for a living," said his wife). THE COMING WAR 91 " Down in smoke and blood and thunder, While the stars look on in wonder, Must these empires all go under?" ("Where're we going to get our dinner?" said his wife). 92 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE DEEP-DOWN THINGS The Deep- Down Things are strong and great, Firm-fixed, unchangeable as fate, Inevitable, inviolate. The Deep-Down Things. The truth endures. Men pass from youth, Books, creeds, and systems suffer ruth; Change has no dart can slay the truth — The truth endures. The Deep-Down Things ! AH winds that blow. All seething tides that foam and flow May smite, but cannot overthrow The Deep-Down Things. Some things abide. The law of change That works its transformations strange Hath yet a limit to its range — Some things abide. The Deep-Down Things! The years may kill The things fore-doomed to death, but still The Deep-Down Things can take no ill — The Deep-Down Things. THE DEEP-DOWN THINGS 93 The surge of years engulfs the land And crumbles mountains into sand, But yet the Deep-Down Things withstand The surge of years. The Deep-Down Things ! Let doctrines fly Like flame-shafts blazoning the sky, They cannot kill what cannot die — The Deep-Down Things. Behind the years that waste and smite, And topple empires into night, God dwells imchanged in changeless light Behind the years. The Deep-Down Things ! Of little faith Is he who fears they suffer scathe — Impervious to the darts of death — The Deep-Down Things. 94 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE SONG OF THE WHEEL Mount, mount the wheel, ye hollow chests. Ye sallow broods, be brave; Mount, mount the wheel, ye bloodless tribes, And ride away from the grave. Health, the strong goddess, swift of foot, Dances her lawless reel Down woodland roads, through dewy glens; Go catch her on the wheel. She flings her brown arms in the sun. She climbs from height to height. Her sportive glance is beckoning on; Mount, mount, and share her flight. Oh, ye desk-anchored men and maids, This goddess holds aloof From those who shun the arching sky To seek the shingled roof. She trips where bending alders shade The road, dew-damp, at noon. She strides along the fern-sweet glade Beneath the August moon. She waits for those who give her chase Where bird-thronged arches peal; THE SONG OF THE WHEEL 95 Go, chase her down the winding roads, And catch her on the wheel. The foodless horse can travel far And climb the arduous slope From the Valley of the Shadow to The Table Land of Hope. The air-shod steed with soimdless hoof Leaps on with noiseless strides, And gives new strength with every leap, New life to him that rides. Mount, mount the wheel, ye hollow chests, Ye sallow broods, be brave; Mount, moxmt the wheel, ye bloodless tribes. And ride ye from the grave. 96 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE HIGHER PIONEERING The face of the earth is a wide stretch of ground, And the best of the world is forever unfound; And new worlds galore, in their solitude dumb, Await the Columbus who never will come. There are sights no one sees that await to be seen, There are streamlets of silver and grottoes of green. If you'll leave the high road — houses, peoples, and goods. And the main-travelled turnpikes, and take to the woods. Oh, the highways were built for the idle and blind — But I have an unexplored planet to find. I must leave the worn road, I have no time to spare; I have pioneer business to do everywhere. There are oaks in yon forest no woodman has sought. And their branches are loaded with apples of thought ; There are thick tangled arches that span lonely streams. Whose creepers are bending with clusters of dreams. I want some good stories ; my life has shrunk dry ; Let me talk with the earth and commune with the sky; THE HIGHER PIONEERING 97 Let me list to the song that the pine giants roar — Ah, here's a new meter miheard heretofore. The loud brook is babbling: I'll hush and draw near — Ah, news from old Nature I'm lucky to hear ! As down the loud gorges its rapids are whirled It sings of the health of the life of the world. Let me go where my Beckoner bids me to stray — I will travel no path and no road for a day; I will leave, too, the highways thrown up for the mind — Where the Beckoner calls me I travel resigned. By the base of the mount and the shore of the stream I will think no man's thought and will dream no man's dream; But, in my wise freedom, I'll deem them as naught, — And I'll dream my own dream and I'll think my own thought. For why in these woods should I journey apart ? I go in these forests to find my own heart, And leave the wide scramble for praise and for pelf To hear the best things I can say to myself. The footfalls of pavements are sweet to my ear And the roar of the city is music to hear; Let a man meet with men : but his life is not whole. Till he goes in waste places and talks with his soul. 98 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Rank vines, undiscovered, spring forth from its sod; There are ungathered grapes in these Gardens of God. There are arbors of silence for souls to rejoice, Where we take off our sandals and wait for the Voice. There are rivers of healing well worthy of quest ; There are Mountains of Vision and Valleys of Rest; I talk, in their silent serenities curled, With the soul of my soul and the heart of the world. TOIL'S SWEET CONTENT 99 TOIL'S SWEET CONTENT The Man of Questions paused and stood Before the Man of Toil, And asked, "Are you content, my man, To dig here in the soil ? Do you not yearn for wealth and fame, And this wide world to see?" The Man of Toil still stirred the soil And answered, "No, sir-ee!" "Do you not yearn," the Questioner asked, "To pluck life's higher fruits?" "Oh, yes," said he, "I'd like, maybe, Another pair of boots." "And wouldn't you like a coat to match. And pantaloons and hat; And wouldn't you like to dress as well As neighbor Jacob Pratt?" "Why, I'd have duds as good as Jake," The Man of Toil replied; "Why, I'd have clo'es as good as those 'Fore I'd be satisfied." lOO SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN "But if Jake ran for selectman And nothing could defeat him, How would it do, then, just for you To step right in and beat him ? " "First-class idee," the Man of Toil Responded with delight; "I think I'd make mince-meat of Jake 'Fore we got through the fight." "And then you'd settle down content?" "Content? Of course! I swan ! A man's a hog who asks for more Wen he's a sillickman." "But, sir, our Congress is corrupt And needs a renovation; Wouldn't you consent in such event To take the nomination?" "Oh, yes, I'd take the job," said he. The Questioner arched his eyes, "Then don't you think the presidency Would be about your size? Now after Congress had been cleansed Beyond a shade of doubt I think you'd go — you would, I know — And clean the White House out." "I'd take the job and do it brown," The Man of Toil replied; "But you hoe corn from morn till night And still are satisfied." TOIL'S SWEET CONTENT lOI "Me satisfied! I guess that you Don't know me," he began — "Oh, yes, I do, I well know you You are the Average Man." I02 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN YOUR GIRL AND MY BOY "What we going to do With your girl and my boy? I dunno, do you?" Says the widow Macroy. "They want to get wed — Well, I never," she said, "Saw such foolish young things," — Says the widow Macroy. " The young simpleton souls. Your girl and my boy, They are blinder than moles," Says the widow Macroy. "It is painfully plain Love has made them insane; They are crazy young loons," Says the widow Macroy. "Make 'em husband and wife, Your girl and my boy ? They know nothing of life," Says the widow Macroy. YOUR GIRL AND MY BOY "Let them start out alone? Why, Mr. Mahone! They need guidance and aid," Says the widow Macroy. "Let us guide them," I say, "My girl and your boy. Let us wed the same day — " "Ah!" says widow Macroy. "We will show them the way And will guide them. What say?" "Seems a feasible plan," Says the widow Macroy. 103 104 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN A THANKSGIVING-DAY SONG I'm thankful this Thanksgiving Day That I am living, anyway. And he's a mortal most forlorn Who isn't thankful he is born; For only think what I had missed Had I not happened to exist ! There are days of rain, And days of pain. And days of murk and strife; But the luckiest day for a man, I say, Is the first day of his life. I'm thankful this Thanksgiving Day That I am living, anyway. I'm thankful I am living here Where I find everything so near; So near is Nature's loaded shelf I reach my hand and help myself. It seems this old world was designed To fit and satisfy my mind. This world I know Has much of woe, Has much of toil and sin, A THANKSGIVING-DAY SONG 105 But the luckiest world for the men of this world Is the world they're living in. I'm thankful I am hving here Where I find everything so near. I'm thankful I am living now, An apple on Time's highest bough; For all the years have met decay That fruit, like us, might grow to-day; And so we apples ripen fast. Fed by the dead and buried past. These times are rife With noise and strife. And not devoid of sin. But the luckiest times for the men of these times Are the times they're living in. I'm thankful I am living now, An apple on Time's highest bough. Io6 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE PERSEVERANCE OF JACOB BEAN Perseverance ! Perseverance ! Persevere and per- severe ! Be persistent ! Be persistent, day by day and year by year ; Thus you'll rise from mists obscure; thus you'll build and make a name — Perseverance ! Perseverance ! 'Tis the only road to fame. I have tried it; I have got there; I have reached it. Here is fame ! Universal recognition, simultaneous acclaim ! Thirty years I toiled obscure ; forty, fifty, sixty years ; But unrecognized, unnoted, undiscerned among my peers. But, still, I longed for glory; yet was glory never gained. Seventy years I toiled for glory; still was glory unat- tained. Perseverance ! Perseverance ! Persevere and perse- vere ! — Still I struggled on unnoticed, and I reached my eightieth year. THE PERSEVERANCE OF JACOB BEAN 107 Yet I did not faint or waver; still my spirit was not cowed ; And I reached my ninetieth birthday 'mid the unre- garded crowd. Perseverance! Perseverance! Persevere and perse- vere ! — Fame she came and overtook me when I reached my hundredth year. On my centennial birthday all the region round about, All the towns of Ridge and Hayville and of Pokum- ville turned out; And there were bands and banners and great speeches on the green That praised "Our Centenarian, our grand old Jacob Bean ! " And they played "The Conquering Hero." "See, the Conquering Hero comes ! " And they played with fifes and bugles, comets, tam- bourines, and drums; And selectmen and ministers and Congressman Leveen, All praised "Our Centenarian, the grand old Jacob Bean!" And they raised me on a platform, and I made the crowd a speech; And I said : "Young men, behold me ! take the lesson that I teach. Io8 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Just one word, young men, I give you — Persevere and persevere, And you'll all gain recognition when you reach your hundredth year ! " THE GROWTH OF THE CRITIC 109 THE GROWTH OF THE CRITIC He painted first a picture, but he made a wretched daub of it, And long he sought for further jobs — but got no other job of it. And then the man he tried to sing, but made a noisy screech of it; And every one who heard his voice ran off beyond the reach of it. And then he played the violin but made such wretched mess of it That all who heard his music wished sincerely there was less of it. And then he wrote a novel next, but made such fearful bore of it, That all who read to chapter two declared they wished no more of it. no SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN II And now when he had tired of life, because of the distress of it, He was hirdd as a critic then and made a great suc- cess of it. Ill And he told the gifted painter that his picture had no life in it, And with an ugly-looking stab he thrust his critic knife in it. He showed the great musician how his music had no soul in it; And he told the mighty poet that his metre had no roll in it. And he told the heavenly singer that his voice had no uplift in it; And he told the novel writer that his novel had no gift in it. rv All bowed before the critic and they trembled at the nod of him, And knelt to his almightiness and made a little god of him. FROM BUTTE TO BOSTON iii FROM BUTTE TO BOSTON When you go from Butte to Boston What do you spy? Oh, you spy the earth a-smoking As if Vulcan did the stoking, And you see the mountains clamber to the sky: And the cavalcades of cattle graze upon the treeless plain, Where the belching engines thunder with the conti- nent-leaping train; And you see the Northern rivers flowing to the South- em seas, And you see the Northern snow-peaks melting in the Southern breeze. When you go from Butte to Boston What do you spy ? Oh, you spy a people growing To a size beyond all knowing, — And you hear the steps of greatness thunder by. When you go from Butte to Boston What do you spy? Lakes that pulse with tide-like motion Oceanic as the ocean 112 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN With their far-stretched waters mingling with the sky. And you sweep from peak to river on the leaping continent-flyer Through young cities great in power as old Babylon and Tyre; And you see an empire rising where the men are more than things, Where before a thousand summers there shall dwell a billion kings When you go from Butte to Boston What do you spy ? Oh, you spy a growing greatness Bursting from its incompleteness. And a Phantom clothed in vastness floating by. THE COSMIC WAY 113 THE COSMIC WAY There is influence shed from the far-off spheres, To mix with human clay; And the cosmos wrought for a billion years To make me glad for a day. And the stars were rained in a cosmic shower, And the suns from the night were whirled, That my soul might float for a glorious hour In the wonders of the world. 114 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE SAVING SALT I STOOD beside the open grave Of one whose crimes were not a few, A cross-grained man of shrivelled soul, Resentful, base, untrue. "And it is well he died," I said, "'Tis good that this man lives no more; The world is better now he's gone Than it has been before." But as they lowered him in the grave, Beneath the sad, dark, cypress tree. His little daughter sobbed and cried, " My papa ! — he was good to me ! " "This," said I, "puts him on the roll Of men upUfted from the clod; — This is the salt that saves his soul And makes him clean with God." A RAILROAD SONG 115 A RAILROAD SONG The raiboad is a thing of prose To men whose hearts are prosy; No rosiness is in the rose To souls that are not rosy. Ye men who have a love for things Dynamic, modem, strong, Hear ye the song the railroad sings, Hear ye my railroad song. Behold my strong steed, raven-hued. My fire-colt — who shall bind him ? He leaps the lines of latitude And flings the world behind him. Through iron hills and peaceful downs He sounds his thunder ditties; The solitudes respond with towns The plains reply with cities. And where he goes the living dead They feel the new life's hunger. And with his fiery breath new-fed The youngling world grows younger. Il6 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN His fleeing laugh rings through the land, As round the hills he doubles, And from the silent seas of sand The cities rise like bubbles. He leaps with his ironic jeers Where wrongs are old and crescent — Those dark lands leap a thousand years Into the living present. • The dumb serfs hear his iron screech, Throw off their fettered sorrow. And gain the gift of tongues and preach The glad creeds of to-morrow. Dance to new music, dormant brains, Beat time to quicker playing, Hear round the world the echoing strains My thunder-colt is neighing. Dance to his music, if you can, Dance to his thunder revels — The music of the march of man To higher-lifted levels ! A LIFE 117 A LIFE Out from the Silence all unheard He came into our noises. Then He lived his day and spoke his word And to the Silence passed again. Il8 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN WHEN BENJY PLAYED THE FIDDLE Wen Benjy played the fiddle an' we shashayed down the middle, I beUeve the angel choir took a rest an' shet up shop, Thet their eyes with pleasure glistened an' they shet up shop an' listened, For w'en Benjy played the fiddle any angel oughter stop; They couldn' come in competition with ol' Benjy as musician, An' I know they stopped an' listened, as they tipped their golden crowns, W'en we shashayed down the middle an' ol' Benjy played the fiddle, W'en ol' Benjy played the fiddle at our ol' shake- downs. W'en Benjy played the fiddle an' we shashayed down the middle, All the stars thet sung in Eden tried the same ol' tune ag'in. An' ol' Jupiter an' Neptune an' the Handle Dipper kep' tune, An' all the planets kep' in step to his ol' violin. I KNOW THEY STOPPED AN' LISTENED, .... W'eN WE SHASH- AYED DOWN THE MIDDLE AN' OL' BeNJY PLAYED THE FIDDLE .... AT OUB OL' SHAKEDOWNS. — Page 118. WHEN BENJY PLAYED THE FIDDLE iig I believe the solium fac's is that the worP upon its axis Wobbled to the jolly jingle of that blessed fiddler's soun's, Wen we shashayed down the middle an' oP Benjy played the fiddle Wen oP Benjy played the fiddle at our oP shake- downs. Wen oP Benjy played the fiddle an' we shashayed down the middle, Though they said he warn't no artist yet he made our pulses start, An' no music chap who knows art, like oP Mendleson an' Mozart, Ever set sich waltzes pla)dn' in the dance hall of the heart. All our veins wuz set a-tingle to the music of his jingle. An' he jest made trippin' fairies out of us clodhopper clowns, Wen we shashayed down the middle an' oP Benjy played the fiddle, Wen oP Benjy played the fiddle at our oP shake- downs. Wen Benjy played the fiddle an' we shashayed down the middle, I20 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN An' I swung my smilin' Sally down the ol' plank floor, Then the glad ol' heart of Natur' beat in tune to its Creator, An' there warn't no sin nor sorrer, tears nor trouble, any more. Everythin' wuz full er vircher, an' ol' Nick himself wouldn' hurt yer. For he melted to repentance w'en he heerd them music soun's, W'en we shashayed down the middle an' ol' Benjy played the fiddle, W'en ol' Benjy played the fiddle at our ol' shake- downs. "IT" 121 "IT" "I don't want to play, if I've got to be 'It,'" And Bobby looked fiercely sublime; "There's no fun a bit when you have to be 'It,' And I have to be 'It' all the time." Ah, Bobby, my brave one, go in and be "It"; 'Tis a fate that no soul can escape. For youngster and man of the whole human clan Are "It" in some manner or shape. For fate plays at tag with the whole human race. And the shoulders of all men are hit. And all hear his cry as he "tags" and goes by. His clamor of "Tag ! you are 'It' !" And life-tag's a game that is well worth the play. And the strong soul is glad to be hit, And new light fills his eye when he hears his Fate cry Its challenge of "Tag! You are 'It'!" So Bobby, my brave one, begin the long game. And don't sulk or grumble a bit. And count it all praise to the end of your days When you hear Fate exclaim, "You are 'It'!" 122 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN MY HOUSE IN THE AIR I NOTICE the house that I build in the air, With the architect Fancy to plan it, With clapboards of clouds and with shingles of mist, And with paint of aerial amethyst, Stands better the shock of Time's rude wear and tear. And is not so Uke to get out of repair As my house with foundation of granite. And though scoffers may jeer at my house in the air With gibes that are ghb and sarcastic. Those hard-headed fellows of dollars and cents. Whose whole Ufe consists in collection of rents. Have never yet been in my parlors up there. And sat in my easy and dream-haunted chair In the waving cloud turrets fantastic. No mortgage, ye thrifty collectors of rents. Can you clap on my cloud-bosomed mansion; No real estate broker can enter its walls. For the drawbridge comes up, and the portcullis falls ; Hence, ye vulgar profane, with your pride and pre- tence. No welcome for you; so arise and go hence. From this home of the soul's expansion ! MY HOUSE EST THE AIR 123 Then stay with your ledgers, and cipher and plan, And jeer at the house of my vision; I, snugly ensconced in its vapory walls. Or, walking entranced in its shadowy halls. Can laugh in my turn at your ciphering clan, That has made such a tragic distortion of man, And hold your whole tribe in derision. 124 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN IF A MAN COULD BE BORN WHEN HE'S OLD If a man could be born when he's old, And gradually grow young, The wisdom he'd gain and the lore he'd attain Are not easily said or sung. If I knew as much as my boy Who is six times younger than I, I'd have a sufficience of general omniscience, Be finished and ready to die. So a man might drink deeper, I hold, And force out truth's obstinate bung, If he could be born when he's old. And gradually grow young. For the groping and ignorant man In his darkness would count it a joy. If he had the light, to enlighten his night, Of the wise, luminiferous boy. If he could grow younger and wise, And develop from age into youth. We'd be able to hold when we're thirteen years old The substance and sum of all truth. IF A MAN COULD BE BORN WHEN HE'S OLD 125 And the oceans of wisdom we'd hold Cannot be imagined or sung, If a man could be born when he's old, And gradually grow young. But a man is now bom very young, And he gradually grows old, And as his youth finishes his wisdom diminishes. And his ignorance grows manifold. And so every year doth his wisdom decrease And his tight knowledge web is unstrung. And no man can be sure he is not immature Unless he's exceedingly yoxmg, — What sages the world might behold, What giants of brain and of tongue, If a man could be bom when he's old, And gradually grow young. 126 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE LAST OF A LINE Back in the sixteen sixties, there, did good Erastus Glines Cut down the beeches on that hill and clear that field of pines; And then his son Abinadab, in sixteen eighty-two. Cleared off the forests from those hills and built a roadway through. His son Eugene dug out the stones and built these walls you see. And died when he was eighty-eight, in seventeen sixty-three. In ninety-two by his son John this old house was begun. And his son Peter built this bam in eighteen thirty- one. And I am Peter's son myself; in eighteen sixty- three From a strong line of honest men this farm came down to me. And I set out that orchard there, and drained that meadow ground. And cut the thirty-acre lot and built a fence around. THE LAST OF A LINE 127 See that old headstone over there ! — Erastus sleeps below — The next one is Abinadab's — they both died long ago. And there's Eugene's, and next is John's, and Peter's grave near by — And soon there'll be another grave — it don't take long to die. And when I'm in that grave out there, I hoped a son of mine Would take the old farm once again and so keep up the line, And hand it on from son to son, as we did in the past, The young man take the old man's place as long as time should last. But these are days of stress and change and fast the years are whirled. The yoimg man takes the old man's place no longer in this world. My boys will come when I am laid beneath the next new stone — And then go forth their various ways and leave us here alone. We'll sleep — the fathers of the land — after long years of toil, 128 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Where stranger footfalls press the turf of our ancestral soil. Erastus and Abinadab, Eugene, John, Peter, — I — Will sleep here in the stranger's soil while the long years go by. Ah, well, God bless my boys ! I say, wherever they may be; They're scattered up and down the world and on the lonesome sea; But I could wish the world might be the old world of the past — The young man take the old man's place as long as time shall last. WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO LIVE SALUTE YOU 129 WE WHO ARE ABOUT TO LIVE SALUTE YOU We go to school; our teachers are Trees, clouds and mountains, stream and star. Our schoolroom is so very wide It spreads from tableland to tide, From earth unto the milky way — And it is open every day. And we are young and hope is high; We raise no gladiatorial cry Of, "We who are about to die Salute you." For the world is fair And many gifts has it to give; — So hear oxu: challenge everywhere Of, "We who are about to live Salute you ! " There's morning dew upon the gra^s That smiles in sparkles as we pass, The sunrise gilds the lifted crest Of yon far moimtain in the West; And we are strong to travel far From sxmrise to the Evening Star. 130 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Oh ! ye far mountains rise sublime, Our days are in their earliest prime, And 'tis the work of youth to climb All mountains. Farther summits still The echo of our cry shall give. And roll from hill to sounding hill "We, we who are about to live Salute you ! " Good world, strong world, with work to do. Old world, lo ! here is help for you. Deem not your strength is overworn With burdens heavy to be borne. Old world, thou art as strong and young As when the morning-stars first sung: Hear ye not voices Uke the sea, The surge of cries tumultuously Entreating, "Here am I — take me, Take me ! " Take us and use our youth And heed the challenge that we give. As strong as life and brave as truth Of, "We who are about to live Salute you ! " THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE WEEK 131 THE EIGHTH DAY OF THE WEEK On the thirty-second day of the thirteenth month of the eighth day of the week, On the twenty-fifth hour and the sixty-first minute, we'll find all things that we seek. They are there in the limbo of Lolipop land, a cloud island resting in air. On the Nowhere side of the Mountain of Mist, in the Valley of Overthere. On the Nowhere side of the Mountain of Mist, in the Valley of Overthere, On a solid vapor foundation of cloud are palaces grand and fair; And there is where our dreams will come true, and the seeds of our Hope will grow, On the thitherward side of the Hills of Hope, in the Hamlet of Hocus Po. On the thitherward side of the Hills of Hope, in the Hamlet of Hocus Po, We shall see all the things that we want to see and know all we care to know; 132 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN For there the old men will never lament, and the babies never will squeak, In the Cross-road Corners of Chaosville, in the county of Hideandgoseek. In the Cross-road Corners of Chaosville, in the county of Hideandgoseek, On the thirty-second day of the thirteenth month of the eighth day of the week. We shall do all the things that we please to do, and accomplish whatever we try. On the sunset shore of Sometimeorother, by the beautiful Bay of Bimeby. HOW'S THE WORLD TO-DAY 133 HOW'S THE WORLD TO-DAY? Sing of Hindoos, Greeks, Iranians, Basques, Etruscans, Jews; Sing of Parthians, Medes — but tell me, Tell me, what's the news? Old and rude things, they were good things, And the old years did their shrewd things In a wise and shrewd old way; Yes, but tell me just a few things. What's the news, and what the new things? How's the world to-day? "How's the world now?" Better, better. Growing sweet and strong. Pulsing with a healthier purpose, Working long and long. Working new things, strong things, true things, Reaching forth and far to do things In a bold and strong new way; Pausing not to weep and rue things. Striving hard to do the due things, — That's the world to-day. 134 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Keep in step there while we're marching To the new glad tune; We have reached the clime of blossoms, And the world's in June. 'Mid these light things, and these bright things ■ Hope and courage are the right things — Up, and on, and march away ! For the world is in its tune-time. In the high tide of its June-time, — That's the world to-day. Glad with greatness, strong with power And the will to do. Fed with dreams and filled with music, We make all things new. Old and rude things, they were good things, And the old years did their shrewd things In a wise and shrewd old way. Yes, but tell me just a few things. What's the news and what the new things ? How's the world to-day? A TOMB OF A PROPHET 135 A TOMB OF A PROPHET I The exalted hero of my rime Lived back in the abysm of time. In those far days was none so wise, So somid and sane beneath the skies; And I am proud, you may divine, Of this transcendent sage of mine; For all the lore the young world prized Within his brain was focalized; In his distended skull was curled The gathered wisdom of the world; For all that earlier men had known He learned himself and made his own Until no more his wit could grow — For he knew all there was to know. 136 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN II This lore he taught his children then, The wisest of the sons of men; He taught it all, that they might be As wise and full of lore as he; And when he'd taught them, satisfied, Serene, and full of years, he died. Ill His sons then builded him a tomb To last imtil the day of doom. And henceforth tried to learn no more (For he had learned all truth before). But spent their lives to laud his name And spread and magnify his fame. They taught their sons what he had taught. The very letter of his thought. And emphasized with zealous care There was no other truth elsewhere : And they transmitted all he knew. There was no more that they could do. A TOMB OF A PROPHET 137 There was no more to give beside, And when they'd given this, they died, And rested in the shadowed gloom Around their father's towered tomb. IV Their sons in turn received this lore, Just as their fathers had before, And taught 'twas sin to add one new Auxiliary thought thereto. So thoughts were strangled at their birth That should have lived and cheered the earth. No flower of human thought could bloom Whose roots sprang not from that old tomb; So all their minds in one mould ran Of Just one mind of just one man : And so they fed their children naught But just the lore this father taught. And so the shadow of his tomb Did darken all their land with gloom. 138 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN V And so one tribe, age after age, Learned but one wisdom of one sage; And far these feeble echoes spread. The children of a Voice long dead; They spread o'er many vales and hills, A growing race of imbeciles; A people mindless as their herds, Babbling traditionary words; Slight men and weak in heart and hand. Weak men who tilled a blighted land, — A land long blighted by the gloom And shadow of an ancient tomb. VI And now a race of men came forth From out the mountains of the North, A race of rude, half-savage braves, A race whose sires had dwelt in caves: A TOMB OF A PROPHET 139 Down on this mindless nation came With barbarous shouts, with sword and flame. These men, whose sires had dwelt in caves. Made our wise sage's children slaves; And from the site where rose in gloom Their great ancestor's ancient tomb This conquering people razed each stone And built their capitol thereon. I40 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN POEMS FOR OCCASIONS THE SONG OF THE LIBRARY STAFF (Read at the annual meeting of the American Library Associa- tion, Narragansett Pier, July 6, 1906.) Oh, joy ! to see the Library staff perpetually jogging. And to see the Cataloguer in the act of cataloguing. ("Catalogs — Log-books for cattle," was the school- boy's definition, — A statement not to be despised for insight and pre- cision.) Every language spoke at Babel in the books that pile her table, Every theme discussed since Adam — song or story, fact or fable ! And she sweetly takes all knowledge for her province, as did Bacon, All the fruit that's dropped and mellowed since the Knowledge tree was shaken. All the ologies of the colleges, all the isms of the schools, All the unassorted knowledges she assorts by Cutter's rules; See the Rbpeeence Libra- ria«r and the joys that appertain to her. Page 141. See the Cataloguer iif the ACT OE CATALOGUING. Page Ijfi. THE SONG OF THE LIBRARY STAFF 141 Or tags upon each author in large labels that are gluey Their place in Thought's great Pantheon in decimals of Dewey; Oh, joy ! to see the Library staff perpetually jogging, And to see the Cataloguer in the act of cataloguing. See the Reference Librarian and the joys that apper- tain to her; Who shall estimate the contents and the area of the brain to her? See the people seeking wisdom from the four winds ever blown to her. For they know there is no knowledge known to mor- tals but is known to her; See this flower of perfect knowledge, blooming Hke a lush geranium. All converging rays of wisdom focussed just beneath her cranium: She is stuffed with erudition as you'd stuff a leather cushion. And wisdom is her specialty — it's marketing her mission. How they throng to her, all empty, grovelling in their insufficience; How they come jrom her, o'erflooded by the sea of her omniscience ! And they know she knows she knows things, — while she drips her learned theses The percentage of illiteracy perceptibly decreases. 142 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Ah, they know she knows she knows things, and her look is education; And to look at her is culture, and to know her is sal- vation. See the Children's gay Librarian! Oh, what bois- terous joys are hers As she sits upon her whirl-stool, throned amid her worshippers. Guiding youngsters seeking wisdom through Thought's misty morning light; Separating Tom and Billy as they clinch in deadly fight; Giving lavatory treatment to the little hand that smears With the soil of crusted strata laid by immemorial years ; Teaching critical acumen to the youngsters munching candy. To whom books are all two classes — they are either "bum" or "dandy"; Dealing out to Ruths and Susies, or to Toms and Dicks and Harrys, Books on Indians or Elsie, great big bears, or little fairies ; For the Children's gay Librarian passes out with equal pains Books on Indians or Elsie, satisfying hungering brains ; Dealing Indians or Elsie, each according to his need. Satisfying long, long longings for an intellectual feed. See the Gleeful Desk Attendant. — Page US. See the Childbbn's gat LIBKARIAN ! — Poffe IJiS. THE SONG OF THE LIBRARY STAFF 143 See the gleeful Desk Attendants ever dealing while they can The un-inspected canned beef of the intellect of man ; Dealing out the brains of sages and the poet's heart divine (Receiving for said poet's heart ofttimes a two-cent fine); Serene amid the tumult for new novels manifold, — For new novels out this afternoon but thirty minutes old; — Calm and cool amid the tumult see the Desk Attend- ant stand With contentment on her features and a date-stamp in her hand. As they feed beasts at the circus to appease their hungering rage, So she throws this man a poet and she drops that man a sage; And her wild beasts growl in fury when they do not like her meat, — When the sage is tough and fibrous and the bard not over-sweet ; And some retire in frenzy, lashing wrathfully about, When the intellectual spare-rib that they most affect is out. But she feeds 'em, and she leads 'em, and beguiles 'em with sweet guile, And wounds 'em with her two-cent fine and heals 'em with her smile. 144 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Oh, the gleesome Desk Attendant — who shall esti- mate her glee? Get some mightier bard to sing it — 'tis a theme too big for me ! Now, my Muse, prepare for business. Plume your wings for loftier flight Through the circumambient ether to a superlunar- height. Then adown the empyrean from the heights where thou hast risen Sing, O Muse ! the Head Librarian and the joy that's her'n or his'n. See him, see her, his or her head weighted with the lore of time. Trying to expend a dollar when he only has a dime; Tailoring appropriations — and how deftly he suc- ceeds, Fitting his poor thousand dollars to his million dollar needs. How the glad book agents cheer him — and he cannot wish them fewer With "their greatest work yet published since the dawn of literature." And he knows another agent, champing restive to begin With another work still greater, will immediately come in. So perfection on perfection follows more and more sublime Sing, O Muse! the Hea.]5 Libbaeia.n. — Page 144. THE SONG OF THE LIBRARY STAFF 145 And the line keeps on forever down the avenues of time — So they travel on forever, stretching far beyond our ken, Lifting demijohns of wisdom to the thirsty lips of men. See him 'mid his myriad volumes listening to the gladsome din Of the loud vociferant public that no book is ever "in"; And he hears the fierce taxpayer evermore lift up the shout That the book he needs forever is the book forever "out." How they rage, the numerous sinners, when he tries to please the saints; When he tries to please the sinners, hear the numerous saints' complaints; And some want a Bowdlered Hemans and an ex- purgated Watts ; Some are shocked beyond expression at the sight of naked thoughts, And he smooths their fur the right way, and he placates him or her, And those who come to snarl and scratch remain behind to purr. Oh, the gamesome glad Librarian gushing with his gurgling glee ! — Here I hand my resignation, — 'tis a theme too big for me. 146 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE WORLD-CLEANERS (Read at the Quarter-Century Christian Endeavor celebration at Tremont Temple on February 14, 1907.) When the young men's faces glimmer with the sunrise of a thought, And the young men's morning fancies with the dew of hope are pearled, And there's music in the young men's hearts, there'll be — as like as not — Work to match our modern vastness and large business in the world. Here is youth, its brawn and beauty, stronger than all youth before; Here's the tough old world, unfinished, cluttered with its wars and crimes. Here, you muscular young fellows ! here is enter- prise galore; Here's a job at planet-cleaning. Where are men to fit the times? Here is world-work for the young men. Marching down the forward track, THE WORLD-CLEANERS 147 Come all nations from the rising and the setting of the sun; And the yellow men, and brown men, and the white men, and the black, Step to the tvme of brotherhood, and melt and fuse in one. From behind her veil of darkness. Mother Asia shows her face, Wrapt with dreamings, smit with visions, lifted toward a far-off sky; And the noisy West beholds her, standing in her pen- sive grace. While the stalwart generations and the loud years thunder by. And we know the calm old Mother, and our arms are strong to aid; And we see new empires looming from her min- gling tribes and clans. And new federations founded, not by bullet and by blade, — But by Godhood in our manhood, and the love that's God's and man's. Where the bloodhounds sniffed the slave-trail through a thousand years of wrong. In the Libyan lands of darkness, where the blood- red rivers roll, 148 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Shall be realms of gleeful children, lands of laughter and of song, Lover-founded federations, and republics of the soul. We will lead the wandering rivers through the soUtudes of sand. And we'll build our new republics where the watered deserts bloom; From the strangling throats of bondmen we will tear the t3Tant's hand. And give the prisoned thought of man a universe of room. And we'll praise our age of iron; and we'll sing our song of steam; And we'll belt the tides and lightnings; but the purport of our plan — The deep, eternal meaning of the dream within our dream — Is the empire universal of the brotherhood of man. With the warp and woof of railroads do we mesh the roaring land, And across the sundering ocean shoot our shuttle- cocks of steam ; And we talk of trade and commerce — but the wise ones understand There's a higher aim than barter in the purpose of our scheme. THE WORLD-CLEANERS 149 There's rhythm in the water-wheel that drives the whirring loom; There's music in the woodman's axe that clears the tangled glen; For foundries and for factories the willing world makes room — But souls are more than merchandise, and mills are less than men. So you play a larger music than the anthem of the mills, And you waft an ampler commerce than our bales of golden fleece ; And like morning is the coming of your feet upon the hills. With your brotherhood of blessing and your sister- hood of peace. Loose the clenched fist of the foeman in the hand- shake of the friend; Change the war-screech of the vulture to the love- lay of the dove; Call the sullen sundered peoples, to the earth's re- motest end, Round the hearthstone of your welcome, and the home-light of your love. 150 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN ODE (Read at the Somerville memorial service to President McKinley, October 13, 1901.) Let us sing the song of a man, A man who was made of the clay And built of the stuff of to-day: A man who came up from the throng, Came up from the weak and was strong And sweet as the breath of the hay. Not the chief of a people we sing. Nor the head of a caste or a clan, But a kinglier man than a king — Let us sing the Song of a Man. Let us sing the Song of a Man. One raised to a mighty estate And crowned as the darling of fate, Who was ever too good to be weak, Who was never too high to be meek. And was never too proud to be great. A leader of men without pride. Who loved not his place in the van. But who led men and marched by their side— Let us sing the Song of a Man. ODE 151 The iron-faced captains of fate, The strong sons of power who drill And wrench the whole world to their will, Who tread down opposers and climb O'er the dead to the summits of time, Till the earth, sick with battles, is still, — Not of such was the man that we sing; Yet we deem him as strong and as great As was ever a blood-drunken king. Or the iron-faced captains of fate. He sent forth the thunders of war Where the rights of mankind were denied; He sent forth the Navies of Pride To frighten the seas with their flame And the isles with the fear of his name, — This man who loved peace as a bride. We followed the lead of the mild As the lead of a calm-shining star, When this man with the heart of a child Sent forth all the thunders of war. Let us sing the Song of a Soul That was sent up too early to God, And torn like a flower from the sod, Tom up in its fulness of bloom. In the height of its perfect perfume As a weed is torn up from the clod. 152 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN But the soul does not die with the breath But mounts, so we dream, to its goal, — And his soul shines the brighter through death ■ Let us sing the Song of a Soul. Let us sing the Song of a Man. The years and the centuries fly And princes and presidents die; And the years shall resound with the tones Of the crashing of overturned thrones, As the footsteps of doom thunder by. But a man is more than a throne. Is more than a king or a khan, — Leave this man with his manhood alone, — Let us sing the Song of a Man. MONTANA 153 MONTANA (Read during reading trip through Montana, 1907.) Montana, the empire of vastness, The mistress of mountain and plain, From the heights of thy sky-piercing fastness, From thy prairies that roll like the main ; — From thy prairies that heave like the ocean. From thy mountains shall blow unconfined The breath of new power and devotion, And a new blast of hope for mankind. Montana, the magic of morning, The sunburst of dawn with its beams. Gild the robe of thy maid-like adorning That is woven of hopes and of dreams ; — Of hopes and of dreams of new races. The dwellers by river and glen, That shall gladden your desolate places And match all your mountains with men. Your mines with their wealth for the nations. Your largess of fruits and of grains Shall feed the unborn generations That shall people your peaks and your plains; 154 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN They will come with the might of their millions, They will come like the surge of the sea, — Make ready thy gorgeous pavilions To welcome these millions to be. Montana, so realm-like thy regions. So loud and so kindly thy call, The ages may pour forth their legions And thou wilt make homes for them all. Be strong for the greatness before thee, Th' imperial breadth of thy fate: Through the strength of thy sons who adore thee To the summit of greatness, be great. Lands panting with pains and with pities. Lands heavy with sighs and with groans, Shall build in your valleys new cities Forever unburdened by thrones; From thy prairies that heave like the ocean. From thy mountains shall blow unconfined The breath of new power and devotion, And a new blast of hope for mankind. LINES 155 LINES (Read at dinner given to Rear Admiral Merry at Young's Hotel, Boston, November l, 1902.) Back from the surge and the sweep of the sea, Back from its storm and its strain; Back through the voices of victory, Back from the battles of Spain; Back from the days that taught men to be great. That hurled down a despot and built up a state; Back from the years that were birth-years of fate, — Back to his people again. II Back from the battle storm's withering breath, (Back to the harbors of home,) Back from the Gulf of the Grapple of Death That cheapened the battles of Rome. From the shores where he fought a new banner flies free. And the day-star of hope bids the old midnight flee, And an island republic looms out of the sea, A nation lifts out of the foam. 156 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN III Beware, in the tumult of graspers and greeds, Lest Honor be robbed of her bays : Let the fighter of battles and doer of deeds Still reap the renown of his days. Let the captains come back from the battle-strown sea, From the grapple of navies that made a land free. Come back through the Voices of Victory To dwell with the Voices of Praise. IV Now that the work and the duty are o'er, Now in his days of release. Better the faith and the friends of the shore Than the storm-beaten stretch of the seas. Home from the days that taught Men to be great — Dear to his people and loved of the state — Home from the years that were birth-years of fate - Home to a sunset of peace. THE FLAG OF PROSPECT HILL 157 THE FLAG OF PROSPECT HILL (Read at the dedication of the Prospect Hill Park, October 29, 1903O Full many men must meet and mix To form a nation. On this height. On that first day of Seventy-Six, A nation rose in sight. And on this height stood men the peers Of God's strong souls of all the years; Time-tempered men from farm and shop, The disciplined recruits of toil, The fruitage and the chiefest crop Of Freedom's sturdy soil. A strong deed, in an hour of need, Finds strong men equal to the deed. "Who is this chieftain from the South, Strong in his youth yet sternly sage ? " — "Fame placed her trumpet to her mouth And blew his name to every age. And still that blast blows on and on That peals the name of Washington." 158 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN "What is that tall white shaft of pine?" "That shaft, when many years have gone, Shall be a nation's lifted sign For centuries to look back upon; To loom through perils, victories, fears, A beacon for a thousand years." "But see! there floats an unknown flag, A flag unseen, unknown before: Let England's might tear down the rag That dares to flaunt upon this shore. Aye, snatch the insolent shred away — 'Tis but the banner of a day ! " "Ah, no ; by many breezes fanned, That flag shall float o'er field and town, And strong, ah, strong, must be the hand That tears that lifted banner down. Old thrones shall reel, old realms shall die. But still that flag shall wave on high." "But who are these plain ploughmen here. These wielders of the axe and spade, In awkward regimental gear Drawn up in loose parade?" "Why, these are empire-builders, man, The greatest since the world began." THE FLAG OF PROSPECT HILL 159 "Who are these cohorts from the wood?" "They are the vanguard files of fate, Proud men of red, imperial blood. High, regal souls and great. The children of a haughty name. The sires of states and sons of fame." "And here to-day breaks on this height The sunburst of a nation's morn. That unknown banner greets the light That sees an empire born. And these rude ranks that round us stand Are fathers of a mighty land." They flung their banner to the wind. They flung it in the face of foes, — And thus they published to mankind That human nature grows, And that a youngling state had grown Too big for insults from a throne. That flag now flies from many a height. And waves its word from crag to crag, Beyond the day, across the night, — The sunrise and the sunset flag. That flag is blown by every breeze, Across the world and all its seas. l6o SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And as it waves from slope to slope, From sea to sea, or far or near, Ah, may it never shame the hope Of those strong men who placed it here, But be, on sea or shore unfurled, The banner of the hope of the world. LINES i6l LINES (Written for the dedication of the Melrose, Mass., Carnegie Library, April 15, 1904.) Swing wide your gates from day to day And cry to whom it may concern That Wisdom here is given away, — Come, hither, without price and learn. Here may be quaffed the long-pressed wine Of the ripe grapes of Learning's vine, And here is bread from that eternal wheat That ripened in the fields of thought — and he who will may eat. II Here find distilled since thought began — And given away as soon as sought — The essence of the thought of man. The vintage of the juice of thought. Here to the poorest child belong Old Plato's thought and Homer's song. And here for all great Newton's cosmic scheme And Chaucer's morning tales and Dante's star-wide dream. l62 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN III Here is the rapture of all seers, Here all the beauty that endures, Here all the visions of all years, — Reach forth your hand and they are yours. Here take, without a price or fee, The Soul of Shakespeare given free; Here by the laurelled sons of fame be taught And hold familiar parle with all the lords of thought. IV The cunning wizards of the mind Here all their guarded secrets tell, The necromancers of mankind Are ranged in aisles of miracle. Here stand, that all who will may see, The vials of the alchemy Of man's best dreams exhaled through ages long, — The music of the eternal mind distilled in deathless song. 'Tis fitting in these days of noise, Here in these thunder years of steam. The soul should keep its equipoise And think its thought and dream its dream. LINES 163 We scar the placid vales with mills, We scoop the seas and shear the hills : 'Tis well that to these temples of the mind The jangled soul can flee and leave the noise behind. VI Strong Mother of our modern days, We love the fierceness of thy strife. We gladly throng thy thunderous ways Thrilled with their din — and call it life : And nursed and cradled on the breast Of this strong Mother of Unrest, We love the tumult of the seething years And all its iron noise is music in our ears. VII Still let the noiseful din outspread, (These iron foot-falls of our fate,) The years march on with thunderous tread — But still they march toward something great. We love the noise, the heat, the stress, This life of strain and eagerness : Strong with the milk that nursed us from the breast. Of our stern Mother Age — the Mother of Unrest. 164 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN VIII But build these temples of the mind, Amid the noises let them stand, That in their silence we may find A refuge in a roaring land. Here where our noiseful deeds are wrought Build quiet shrines for noiseless thought; And in the tumult of our clamorous zest Build temples sacred to the mind where tired souls may rest. THE QUARTER-CENTURY GRADUATE 165 THE QUARTER-CENTURY GRADUATE (Read at the annual banquet of Brown University undergradu- ates, Providence, R. I., April 13, 1907.) Oh, the Quarter-Century graduate, — his light is well-nigh hid, — Too young to be a lion and too old to be a kid, Too old to be a nice young man, too young to be a sage. He grovels in the darkness of his mediaeval age. From the east and west horizon equidistant stands he there, Between the baby's cradle and the grandpa's easy- chair. No one presumes to call him young, and he is overbold Who, within a striking distance, rises up and calls him old. II Ah, he started out to do things, what was there for him to dread With omniscience in his brain-pan and eternity ahead ? 1 66 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN And he fronted all the bigness of the universe alone With a corresponding bigness and perfection of his own. And he said, "Go to! I'll do things; run the great world problems through And demonstrate the man has come commensurate thereto. Hitherto has History fizzled, — and the grizzly world repents, — Just because the men it furnished were unequal to events. Now bid th' august events come forth and range up mountain high. Gaze and recognize your equal ! Stand ; salute me, here am I ! " And he said, "Go to! I'll do things," — and the great all-seeing sun Looked down upon the swelled-up earth to see what would be done. "Ay, I'll do things." Has he done them? Well — all boasting I despise — And this is no fit occasion for a man to advertise. Ill As Michael and the Dragon fought and lunged with tooth and dart, So the Young Man and the Old Man ever battle in his heart. THE QUARTER-CENTURY GRADUATE 167 And the fiery onset shakes him with its turns of hope and dole, — The battleground of youth and age is in his trampled soul. The dreams he dreamed at morning are unrealized in the day, And the ghosts of unfulfilled designs throng round his lengthening way; From the meadow lands of morning, ah, the dew has dried too soon. And the sunrise of his promise melts into the after- noon. When he asks his heart the question, "Have I fitly played my part?" He hears the thunders of reproach in the silence of his heart. IV Ah, but still there's time and purpose; let us dream the dream again; Still the cosmic sap is mounting — let us blossom into men. Men full-blooded, men strong-handed, braver battlers than the boy, Men with features seamed but shining with a deep interior joy; With the fixed, deep-down assurance that a life-in- earnest brings l68 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Of the ever upward Teachings and the God-likeness of things. Through the swirl of scum and froth-foam that the turbid times upthrow Doth the deep world-cleansing ocean bide in quiet- ness below. So through years of sweat and scrimmage, days of thunder and of scathe In the strength that's bred of battle we have grasped the larger faith; So we'll dream the old dream over that there's work for us to do, And with Youth, by years unshaken, start to build the world anew. Here's our Mother Age, grimed, sordid, bowed by her ignoble cares; Front her, flout her, like young dreamers, while she plies her small aiJairs. Shame her as she stoops and staggers in her work of no avail, Turn her earth-bent vision starward, point her to the upward trail. WHERE'S THE BABY? 169 WHERE'S THE BABY? (Read at the annual celebration of Candia Club, Candia, N. H., August 22, 1906.) "Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" Then there comes a hullabaloo, Pa and Ma and Tom and Sarah bustle round in great ado, Aunt and uncle and poor grandma hunt the big house through and through. And the twins lift up their voices in vociferous boo-hoo. "Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" — and there comes an awful scare — Has he tumbled in the mill-pond? for he tumbles ever3rwhere; Has he fallen in the cistern? for he falls in all he sees; Has the roly-poly roller rolled among the bumble bees ? "Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" H^s he toddled towards the spring? For he fumbles and he stumbles and he stubs to everything; 170 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN For he fuddles and he waddles and he wallops all about. And when he's out he tumbles in, and when he's in, falls out. For he wants the stars for playthings and he's got to have them soon; And he falls into the mill-pond while he's reaching for the moon. And he chases the horizon, and he's got to have it quick, And while he's grabbing for the clouds he tumbles in the "crick." "Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" One of you run up the hill, One of you run down the lane there and explore the cider mill; Everybody run to find him. Bring him back at any cost What is half a million dollars if the baby should be lost? "Where's the baby? Where's the baby?" Off and find out where he went — For until we find the baby nothing else is worth a cent. II "Where are my babies? Where are my babies?" says the old Town every day, WHERE'S THE BABY? 171 "They have wandered off and left me, they have travelled far away, They have reached for the horizon, they have chased the wandering fires Off through many misty valleys, mazy glooms, and treacherous mires, They have chased alluring beacons, ever faring with- out rest; They have followed phantom voices calling on from crest to crest. Ah, my babies, have you reached them — suns of fortune, stars of fame? Golden rainbows of ambition that set all the heavens aflame ? Have you found the happy islands? Have you reached the halcyon seas ? Have you plucked the golden apples of some far Hesperides ? Ah, my babies, leave your wanderings, weary quests by land and sea; Leave your phantom chase a season and come back to mother's knee. Ill We are your babies. We are your babies; and we tire of the quest. And we hear our mother calling and would fam come home to rest; 172 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN For we too have snatched at rainbows and we've struggled for the moon, And we reached for the horizon and we hoped to get it soon; And we heard the old earth calling, wailing forth between her sobs; "Jobs for giants! Jobs for giants," — and we said we'd take the jobs. Little jobs at empire-building, overthrowing ancient kings, And rejuvenating Nature — and some other little things. Building up world-Uteratures, hurling ancient tyrants down, — Simple work for Hvely youngsters and for any boy in town. "Jobs for giants! Jobs for giants!" and we giants answered "Here ! " We will fix your old world proper, we will get the thing in gear; We will regulate the nations; we will discipline its kings; We will make the old world over, and a lot of little things. "Jobs for giants! Jobs for giants! Animate the dying years, March the age to livelier music, like the music of the spheres. Where are the men with the Millennium, who will bring it here to me?" WHERE'S THE BABY? 173 And we stood up in our shirt sleeves and each an- swered, "Here are we." We will mould the generations, for we haven't much to do, And revolutionize the age and do a thing or two; We'll eliminate all sorrow when we're ready to begin,— And some evening after supper, if you like, abolish sin. "Jobs for giants! Jobs for giants!" still we heard the old earth's cries, "Jobs for giants?" We will take them. Wherefore further advertise? IV " Jobs for giants ! Jobs for giants," — and we started out to do 'em. But somehow had a touch of cramp whenever we got to 'em. We'd have fixed the old world over — its presumptu- ous to doubt it, — If we had not had the headache when we started in about it. We'd have brought the glad Millennium — and we want it understood — But 'twas heavy — we had chilblains — and the walking wasn't good. 174 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN Yes, we meant to bring it with us, this long-sought Millennium, But we had domestic burdens and the twins were troublesome. When we started on our world-splurge with a strong determined will, Why, some vulgar grocer met us with his vulgar little bill; Or some vulgar little tailor always stood there in the way With some vulgar little question of some vulgar little "pay." "Jobs for giants! Jobs for giants," but we giants couldn't do 'em We had so many family cares we never could get to 'em. So we all come back to mother, loaded with our undone deeds, With our vmthought thoughts unuttered, but with all the same old needs ; — Same old needs for mother's mending, same old needs for mother's food, — And our mother's same old spanking possibly might do us good. So do we long-wandering babies from all regions on the map All come home again to mother and the good things in her lap. WHERE'S THE BABY? 175 All come home again to mother from the land and from the sea; — And the world has no such goodies as we find at mother's knee. [76 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN THE HALF-MAN AND THE WHOLE-MAN (Read at the Woman Suffrage festival.) No carpenter can build a man the way he saws a shelf; The wisest way to make a man is — let him make himself. The way to build a giant, and the surest way I know, Is to drop him in the sunshine with this one com- mandment, — " Grow ! " The way to make a perfect race, the lords of sea and land. Is to unloose its bibs and belts and tell it to expand. The race down Fate's great turnpike road has lurched from side to side, With one good arm strait-jacketed and one good ankle tied; And thus, through many sun-parched days and many storm-drenched nights. With all its chain-gang fetters on, has climbed to starry heights; And gazing down the vista of the journey that re- mains THE HALF-MAN AND THE WHOLE-MAN 177 It asks no staff, no crutch, no help, but says, "Take off the chains!" One man and woman make one man. Is either half denied The fullest freedom of its rights? The whole man then is tied. The race is fettered foot and wrist, a hampered chain-gang, when 'Tis bound by fractional half-laws enacted by half- men. One man and woman make one man, with self-same rights to be — Take off the half-man's shackles, then, and set the whole-man free. To drain the moral Dismal Swamp and cleanse the social fen We need the power of whole-laws enacted by whole- men. The half-man since the years began has staggered towards the light And climbed to many a table-land and many a star- kissed height; But down the vistaed distance far are summits more sublime And mantled peaks, beloved of heaven, which the whole-man shall climb. 178 SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN The cosmic yeast is working; the centuries ripen fast; And strange new shapes are looming dim from out the distant Vast; Strange sunbursts on strange mountains, wide gleams on many a sea. — Let the whole-man march unfettered toward the greatness yet to be; Let him front the coming glories and the grandeurs that remain With feet ungyved and fetterless and hands without a chain. "JAMESTOWN" 179 "JAMESTOWN" (Read at Jamestown memorial exercises held at Somerville, Mass., May 13, 1907.) A VAST and lonely continent Gazed on a lonely sea, And bending high the lonely sky Was cold with vacancy; A weltering waste of breaking waves, A wilderness untrod. It seemed a world in darkness hurled Beyond the sight of God. II They came, that small adventurous band, Across the chartless seas; Came driven by fate to build a state To shame the centuries. There in the woods beside the sea The empire seed was sown, That grew a state too proud and great To tolerate a throne. l8o SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN III An untamed land to tame was theirs, A cluttered world to sweep, And cleanse and clear a hemisphere Beyond the shipless deep. To lift from out the darkened seas A new-born world to light; To lead the trails of a million sails Across the Seas of Night. IV A land of kings where all are kings. The Queenland of the West, Looks back to-day to Jamestown Bay As to her cradle nest. Good men perchance and bad were they, And weak and strong as we; The plain mixed, tough imperial stuff Of careless destiny. They builded better than they knew Beside the flowing James, — And now no rust can overcrust The iron of their fames. For they were younghngs of a land Whose genius is to grow, — "JAMESTOWN" i8l To build, to break, to smite, to make, To rear and overthrow. VI We build, we break, we smite, we make, We rear and overthrow. With that unrest that stung the breast, Three hundred years ago. With dauntless prows we breast the years And moimtain waves we climb; We still are westward pioneers Upon the Seas of Time. VII And larger shores loom through the mist Than broke upon their view, And there are stars shine on our spars These seamen never knew. Then hoist the anchor, let us sail. For still the world is wide — And empires wait, of kinglier state, Beyond the outward tide. VIII New Jamestowns in the wilderness Of the seas of our desire Still lift and loom through beckoning gloom With many a lordly spire. SONGS OF THE AVERAGE MAN The City of our Dreams recedes, But we pursue the quest For wider strands and lordlier lands, In ports beyond the West. IX They taught the lesson — Test the new And grapple the untried. To launch your bark into the dark And seek the further side. The seas are wide and still we sail, Taught by their faith subhme, To whiter strands and lordlier lands Across the Seas of Time.