ORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
RIPPLING RHYMES
WALT'S KIND OF POETRY
The facetious, capricious, delicious poems of
Walt Mason.
—James Whiicomb Riley.
Walt Mason is the voice of the people.
—William Allen White.
Walt Mason is delightful—true humor is so rare
a commodity.
—Sir A. Conan Doyle.
I began to read, skeptically at first, hut more
and more persuaded, and at last could not break
away from those fascinating rhymes masking as
prose, in a carnival concourse of pathos, and fun,
and satire, and aspiration, hut, above all, sense,
sense, sense.
—William Dean Howells.
Walt Mason is the high priest of horse sense.
—George Ade.
I have Walt Mason and coffee every morning,
and one is as necessary as the other, but Walt
doesn't give me heartburn, and coffee does.
—Mary Roberls Rinehart.
Walt Mason's little sermonettes in rhyme are
gospels, and they are going about doing good.
—Robert J. Burdette.
Walt Mason has entertained me on many a
dreary railway journey.
—Theodore Dreiser.
Walt Mason is a better tonic than anything
that ever was bottled
—Elbert Hubbard.
The Umpire
!!Pa*o
Fibpling Fhymes
To Suit The Times
All Sorts of Themes Embrexln'
Some Gay
Some Sa^d
Some not so B&.d
AS
"WRITTEN BY
TORONTO
McClelland &, Goodchild
Chicago - A. C. McCIurg &> Co.
1913
To
GEORGE MATTHEW ADAMS
Who teaches poets how to win.
And helps to make the glad world grin.
And sticks to friends through thick and thin.
ONE MOMENT. PLEASE!
WALT MASON'S poetry is in a class
by itself. Although having the ap¬
pearance of prose the rhythm is per¬
fect and the philosophy that runs through
his lines is illumined by an irresistible
humor. There is a quaintness about his
style that makes his writings a continuing
delight.
I began to read Walt twenty-five years
ago and although he has drawn upon his
intellectual store constantly for more than
a quarter of a century the fountain of his
genius still is flowing with undiminished
volume and the waters are as pure as in
the idealistic days of his youth.
I have shared the satisfaction that his
increasing fame has brought him and have
encouraged him to publish this collection
that his readers, now numbering people
of many lands, may have permanent
companionship with him.
CONTENTS
Title First Published in
Morning in Kansas
Editorial Influence....! . .Newspaperdom
Farm Machinery
The Strong Men Popular Magazine
The Snowy Day
The Poor Man's Club. .. .Collier's Weekly
Words and Deeds
A Day of Rest
Use Your Head The Butler Way
The Gloomy Fan
The Purist Lippincoli's Magazine..
Qualifications System Magazine
The Pompous Man
Inefficient Men Popular Magazine
Life's Injustice
The Politician
Random Shots
Look Pleasant, Please. . . Ladies Home Journal. .
Courage Harper's Weekly
Play Ball
The Old Songs
Guessing vs. Knowing. . . System Magazine
When Women Vote Ladies Home Journal. .
Page
1
3
5
8
10
11
13
15
16
18
21
23
25
26
28
31
32
33
35
38
39
41
43
Title First Published in
The Agent at the Door
Good and Bad Times. . . .System Magazine
Buccaneers Popular Magazine
St. Patrick's Day
Naming the Baby Harper's Weekly
Won at Last Smart Set Magazine . . .
The Greatest Thing
The Umpire Popular Magazine
The Two Merchants System Magazine
Today's Motto
Some Protests
The Workers Collier's Weekly
The Utilitarian Harper's Weekly
Fireside Adventures .... .Popular Magazine
Hunting a Job
Old and New
The Handy Editor Newspaperdom .
The Sleeper Wakes
In Horseland
Inauguration Day. 1913.. . Collier's Weekly
Prayer of the Heathen
Theory and Practice Smart Set Magazine . . .
Fool and Sage
Then and Now Smart Set Magazine . . .
The Sleeper
Fooling Around The Butler Way
Page
45
47
51
53
54
56
61
63
66
68
69
71
73
76
79
81
82
84
89
90
93
96
98
99
101
102
Title First Publithed in Page
Guess Who 104
Trying Again Smart Set Magazine 105
Iconodasm Harper's Magazine. . . . 107
Gathering Roses 110
The Future Sport Ill
Taking Advice 112
Post-Mortem Industry. . .Smart Set Magazine ... 114
The Conqueror 116
The Truthful Merchant.. .System Magazine 120
Standing Pat Collier's Magazine 122
The Outcast 124
Ode to Kansas. . 125
Domestic Happiness. . .. .Smart Set Magazine.... 126
Celebrities Popular Magazine 128
The Virtuous Editor Collier's Weekly 130
This Dismal Age Popular Magazine 132
Boost Things 134
The Adventurer Popular Magazine .... 135
They All Come Back 137
Home Builders 138
Failure and Success 140
The Open Road Popular Magazine .... 143
The Millionaires 146
Little Mistakes System Magazine 147
Easy Morality 150
The Critic Harper's Weekly 151
Title First PuUiehei in Page
The Old Timer Popular Magazine 154
The Bright Face The Butler Way 158
Ladies and Gents 160
Autumn Joys 161
The Land of Bores Smart Set Magazine 162
Skilled Labor 164
An Editorial Soliloquy.... Newspaperdom 165
Youthful Grievances 167
Sunday 169
John Barleycorn Collier's Weekly 170
Christmas Day Popular Magazine 172
A Crank's Thanksgiving.. . American Magazine . . . 174
The Brief Visit 176
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
The Umpire Fronlispiece
Tlie Gloomy Fan 19
The Buccaneers 50
The Sleeper Wakes 85
The Conqueror 117
The Old Timer 155
MORNING IN KANSAS
' I 'HERE are lands beyond the
ocean which are gray beneath
their years, where a hundred gener¬
ations learned to sow and reap and
spin; where the sons of Shem and
Japhet wet the furrow with their
tears—and the noontide is depart¬
ed, and the night is closing in.
Long ago the shadows lengthened
in the lands across the sea, and the
dusk is now enshrouding regions
nearer home, alas! There are long
deserted homesteads in this country
of the free—but it's morning here in
Kansas, and the dew is on the grass.
It is morning here in Kansas, and
the breakfast bell is rung! We are
not yet fairly started on the work we
mean to do; we have all the day be¬
fore us, for the morning is but young,
and there's hope in every zephyr,
and the skies are bright and blue.
It is morning here in Kansas, and
the dew is on the sod; as the build-
ers of an empire it is ours to do our
best; witb our bands at work in Kan¬
sas, and our faitb and trust in God,
we shall not be counted idle when
the sun sinks in the West.
2
EDITORIAL INFLUENCE
IT is a solemn thing, to think when
*■ you sit down to splatter ink, that
what you write, in prose or verse,
may he a blessing or a curse. The
gems of thought that you impart
may upward guide some mind and
heart; some youth may read your
Smoking Stuff, and say: "That
log ic's good enough; the path of vir¬
tue must be fine; I'll have no wick¬
edness in mine." And some day,
when you're old and gray, that youth
may come along your way, and say,
in language ringing true: "All that
I've won I owe to you! When I was
young I read your rot; it hit a most
responsive spot, encouraged me for
stress and strife, and made me
choose the best in life." And this
will warm your heart and brain;
you'll know you have not lived in
vain. But if you write disgusting
dope, that thrusts at Truth, and
Faith and Hope; if you apologize for
vice, and show that wickedness is
3
nice, it well may chance, when you
are old, and in your veins the blood
runs cold, there'll come your way
some dismal wreck, who'll roast you
sore, and cry: "By heck! And also
I might say, by gum! 'Twas you
that put me on the bum! Your
writings got me headed wrong; you
threw it into Virtue strong; and in
the prison that you see, I'm convict
No. 23!"
4
FARM MACHINERY
\Y7E have things with cogs and
*V pulleys that will stack and
hale the hay, we have scarecrows
automatic that will drive the crows
away; we have riding cultivators, so
we may recline at ease, as we travel
up the corn rows, to the tune of
"haws" and "gees"; we have en¬
gines pumping water, running churns
and grinding corn, and one farmer
that I know of has a big steam din¬
ner horn; all of which is very pleas¬
ant to reflect upon, I think, hut we
need a good contrivance that will
teach the calves to drink.
Now, as in the days of Noah, man
must take a massive pail, loaded up
with milk denatured, with a dash of
Adam's ale, and go down among the
calfkins as the lion tamer goes
'mong the monarchs of the jungle,
at the famous three-ring shows; and
the calves are fierce and hungry,
and they haven't sense to wait, till
he gets a good position and has got
5
Lis Lucket straight; and tLey act as
though they hadn't e'en a glimmer¬
ing of sense, for they climb upon his
shoulders ere he is inside the fence,
and they butt him in the stomach,
and they kick him everywhere, till
he thinks he'd give a nickel for a
decent chance to swear; then they
all get underneath him and capsize
him in the mud, and the milk runs
down his whiskers and his garments
in a flood, and you really ought to see
him when he goes back to his home
quoting divers pagan authors and the
bards of ancient Rome. And he
murmurs while he's washing mud
off at the kitchen sink: "What we
need is a contraption that will teach
the calves to drink!"
We' ve machinery for planting,
we've machines to reap and thrash,
and the housewife has an engine that
will grind up meat for hash; we've
machines to do our washing and to
wring the laundered duds, we've
machines for making cider and to
dig the Burbank spuds; all about
6
the modern farmstead you may hear
the levers clink, tut we're sty of a
contrivance that will teach the calves
to drink!
7
THE STRONG MEN
DEHOLD the man of muscle, who
*-* wears the victor's crown! In
gorgeous scrap and tussle he pinned
the others down. His brawn stands
out in hummocks, he like a lion
treads; he sits on foemen's stomachs
and stands them on their heads.
The strong men of all regions, the
mighty men of note, come here in
beefy legions to try to get his goat;
with cordial smiles he greets them,
and when we've raised a pot, upon
the mat he meets them and ties
them in a knot. From Russia's
frozen acres, from Grecian ports
they sail, and Turkey sends her
fakers to gather in the kale; old
brooding Europe breeds them, these
mighty men of brawn; our Strong
Man takes and kneads them, and
puts their hopes in pawn.
Behold this puny fellow, this meek
and humble chap! No doubt he'd
show up yellow if he got in a scrap.
His face is pale and sickly, he's
8
weak of arm and knee; if trouble
came he'd quickly skin up tke near¬
est tree. No kale man ever loves
kim; ke stirs tke sportsman's wratk;
tke wkole world kicks and skoves
kim and skoos kim from tke patk.
For wko can love a duffer so pallid,
weak and tkin, wko seems resigned
to suffer and let folks rub it in? Yet
tkougk he's down to zero in fellow-
men's esteem, tkis fellow is a kero
and that's no winter dream. Year
after year ke's toiling, as toiled tke
slaves of Rome, to keep tke pot a-
boiling in kis old mother's home.
Through years of gloom and sickness
ke kept tke wolf away; for kim no
tailored slickness, for kim no brave
array; for kim no cheerful vision of
wife and kids a few; for kim no
dreams Elysian—just toil, tke long
years through! Forever trying, strain¬
ing, to sidestep debtors' woes, un¬
noticed, uncomplaining, tke little
Strong Man goes!
9
THE SNOWY DAY
I LIKE to watcli tlie children play,
* upon a wintry, snowy day; like
little elves they run ahout, and leap
and slide, and laugh and shout.
This side of heaven can there he
such pure and unmixed ecstacy?
I lean upon ye rustic stile, and
watch the children with a smile, and
think upon a vanished day, when I,
as joyous, used to play, when all the
world seemed young and bright, and
every hour had its delight; and, as
I brush away a tear, a snowball hits
me in the ear.
10
THE POOR MAN'S CLUB
I "HE poor man's club is a genial
place—if tbe poor man bas tbe
price; there's a balmy smile on
tbe barkeep's face, and bottles of
goods on ice; tbe poor man's club is
a place designed to brighten our
darkened lives, and send us borne,
wben we're balfway blind, in bumor
to beat our wives. So bey for tbe
wicker demi-john and tbe free-
luncb brand of grub! We'll wassail
bold till tbe break of dawn, we
friends of tbe poor man's club ! It's
bere we barter our bits of news in
our sweat stained band-me-downs;
it's bere we swallow tbe children's
shoes and tbe housewives' bats and
gowns. It's bere we mortgage tbe
bouse and lot, tbe horse and tbe
muley cow; tbe poor man's club is a
cheerful spot, so open a bottle now!
From brimming glasses we '11 blow
tbe foam till tbe midnight hour
arrives, wben we'll gayly journey tbe
long way borne and merrily beat our
11
wives. We earn our dimes like the
horse or ox, we toil like the labled
steer, and then we journey a dozen
blocks to blow in the dimes lor beer.
While the women work at the wash¬
ing tub to add to our scanty hoard,
we happily meet at the poor man's
club, where never a soul is bored.
We recklessly squander our minted
brawn, and the clubhouse owner
thrives; and we'll homeward go at
the break of dawn and joyously
beat our wives.
12
WORDS AND DEEDS
AFIRE broke out in Bildad's
shack and burned it to the
ground; and Bildad, with his roof¬
less pack, sent up a doleful sound.
And I, who lived the next door west,
hard by the county jail, went over
there and beat my breast, and
helped poor Bildad wail. Around
the ruined home I stepped, and
viewed the shaking walls, and people
say the way I wept would beat
Niagara Falls. Then words of sym¬
pathy 1 dealt to Bildad and his wife;
such kindly words, I've always felt,
nerve people for the strife. If I
can kill with words your fears, or
argue grief away, or drown your
woe by shedding tears, call on me
any day. I have a sympathetic
heart that bleeds for others' aches,
and I will ease your pain and smart
unless the language breaks. And
so to Bildad and his mate I made a
helpful talk, with vital truths that
elevate and break disasters' shock;
13
I pointed out that stricken men
should not yield to the worst, hut
from the wreckage rise again like
flame from torch reversed.
Then Johnson interrupted me as
I was growing hoarse. A rude,
offensive person he, a tactless man
and coarse.
He said to Bildad, "Well, old
pard! You are hurned out I see!
You can't keep house here in your
yard, so come and live with me!"
The neighbors who had gathered
round applauded Johnson then,
declaring that at last they'd found
the kindliest of men; not one ap¬
preciative voice for me, who fur¬
nished tears, who made the sad
man's heart rejoice, and drove way
his fears!
14
A DAY OF REST
I'M glad there is a day of rest, one
day in every seven, when worldly
cares cannot molest, and we may
dream of heaven. The week day
lahor that we do, is highly neces¬
sary, hut if our tasks were never
through, if they should never vary,
we'd soon be covered o'er with
mold, from bridle-bits to breeching;
so let the Sabbath bells be tolled,
and let us hear the preaching!
15
USE YOUR HEAD
Fa man would be a winner, whether
he's a clerk or tinner, whether
he s a hutcher, banker, or a dealer
in rye bread, he must show his brains
are bully, he must undertsand it
fully that a man can't be an Eli if he
doesn't use his head.
There was old man Hiram Horner,
once located on the corner, where he
sold his prunes and codfish and dried
apples by the pound; he was always
mighty busy; it would fairly make
you dizzy just to watch old Uncle
Hiram as he chased himself around.
He got down when day was breaking,
always ready to be raking in the pen¬
nies of the people if they chanced to
come that way; he was evermore on
duty till the midnight whistles, tooty,
sent him home, where he'd be fus¬
sing to begin another day. Yet old
Hitam soon was busted, and you'll
see him now, disgusted, whacking
mules in worthy effort to attain his
daily bread; he was diligent, de-
16
serving, from good morals never
swerving but he lost his grip in busi¬
ness for he didn't use his head. He
was always overloaded with a lot of
junk corroded, he was always short
of goodlets that the people seem to
need; he would trust the dead beat
faker till he'd bad bills by the acre,
and he's now at daily labor, with his
whiskers gone to seed.
There is Theodore P. Tally in his
store across the alley; you will see he
takes it easy, not a button does he
shed; you can hear the wheels re¬
volving in his brow while he's resol¬
ving to get rich by drawing largely
on the contents of his head.
It is well to use your fingers blithe¬
ly while the daylight lingers, it is well
to use your trilbys with a firm and
active tread; it is good to rustle daily,
doing all your duties gaily, but in all
your divers doings, never fail to use
your head.
17
THE GLOOMY FAN
OTHE gloomy fan is a mournful
man, and he fills my soul with
sorrow; he watched the play with a
frown today, and he'll scowl at the
game tomorrow. He ambles in
when the games begin, a soul by
the gods forgotten; and he eyes the
play in his morbid way, and he yells
out "punk!" and "rotten!" No
player yet, he he colt or vet, won
praise from this critic gloomy; he'll
sit and scowl like a poisoned owl,
and his eyes are red and rheumy;
and his blood is thin and his heart
is tin, and his head is stuffed with
cotton; and he merely sits, throwing
frequent fits, and he calls out "punk!"
and "rotten!" He casts a pall on
the bleachers all, and he breaks the
hearts of players; he gives the dumps
to his nibs the umps, who would
spread him out in layers; he queers
the game and he chills the frame of
the man on the bases trottin', with
his fish-like eyes and his mournful
sighs, and his cries of "punk!" and
"rotten!"
18
THE PURIST
YY7ILLIAM HENRY", said the
* * parent, and his voice was sad
and stern, "I detest the slang you're
using; will you never, never learn
that correct use of our language is a
thing to he desired? All your com¬
mon hughouse phrases make the
shrinking highbrow tired. There is
nothing more delightful than a pure
and careful speech, and the man
who weighs his phrases always
stacks up as a peach, while the guy
who shoots his larynx in a careless
slipshod way looms up as a selling
plater, people brand him for a jay.
In my youth my father soaked me if
I entered his shebang handing out a
line of language that he recognized
as slang. He would take me to the
cellar, down among the mice and
rats, and with nice long sticks of
stovewood he'd play solos on my
slats. Thus I gained a deep devo¬
tion for our language undehled, and
it drives me nearly batty when I
21
Hear my only child springing wads
of hard hoiled language such as dips
and yeggmen use, and I want a ref¬
ormation or 1 11 stroke you with my
shoes. Using slang is just a hahit,
just a cheap and dopey trick; if you
hump yourself and try to, you can
shake it pretty quick. Watch my
curves and imitate them, weigh
your words before they're sprung,
and in age you'll bless the habit
that you formed when you were
young.
22
QUALIFICATIONS
T WENT around to Thompson's
^ store and asked him if he'd give
me work—for Thompson, in the
Daily Roar, was advertising for a
clerk. He looked me over long and
well, and then enquired: "What
can you do? Do you in anything ex¬
cel? If you've strong points, just
name a few." His manner dashed
my sunny smile, I seemed to feel my
courage fall; I had to ponder for a
while my strongest features to recall.
"Well, I a motor hoat can sail, and
I a 4-horse team can tool; and I can
tell a funny tale and play a splendid
game of pool. I'm good at going into
deht and counting chicks before they
hatch, and I can roll a cigarette or
referee a wrestling match."
"There was a time," the merchant
said, "when qualities like those were
fine; alas, those good old days are
dead! The mixer's fallen out of
line! The business houses turn him
28
down, and customers no longer sigh
lor one to show them through the
town, and open pints of Extra Dry!
The salesman of these modern days
must study things he wants to sell,
instead of haunting Great White
Ways and painting cities wildly well.
He must he sober as a judge, he
must be genial an d polite, from vir¬
tue's path he'll never budge, he'll
keep his record snowy white. Into
the world of commerce go and mark
the ways of business men; forget the
list of things you know and then
come here and try again."
In his remarks there was no bile;
with sympathy he gently laughed,
and dropped me, with a kindly smile,
adown the elevator shaft.
24
THE POMPOUS MAN
I DO not like the pompous man; I
do not wish him for a friend; he's
huilt on such a gorgeous plan, that
he can only condescend; and when
he hows his neck is sprained; he
walks as though he owned the earth
—as though his vest and shirt con¬
tained all that there is of Sterling
Worth. With sacred joy I see him
tread, upon a stray hanana rind, and
slide a furlong on his head and leave
a trail of smoke behind.
26
INEFFICIENT MEN
I/-ING ALFRED, in a rude dis-
^ guise, was resting in the cow¬
herd's cot; the cowherd's wife was
baking pies, and had her oven smok¬
ing hot.
"You watch these pies," exclaimed
the frau; "I have to chase myself
outdoors, and see what ails the spot¬
ted cow, the way she bawls around
and roars."
King Alfred said he'd watch the
pies; then started thinking of the
Danes, who fooled him with their
tricks and lies, and put his bleeding
realm in chains. He studied plans
to gain his own, fair visions rose
before his eyes; he'd hew a pathway
to his throne—and he forgot the
matron's pies. And then the cow¬
herd's wife came in; she smelled the
smoke, she gave a shout; she biffed
him with the rolling pin, and cried:
"Ods fish, you useless lout! You
are not worth the dynamite 'twould
take to blow you off the map! Your
26
head is not upholstered right—you
are a worthless trifling chap!'
When on his throne King Alfred
sat, that woman had an inward
ache; she chewed the feathers from
her hat because she d made so had a
break.
It isn't safe, my friends, to say
that any man's a failure flat because
he cannot shovel hay, or climb a
tree, or skin a cat. The man who's
awkward with a saw, who cannot
hammer in a nail, may in the future
practice law and fill his bins with
shining kale. The ne'er-do-well who
cannot cook the luscious egg his hen
has laid, may yet sit down and write
a book that makes the big best
sellers fade. The man who blacks
your boots today, and envies you
your rich cigar, next year may have
the right of way while touring in his
private car.
It isn't safe at men to jeer how¬
ever awkwardly they tread; they
yet may find their proper sphere—
no man's a failure till he's dead.
27
LIFE'S INJUSTICE
' I 'HE learned man labors in his
lair, and trains his telescope
across a million leagues of air,
among the stars to grope. He would
increase the little store of knowledge
we possess, and so he toils forever
more, and often in distress. His
whiskers and his hair are long, and
in the zephyrs wave, because—alas!
such things are wrong—he can't
afford a shave. His trousers bag
about the knees, his ancient coat's
a botch; his shoes allow his feet to
freeze, he bears a dollar watch.
And when the grocer's store he seeks
to buy a can of hash, in frigid tones
the merchant speaks: "I'll have to
have the cash!" And when he's
dead a hundred years the people
will arise, and praise the man who
found new spheres cavorting through
the skies. The children in the
public schools will learn to bless
his name, and guide their studies by
his rules, and glory in his fame.
28
And in the graveyard, where he went
unhonored by the town, a big fat
marble monument will hold the wise
man down.
The low-brow spars a dozen
rounds, before an audience, and he
is loaded down with pounds, and
shillings, crowns and pence.
Where'er he goes the brawny Goth
is lionized by all, like Caesar, when
he cut a swath along the Lupercal.
Promoters grovel at his feet, and
offer heaps of scads, if he will con¬
descend to meet some other bruising
lads. The daily journals print his
face some seven columns wide, call
him the glory of the race, the nation's
hope and pride. And having thus
become our boast, the wonder of our
age, he battles with his larnyx most,
and elevates the stage. In fifty
years when people speak the sa¬
vant's name with pride, the pug s
renown you'll vainly seek—it with
its owner died.
There may be consolation there
for him who bravely tries to solve
29
great problems in bis lair, and make
tbe world more wise; but wben tbe
world is really wise—may tbat day
come eftsoons!—we'll give tbe men
of learning pies, and give tbe fighters
prunes.
30
THE POLITICIAN
I WILL not say that black is black,
nor yet that white is white; for
rash assertions oft come back, and
put us in a plight. Some people
hold that black is white, and some
that white is black; to me the
neutral course looks right; I take
the middle track. If I should say
that black is white, and white is
black, today, some one would mix
the two tonight—tomorrow they'd be
gray. In politics I wish to thrive,
and swiftly forge ahead, so dare not
say that I'm alive, nor swear that I
am dead. You say that hshes climb
the trees, that cows on wings do fly,
I can't dispute such facts as these,
so patent to the eye; with any man
I will agree, no odds what he defends,
if he will only vote for me, and
boom me to his friends.
31
RANDOM SHOTS
T SHOT an arrow into the air, it fell
in the distance, I knew not where
till a neighbor said that it killed his
calf, and I had to pay him six and a
half ($6.50). I bought some poison
to slay some rats, and a neighbor
swore that it killed his cats; and,
rather than argue across the fence,
I paid him four dollars and fifty cents
($4.50). One night I set sailing a
toy balloon, and hoped it would
soar till it reached the moon; but
the candle fell out, on a farmer's
straw, and he said I must settle or
go to law. And that is the way
with the random shot; it never hits
in the proper spot; and the joke you
spring, that you think so smart, may
leave a wound in some fellow's
heart.
32
LOOK PLEASANT, PLEASE!
LOOK pleasant, please!" tlie
photo expert told me, for I had
pulled a long and gloomy face; and
then I let a wide, glad smile enfold
me and hold my features in its warm
embrace.
"Look pleasant, please!" My
friends, we really ought to cut out
these words and put them in a
frame; long, long we'd search to
find a better motto to guide and
help us while we play the game.
Look pleasant, please, when you
have met reverses, when you be¬
neath misfortune's stroke are bent,
when all your hopes seem riding
round in hearses—a scowling brow
won't help you worth a cent. Look
pleasant, please, when days are
dark and dismal and all the world
seems in a hopeless fix; the clouds
won't go because your grief's abys¬
mal, the sun won't shine the sooner
for your kicks. Look pleasant,
please, when Grip—King of diseases.
33
lias filled your system with his mi¬
crobes vile; I know it's hard, but
still, between your sneezes, you may
be able to produce a smile. Look
pleasant, please, whatever trouble
galls you; a gloomy face won't cure
a single pain. Look pleasant, please,
whatever ill befalls you, for gnashing
teeth is weary work and vain.
Look pleasant, please, and thus
inspire your brothers to raise a smile
and pass the same along; forget
yourself and think a while of others,
and do your stunt with gladsome
whoop and song.
34
COURAGE
DRAVE men are ttey wlio set
their faces toward the polar
bergs and floes, who roam the wild,
unpeopled places, perchance to find
among the snows a resting-place re¬
mote and lonely; a winding-sheet of
deathless white, where elemental
voices only disturb the brooding
year-long night.
Brave souls are they whose man-
made pinions have borne them over
plains and seas, who conquered wide
and new dominions, and strapped a
saddle on the breeze. Their engine-
driven wings are wearing new path¬
ways through the realm of clouds;
they play with death, with dauntless
daring, to please the breathless,
fickle crowds.
Brave men go forth to distant
regions, forsaking luxury and ease;
through all the years they've gone
in legions, to unknown lands, o'er
stormy seas; and when, by sword or
35
fever smitten, they blithely jour¬
neyed to the grave, full well they
knew their names were written
down in the annals of the brave.
I am as brave as any rover des¬
cribed in gay, romantic screeds, but,
when my fitful life is over, no epic
will narrate my deeds. Condemned
to silent heroism, I go my unmarked
way alone, and no one hands me
prune or prism, as token that my
deeds are known. But yesterday my
teeth were aching, and to the pain¬
less dentist's lair I took my way,
unawed, unquaking, and sat down in
the fatal chair. He dug around my
rumbling molars with drawing-
knives and burglars' tools, and cross¬
cut saws and patent rollers, and
marlinspikes and two-foot rules. He
climbed upon my lap and prodded
with crowbar and with garden spade,
to see that I was not defrauded of all
the agony that's made. He pulled
and yanked and pried and twisted,
and uttered oft his battle shout, and
now and then his wife assisted—till
36
finally the teeth came out. And
never once while thus he pottered
around my torn and mangled jowl—
not once, while I was heing slaught¬
ered, did I let out a single howl ! No
hrass-bands played, none sang a
ditty of triumph as I took my way;
no signs of "Welcome to Our City"
were hung across the street that day!
Thus you and I and plain, plug
mortals may show a courage high
and fine, and he obscure, while
some jay chortles in triumph where
the limelights shine.
37
PLAY BALL
"DLAY ball!" you bear tbe fans
*■ exclaim, wben weary of a
dragging game, wben all tbe players
pause to state tbeir theories in a
joint debate, or wben tbey go about
tbeir biz as tbougb tbey bad tbe
rbeumatiz. And if tbey do not beed
tbe buncb that's given by tbe bleach¬
ers bunch, tbey find, wben next tbey
start to play, that all tbe fans have
stayed away. Tbe talking graft is
all in vain, and loafers give tbe
world a pain. | Tbe fans who watch
tbe game of life despise tbe sluggard
in tbe strife. They'll have but little
use for you, who tell what you in¬
tend to do, and band out promises
galore, but, somehow, never seem
to score. No matter what your
stunt may be, in this tbe country of
tbe free, you'll find that loafing never
pays; cut out tbe flossy grand stand
plays; put in your hardest licks and
whacks, and get right down to Old
Brass Tacks, and, undismayed by
bruise or fall, go right ahead—in
short, play ball!
38
THE OLD SONGS
THE modern airs are cheerful, me¬
lodious and sweet; we hear them
sung and whistled all day upon the
street. Some lilting ragtime ditty
that's rollicking and gay will gain the
public favor and hold it—for a day.
But when the day is ended, and we
are tired and worn, and more than
half persuaded that man was made
to mourn, how soothing then the mu¬
sic our fathers used to know! The
songs of sense and feeling, the songs
of long ago! The "Jungle Joe"
effusions and kindred roundelays
will do to hum and whistle through¬
out our busy days; and in the garish
limelight the yodelers may yell, and
Injun songs may flourish—and all is
passing well, but when to light the
heavens the shining stars return, and
in the cottage windows the lights
begin to burn, when parents and
their children are seated by the fire,
remote from worldly clamor and all
the world's desire, when eyes are
39
soft and shining, and hearths with
love aglow, how pleasant is the sing'
ing of songs of long ago!
40
GUESSING VS. KNOWING
IF I were selling nails or glass,
or pills or slioes or garden sass,
or honey from the hee—whatever
line of goods were mine, I'd study
up that special line and know its
history.
If I a stock of rags should keep,
I'd read up sundry hooks on sheep
and wool and how it grows. Be¬
neath my old bald, freckled roof,
I'd store some facts on warp and
woof and other things like those.
I'd try to know a spinning-jack from
patent churn or wagon rack, a loom
from hog-tight fence; and if a man
came in to buy, and asked some
leading question, I could answer
with some sense.
If I were selling books, I'd know
a Shakespeare from an Edgar Poe,
a Carlyle from a Pope; and I would
know Fitzgerald's rhymes from
Laura Libbey's brand of crimes,
or Lillian Russell's dope.
41
If I were selling shoes, I'd seize
the fact that on gooseberry trees,
good leather doesn't grow; that
shoe pegs do not grow like oats,
that cowhide doesn't come from
goats—such things I'd surely know.
And if I were a grocer man, I'd
open now and then a can to see
what stuff it held; 'twere better
than to writhe in woe and make
reply, "I didn't know," when some
mad patron yelled.
I hate to hear a merchant say:
"I think that this is splendid hay,"
"I guess it's first class tea." He
ought to know how good things are,
if he would sell his silk or tar or
other goods to me. Oh, knowledge
is the stuff that wins; the man with¬
out it soon begins to get his trade
in kinks. No matter where a fellow
goes, he's valued for the things he
knows, not for the things he thinks.
42
WHEN WOMEN VOTE
"TANE Samantha," said the hus-
J hand, as he donned his hat and
coat, "I would offer a suggestion ere
you go to cast your vote. We have
had a hitter struggle through this
strenuous campaign, and the issues
are important, and they stand out
clear and plain. Colonel Whitehead
stands for progress—for the uplift
that we need: he invites investiga¬
tion of his every word and deed.
He's opposed to all the ringsters and
to graft of every kind; he's a man
of spotless record, clean and pure
in heart and mind. His opponent,
Maj or Bounder, stands for all that
I ahhor; plunder, ring rule and cor¬
ruption you will see him working
for; all the pluggers and the heelers
stood hy him in this campaign—so
I ask your vote for Whitehead and
the uplift, dearest Jane."
"William Henry," said the house¬
wife, "I am sorry to decline, hut the
wife of Colonel Whitehead never
43
was a friend of mine. Last July she
gave a party—you recall her Purple
Tea?—and invited all the neighbors,
hut she said no word to me. I don't
care about your issues or your up¬
lift or your ring, but I won't support
the husband of that silly, stuck-up
thing!"
Major Bounder was the victor on
that day of stress and strife, for it
seemed that many women didn't
like the Colonel's wife.
44
THE AGENT AT THE DOOR
A WAY with you, stranger!" ex-
** claimed Mrs. Granger, "avaunt
and skedaddle! Come here never
more! You agents are making me
crazy and breaking my heart, and I
beg that you'll trot from my door!
I've bought nutmeg graters, shoe¬
laces and gaiters, I've bought every¬
thing from a lamp to a lyre ; I've
bought patent heaters and saws and
egg beaters and stoves that exploded
and set me afire."
"You' re laboring under a curious
blunder," the stranger protested; "I
know very well that agents are try¬
ing, and dames tired of buying; but
be not uneasy—I've nothing to sell."
"I'm used to that story—it's whis¬
kered and hoary," replied Mrs.
Granger, "you want to come in,
and then when you enter, in tones
of a Stentor you'll brag of your pol¬
ish for silver and tin. Or maybe
you re dealing in unguents healing,
45
or dye for the whiskers, or salve for
the corns, or something that quick¬
ens egg-laying in chickens, or knobs
for the cattle to wear on their
horns. It's no use your talking,
you'd better be walking, and let me
go on with my housework, I think;
you look dissipated, if truth must
be stated, and if you had money
you 'd spend it for drink."
"My name," said the stranger,
who backed out of danger—the
woman had reached for the broom
by the wall—"is Septimus Beecher;
I am the new preacher; I just
dropped around for a pastoral call."
46
GOOD AND BAD TIMES
"TIMES are so bad I have the
blues," says Bilderbeck, who
deals in shoes. "All day I loaf
around my store, and folks don't
come here any more; I reckon they
have barely cash to buy cigars and
corn beef hash, and when they've
bought the grub to eat, they can't
afford to clothe their feet.
"There's something wrong when
trade's thus pinched," says he, "and
someone should be lynched. The
cost of living is so high that it's
economy to die; and death is so ex¬
pensive, then, that corpses want to
live again. The trusts have robbed
us left and right, and there's no
remedy in sight; the government is
out of plumb and should be knocked
to Kingdom Come."
And Ganderson, across the street,
is selling furniture for feet. All day
he hands out boots and shoes with
cheerful cockadoodledoos. "I have
47
no reason to complain," says Gan-
derson; "all kicks are vain; my cus¬
tomers don't come to Kear me rais¬
ing thunder by the year.
"Tbey have some troubles of tbeir
own, and do not care to bear me
groan. And so I beam around my
place, and wear a smile that splits
my face, and gather in the shining
dime—trade's getting better all the
time!"
Though days be dark and trade be
tough, it's always well to make a
bluff, to face the world with cheer¬
ful eye, as though the goose were
hanging high. No merchant ever
made a friend by dire complainings
without end. And people never seek
a store to hear a grouchy merchant
roar; they'll patronize the wiser
gent who doesn't air his discon¬
tent.
48
Buccaneers
BUCCANEERS
(The Pirate of 1612)
/^H, once again my merry men and
^ I are on the water with pros¬
pects fair, with hearts to dare, and
souls athirst for slaughter! Before
the breeze we scour the seas, our
vessel low and raking, and men
who find our ship behind in mortal
fear are quaking. We love the
fight and our delight grows as the
strife increases; we slash and slay
and hew our way to win the golden
pieces. To hear, to feel the clang
of steel! Ah, that, my men, is
rapture! Our hearts are stern, we
sink, we burn, we kill the men we
capture! Why mercy show when
well we know that when our course
is ended, we all must die—they'll
hang us high, unshriven, unde¬
fended ! Ah, wolves are we that
roam the sea, and rend with savage
fury; as soft our mind, our hearts
as kind will be judge and jury! To
rob and slay we go our way, our
51
vessel low and raking; and men
who hail our ehon sail may well be
chilled and quaking!
(The Pirate of 1912)
MY heart is light and glad tonight,
and life seems good and merry;
my coffer groans with golden hones
I've pulled from the unwary. Ah,
raiment fine and gems are mine,
and costly bibs and tuckers; I got
my rocks for mining stocks—I
worked the jays and suckers. What
though my game is going lame—a
jolt the courts just gave me—my
lawyers gay will find a way to heat
the law and save me. I'll just lie
low a year or so until the row blows
over, then I'll come hack to my old
shack and he again in clover! I've
fifty ways to work the jays and
there's a fortune in it! The sucker
crop will never stop, for one is horn
each minute.
52
ST. PATRICK'S DAY
A WAY with tears and sordid fears,
no trouble will we borrow, but
shed our woes like winter clothes—
it's Patrick's day tomorrow. With
clubs and rakes we'll chase the
snakes, and send the toads a-flying,
and we '11 be seen with ribbons
green, all other hues decrying. In
grass-green duds we'll plant the
spuds, where they can do no growing;
with flat and sharp we'll play the
harp, and keep the music going.
Then let us yell, for all is well, the
world's devoid of sorrow; the toads
are snared, the snakes are scared,
it's Patrick's day tomorrow.
63
NAMING THE BABY
T7IRSTI thought I'd call him Caesar;
* but my Uncle Ebenezer said that
name was badly hoodoed—wasn't
Julius Caesar slain? Then I said,
"I'll call him Homer" ; but my second
cousin Gomer answered; "Homer
was a pauper, and he wrote his
rhymes in vain." Long I pondered,
worried greatly seeking names both
sweet and stately, something proud
and high and noble, such as ancient
heroes bore. "I shall call him Alex¬
ander—"but an innocent bystander
muttered, "Aleck was a tyrant, and
he splashed around in gore." And
my aunts said: "Only trust us, and
we'll name him Charles Augustus,
which is princely and becoming, and
will end this foolish fuss." But my
Cousin James objected: "Nothing
else can be expected, if you give him
such a handle, but that folks will call
him Gus." "Let us call the darling
Reggie," said my cheerful sister
Peggy, "which is short for Rex or
54
Roland or some otlier kingly name."
But my Uncle George protested.
"Surely," said he, "you but jested:
never yet did youth named Reggie
scale the shining height of fame."
Thus it was for weeks together, and
I often wondered whether other pa¬
rents ever suffered as I did upon the
rack. All my uncles and my cousins
and my aunts gave tips by dozens,
so I named the babe John Henry,
and for short we call him Jack.
66
WON AT LAST
I.
DISE, Charles De Jones, rise, if
^ * you please; you don't look well
upon your knees. You say that I
must he your bride; in all the whole
blamed countryside no other girl
could fill your life with joy and sun¬
shine, as your wife. What can you
offer—you who seek my hand? You
draw ten bucks a week. Shall I your
Cheap John wigwam share, the
daughter of a millionaire, who early
learned in wealth to bask? Shall I
get down to menial task? Go chase
yourself! My hand shall go to one
who has a roll of dough!"
Thus spake Letitia Pinkham
Brown, the fairest girl in all the town.
Her lover, crushed beneath the
weight of blows from an unkindly
fate, rended his garments and his
hair and turned away in dumb de-
spair.
56
II.
Our hero's feet, of course, were
cold, and yet his heart was strong
and hold. "It will not heal this wound
of mine," he said, "to murmur and
repine. Though sad my heart, I'll
sing and smile, and try to earn a
princely pile; and having got the bul¬
lion, then I'll ask her for her hand
hand again."
He quenched the yearnings of his
heart and plunged into the clanging
mart as agent for a handsome book
instructing women how to cook. His
volume sold to beat the band and
wealth came in hand over hand; but
ever, as he scoured the town, he
thought of 'Titia Pinkham Brown,
and scalding tears anon would rise
and almost cook his steely eyes.
III.
Once more a lover knelt before
Letitia Pinkham Brown and swore
to cherish her while life endures.
67
"Come out of it," she said, "I'm
yours."
He rose, a man of stately frame; J
Roland Percival his name. He had a
high, commanding mien, and seemed
possessed of much long green; in
costly fabrics he was dressed, and
diamonds flashed upon his breast.
"And so you're mine!" J. Roland
cried. "You'll be my own and only
bride! Oh, joy, oh, rapture! I am
It! Excuse me while I throw a fit.
Come to my arms, my precious dear!
My darling love—but who comes
here?"
DeJ ones stood in the arbor door,
and deadly was the smile he wore.
IV.
J. Roland cried in abject fear:
"Great Scott! What are you doing
here?"
"Well may you ask," said Charles
Dejones, in bitter, caustic, scathing
tones. "You've dodged me for a
58
dozen weeks, but now—'tis tbe
avenger speaks—you'll bave to pay
up wkat you owe, or to tbe county jug
you'll go."
Tben turning to tbe maiden fair,
DeJones went on: "Tbat villain
tbere! Four months ago I sold tbat
man a cook book on tb' installment
plan. He gave bis solemn pledge to
pay, for seven years, two cents a day.
He made two payments, tben be
flunked. I've bung around tbe place
be bunked, I've cbased bim tbrougb
tbe rain and sleet, I've boned bim on
tbe public street, I've shadowed bim
by night and day, but not a kopeck
would be pay. I'm weary of these
futile sprints; I'll roast bim in tbe
public prints, and give bim such a
bum renown he'll be a byword in tbe
town.
She viewed ber lover in amaze,
and cold and scornful was ber gaze.
"And so tbe book you banded me,
to plight our troth," with ire said she,
"you bought from Charlie here on
59
tick? Skidoo! A deadbeat makes
me sick! I'll never marry any jay
who can't dig up two cents a day!"
V.
"I have a bundle in the bank,"
said Charles, as on his knee he sank,
"and all of it is yours to blow, so let
us to the altar go."
"I've learned some things," said
L. P. Brown, "and now I would not
turn you down if you were busted
flat, my dear ; I've learned that love's
the one thing here that's worth a
continental dam*; you ask for me—
well, here I am!"
*Dam—A former copper coin.—
Dictionary.
80
THE GREATEST THING
I 'HE orator shrieks and clamors,
and kicks up a lot of dust, and
larrups and whacks and hammers
the weary old sinful Trust; the
congressman chirps and chatters,
pursuing his dream of fame; but
there's only one thing that matters,
and that is the baseball game. The
pessimist rails and wrangles, and
takes up a lot of room and tells, in a
voice that jangles, his view of the
nation's doom; we shy at his why
and wherefore, and balk at his
theories lame; for there's only one
thing we care for, and that is the
baseball game. The rakers of muck
are busy, with shovels and spades
and screens, a-dishing up stuff
that's dizzy, in the popular maga¬
zines ; these fellows are ever present,
with stories of graft and shame, and
there's only one thing that's pleasant,
and that is the baseball game.
Some people are in a passion, and
have been, for many weeks, because
61
tlie decrees of faskion make women
look muck like freaks; wky worry
about tke dress of tke frivolous
modern dame? Tkere's only one
tking impressive, and tkat is tke
kasekall game.
62
THE UMPIRE
DE kind to the umpire wko bosses
the game, whose doom is too
frequently sealed; it serves no good
purpose to camp on his frame, and
strew him all over the field.
The umpire is human—which fact
you may doubt—a creature of tissues
and blood; he pales at the sound of
your bloodthirsty shout, and shrinks
from the sickening thud. He may
have a vine covered cottage like
yours, a home where a loving wife
dwells; and when he's on duty the
fear she endures is something no
chronicler tells. She hears from
the bleachers a thunderous roar,
and thinks it announces his fate.
"I reckon," she si ghs, "he'll come
home on a door, or perhaps in a
basket or crate."
Be kind to the umpire; his hopes
are your own; he's doing the best
that he can; his head isn't elm and
his heart isn't stone; he's just like
63
the neighboring man. Don't call
him a bonehead or say his work's
punk, or that he's a robber insist;
don't pelt him with castings or vitri¬
fied junk, or smite him with bludgeon
or fist.
Suppose you are doing the best
you know how, and striving your
blamedest to please, and bystanders
throw at your head a dead cow, or
break your legs off at the knees.
Suppose you are trying your best
to be fair, and critics come up in a
crowd, set fire to your whiskers, and
pull out your hair, and put you in
shape for a shroud. If people re¬
fused to believe that you try to give
them their fifty cents' worth, you'd
be so discouraged you'd sit down and
cry, and say there's no justice on
earth.
Be kind to the umpire and give
him a chance to live to a happy old
age; reward him with praise and
encouraging glance when he does
his devoir on his stage. Save up
64
your dead cats for the scavenger
man, your cabbage for cigarette
smoke; the umpire is doing the best
that he can—he shouldn't be killed
as a joke.
65
THE TWO MERCHANTS
their bosses do, for which they're
not to blame; for emulation is a part,
in office, drawing room and mart,
of this weird human game.
I often go to Jimpson's store; I
blow in twice a day or more to buy
my prunes and things. Old Jimp-
son is a joyous jay; he hustles around
the livelong day, he whistles and he
sings. I like to watch the blamed
old chump; I like to see him on the
jump, he is so full of steam; and
all his clerks have caught his style;
they hump around with cheerful
smile, and do not loaf or dream.
When I blow into Jimpson's lair
they all seem glad to see me there
and anxious for my trade; they
give me brisk attention then, and
sing the chorus, "Come again!"
when from the shop 1 fade.
Jim Clinker has another store.
66
Jim Clinker's Lead seem always
sore, lie grumbles and be scowls;
and all bis clerks bave caught tbat
trick; tbey gloom around tbe store
like sick or broken-bearted owls.
Wben I go in to buy some tea, a
languid salesman waits on me as
tbougb it were a crime to rouse
bim from bis sour repose, bis brood¬
ing over secret woes, and occupy
bis time.
If Clinker's clerks to Jimpson
went, tbey soon would sbake tbeir
discontent, and carol like tbe birds;
if Jimpson's clerks for Clinker toiled
tbeir optimism would be spoiled;
they'd band out doleful words.
And so I say, and say some more,
tbat all tbe salesmen in a store will
emulate tbeir boss; if be is sour on
all tbe works, you may be sure bis
string of clerks will be a total loss.
67
TODAY'S MOTTO
| OVE your neighbor as your-
■*—1 self," was a motto famed of
yore; now it's placed upon the shelf,
with about a thousand more; now
the child on mother's knee, sees the
lovelight in her eyes, while she says :
"Where' er you be, boil the germs
and swat the flies!" In the olden
golden days, preachers told the
sacred tale of poor Jonah's erring
ways, and his journey in the whale;
of the lions in their den, and of
Daniel, good and wise; now they
preach this creed to men: "Boil
the germs and swat the flies!"
When my dying eyelids close, and
the world is growing dim, while I'm
turning up my toes, I may ask to
hear a hymn; and the people by my
bed, they will sing, with streaming
eyes, while each humbly bows his
head: "Boil the germs and swat
the flies!"
68
SOME PROTESTS
1 SIT in my cushioned motor, in-
^ dulging in wise remarks, con¬
cerning the outraged voter crushed
down hy the money sharks. We
burdened and weary toilers are
ground hy the iron wheels of soul¬
less, despotic spoilers, and bruised
hy the tyrants' heels. They're
flaunting their corsair mottoes while
treading upon our toes, and some of
us can't have autos or trotters or
things like those. I know of a
worthy neighbor who lives in a
humble cot, and after long years
of labor he hasn't a single yacht!
While eating my dinner humble—
of porterhouse steak and peas, and
honey from bees that humble, and
maybe imported cheese—I think,
with a bitter feeling, of insolent
money kings, who, drunk with their
wealth and reeling, condemn me to
eat such things. The pirate and
banknote monger still gloat o'er
their golden stacks, while I must
69
appease my hunger with oysters and
canvasbacks. The plutocrat has his
chuffer, a minion of greed and pell;
the poor man must weep and suffer,
and drive his own car himself.
The plutocrat homeward totters
with diamonds to load his girls, and
meanwhile my wife and daughters
must struggle along with pearls.
In silk, with a trademark Latin, the
plutocrat's wife appears, and I can
afford but satin to tog out my
dimpled dears. The plute has a
splendid palace, with pictures and
Persian rugs; he drinks from a
silver chalice and laughs at the poor
men's jugs, and I, in my lowly
cottage, that's shadowed by tree
and vine, £11 up on mock turtle
pottage, with only three kinds of
wine!
It's time for a revolution, to
punish the wealthy ones! I'll fur¬
nish the elocution if you'll bring the
bombs and guns!
70
THE WORKERS
LJERE'S to the man who labors
* and does it with a song! He
stimulates his neighbors and helps
the world along!
I like the men who do things, who
hustle and achieve; the men who
saw and glue things, and spin and
dig and weave.
Man earns his bread in sweat
or in blood since Adam sinned; and
bales of hay are better than are
your bales of wind.
Man groans beneath his burden,
beneath the chain he wears; and
still the toiler's guerdon is worth
the pain he bears.
For there's no satisfaction be¬
neath the bending sky like that the
man of action enjoys when night is
nigh.
To look back o'er the winding and
dark and rocky road, and know
you bore your grinding and soul-
fatiguing load—
71
As strong men ought to bear it,
through all tbe stress and strife—
that's tbe reward of merit—that is
tbe balm of life!
I like tbe men who do things, who
plow and sow and reap, who build
and delve and hew things while
dreamers are asleep.
72
THE UTILITARIAN
\Y/E sat around the stove dis-
coursing of mighty deeds that
we had done; of struggling up the
Alps and forcing our way to sum¬
mits then unwon; of fights with
lions and hyenas, of facing grim
and ghostly shapes, of dodging bail¬
iffs and subpoenas, and many peril¬
ous escapes.
And one sat by, distraught and
gloomy, and listened to each stirring
tale; his beard was long, his eyes
were rheumy, his nose was red, his
aspect stale. And this old pilgrim,
dour and hoary, on all our pleasure
drew the noose; for, at the end of
every story, he'd sadly ask: "What
was the use?"
I told of how I went a-sailing to
Europe in an open boat; the billows
raved, the winds were wailing till I
could scarcely keep afloat. The salt
sea spray was on my features; I
heard King Neptune's angry shouts;
73
I fought with whales and other
creatures, and was pursued by wa¬
terspouts. I sailed those seas for
weeks together, and bore my life in
either hand, and very often doubted
whether I'd ever bring my boat to
land. But still, resolved on win¬
ning glory, I sailed along like Cap¬
tain Loose. The old man broke into
my story, and mildly asked: "What
was the use?"
Jones told of how, appareled thin¬
ly (the thirst for glory warmed his
breast), he scaled the heights of
Mount McKinley and placed our flag
upon its crest. He placed the flag to
thwart the scorner, the doubter, and
the man obtuse; and then the old
man in the corner looked up and
asked; "What was the use?"
Brown told of how a cask he en¬
tered and floated o'er the Horseshoe
Falls, and how all eyes for months
were centered on him; in cottages
and halls the people joined to sing
his praises or level at his head
abuse; the old man heard his burn-
74
ing phrases, and sadly asked: "What
was the use?"
We smote him roundly in our an¬
ger, resolved to cook his ancient
goose, and still, ahove the din and
clangor, we heard him ask, "What
is the use?
75
FIRESIDE ADVENTURES
IT is not mine the world to roam;
^ when I was horn the Fates decreed
that I should always stay at home,
and deal in hay and hran and feed.
For mighty deeds I have no chance
while I am rustling in my store; and
yet my life has its romance, and I've
adventures by the score.
For evening comes, and then,
serene, to my abode I take my way,
and grab this good old magazine,
and leave the world of bran and
hay. Through Arctic wildernesses
cold, I follow the explorers' train,
or seeking go for pirate's gold along
the storied Spanish Main. Oft, by
the miner's struggling lamp, I count
the nuggets I have won; or in the
cowboys' wind-swept camp indulge
in wild athletic fun. The big round
world is all for me, brought to me
by the sprightly tale; o'er every
strange and distant sea my phantom
ship has learned to sail, I travel
in all neighborhoods where daring
76
man lias left his tracks; I am tlie
hunter in the woods, I am the
woodman with his ax. I am the
grim, effective sleuth who goes forth
in a rare disguise, and quickly drags
the shining truth from out a moun¬
tain range of lies. I am the watcher
of the roads, the highwayman of
wold and moor, relieving rich men
of their loads, to give a rakeoff to
the poor. I am the hero of the
crowds, as, on my trusty aeroplane,
I cleave a pathway through the
clouds, to Milky Way and Charles's
Wain. I am the pitcher known to
fame; I pitch as though I worked by
steam, and in the last and crucial
game I win the pennant for my
team. I am the white man's final
hope, on whom his aspirations hinge,
and, notwithstanding all the dope,
I knock the daylights from the dinge.
I am the man of action when, with
lamplight gloating o'er the scene, I
bask at leisure in my den, and read
my fav'rite magazine. And so all
day I stay at home attending to the
77
treadmill grind; but when night
comes afar I roam, and leave the
workday world behind.
78
HUNTING A JOB
I WOULD like a situation, I liave
hunted for it long," said a youth
who looked discouraged; "every¬
thing that is is wrong; there is no
demand for labor, no respect for will¬
ing hands, hence the people who are
idle are as frequent as the sands. I
have waited in the pool hall through
the long and weary day, and no lu¬
crative position seemed to come
along that way; I have stood upon
the corner, smoking at my trusty
cob, but no merchant came to hire
me,though all knew I had no job; I
have sat on every doorstep that
against me wasn't fenced, you could
scarcely find a building that I haven't
leaned against; I have smoked a
thousand stogies, I have chewed a
cord of plug, I have shaken dice with
dozens, I have touched each cider
jug, to sustain my drooping spirits
while I waited for a berth, with some
up-to-date employer who'd appre¬
ciate my worth. But the world is
79
out of kilter and the country's out
of plumb, and the poor downtrodden
voter finds that things are on the
bum."
so
OLD AND NEW
XTEW SONGS are made in long
* ^ array; we learn and sing them,
—for a day, and then they fade and
die away. But when the long, sad
day is through, refreshing as the eve¬
ning dew, are those old songs our
fathers knew. New hooks, in rich
and gorgeous dress, are coming
hourly from the press, and charm
by all their lovliness. But when
from bench or desk we roam, to find
the resting place at home, we read
the old, old treasured tome. New
friends are made at every reach of
our long road to Styx's beach; new
friends of warm and pleasant speech.
But when life's sun is in the West,
and feet are tired and hearts oppress¬
ed, the old time friend seems always
best.
81
THE HANDY EDITOR
\Y7HEN a man lias got a grievance
* * that is keeping him awake,
some old moldy, tiresome trouble
that has made his innards ache, then
he comes a-callyhooting to the print¬
ing-office door, for he wants to share
his trouble with the humble editore.
When a man has got a hobby that
has put him on the bum, then the
people flee a-shrieking when they
chance to see him come; but he
knows one weary mortal who must
suffer and endure, so he comes to
share his theories with the lowly
editure.
When a man has got a story that
with age was stiff and stark when old
Father Noah told it to the people in
the ark, then he comes, a-bubbling
over, to the Weekly Bugle's lair, for
he wants to share his gladness with
the soulful editaire.
O, he's always freely giving of the
things that make us tired, and he's
82
often pretty stingy with the things
that are desired; he might bring a
ray of sunlight to a life that's sad and
drear, if he'd give the absent treat¬
ment to the heartsick editeer.
83
THE SLEEPER WAKES
DERHAPS you've heard of old
Tom Tinkle, who went to sleep
like Rip Van Winkle, and slept for
thirty years; he woke the other day,
and gazing around him on the sights
amazing, his soul was filled with
fears.
"What world is this?" he asked, in
terror; "what life, of which I'm now
a sharer? What globe do we infest?
Oh, is it Saturn, Mars or Venus?
How many planets are between us
and good old Mother Earth? What
mighty bird is that a-soaring—I
seem to hear its pinions roaring, it
scoots along so fast? Old Earth,
with all her varied features, had
no such big, outlandish creatures
around, from first to last.
"It is an airship, Thomas Tinkle,"
I answered him; "a modern wrinkle,
just one of many score which were
by scientists invented to make the
people more contented since you be¬
gan to snore."
84
The Sleeper Wakes
I told him of the wireless sys¬
tem and other wonders—he had
missed 'em, since he was sound
asleep; of submarines which sink
and travel serenely o'er the mud
and gravel beneath the raging deep.
"You can't convince me," said the
waker, "that 'tis the earth—you are
a faker, and deal in fairy tales; no
man could soar away up yonder,
like some blamed albatross or con¬
dor on metal wings or sails. And as
for sending long dispatches from
Buffalo clear down to Natchez, the
same not being wired, if that's done
here it's not the planet whereon I
lived when mortals ran it; your
stories make me tired. But what
are these rip-snorting wagons? We
must be in the land of dragons! I
never saw the like ! So riotously are
they scooting, so wildly are they
callyhooting they fairly burn the
pike!"
I told him they were merely autos
whose drivers lived up to their mot¬
toes that speed laws are in vain; and
87
other miracles amazing with delicate
and pointed phrasing I started to
explain. 1 told of triumphs most
astounding, of things which should
he quite confounding to resurrected
men; hut in the middle of my soaring
I heard old Thomas Tinkle snoring
—he'd gone to sleep again.
88
IN HORSELAND
A WELL-FED horse drove into
town, behind a span of ancient
men, whose knees were sore from
falling down and striving to get up
again; their poor old ribs were bare
of meat, and they had sores upon
their necks; there wasn't, on the
village street, a tougher looking
pair of wrecks. And so they sham¬
bled up the street, a spectre har¬
nessed with a ghost; the horse
descended from his seat, and left
them standing by a post. And there
they stood through half the night,
and shook and shivered in the tugs,
the while their master, in delight,
was shaking dice with other plugs.
And there they died, of grief and
cold—no more they'll haul the heavy
plow; their master said, when he
was told: "They cost blamed little,
anyhow!"
89
INAUGURATION DAY, 1913
\TOW Washington is swarming
*• ' with men of sterling worth, all
bent upon reforming the heaven and
the earth; they come from far Savan¬
nah, they come from Texarkana,
and points in Indiana, with loud yet
seemly mirth. They're come from
far Alaska, where show is heaped
on snow; they've journeyed from
Nebraska where commoners do
grow; the famed, the wise, the witty,
the timid, and the gritty have come
from Kansas City and also Broken
Bow. Their battle shout is thrilling
as they go marching by, and every
man is willing at once to bleed and
die; to guarantee this nation a fine
Administration he'd take a situation
or kill himself with pie. The editors
of journals are marching in the
throng; and old and war-worn col¬
onels are teetering along; and friends
of Andrew Jackson and Jefferson,
now waxin' a trifle old, are taxin'
their dusty throats with song. No
90
wonder Woodrow Wilson, as this
great crowd appears, his silken 'ker¬
chief spills on some proud and grate¬
ful tears; the ranks of colonels face
him—such loyalty must hrace him,
and from dejection chase him in
future pregnant years. No office
need go begging before this mighty
host; he need not go a-legging for
masters of the post; he has to do no
pleading; they bring the help he's
needing; of dying and of bleeding
they make a modest boast. And so
he views the strangers from Mary¬
land and Maine, the tall, bewhis-
kered grangers who till the Western
plain; the men from desks and
foyers, the sheepmen and the saw¬
yers, the lumberjacks and lawyers,
all come to ease the strain; he views
the dusty millers from Minnesota
land; the shining social pillars from
Boston's sacred strand; the men of
hill and valley around his standard
rally (and on the snaps keep tally),
each with a helping hand. "My
fears are in the distance," is Wood-
91
row's grateful song; "what foe can
make resistance against this mighty
throng? So let us, lawyer, farmer,
ex-plute, and social charmer, gird
on our snow-white armor, and para¬
lyze each wrong !"
92
PRAYER OF THE HEATHEN
DEFORE a wooden idol two hea-
then knelt and prayed; it was
their day of bridal, the savage and
the maid. "We two have come to¬
gether, to journey through the years,
in calm and stormy weather, in sun¬
shine and in tears. O idol most
exalted, protect us on our way, and
may our feet he halted from going
far astray. This maid," the bride¬
groom muttered, "is fresh from Na¬
ture's hands; her boudoir is not
cluttered with strings and pins and
bands; she does not paint her fea¬
tures, or wear rings on her paws;
she's one of Nature's creatures, and
lives by Nature's laws. Her foot,
she does not' force it into a misfit
shoe; nor does she wear a corset to
squeeze her frame in two. That
frame has got upon it no clothes she
does not need; she wears no bug¬
house bonnet that makes man's
bosom bleed. This maid, this
weaker vessel, has movements swift
93
and free, and she can run and
wrestle, and she can climb a tree.
And if she shows a yearning to
emulate the whites, our good old
customs spurning, pursuing vain de¬
lights, O idol stern and oaken, take
thou thy sceptre dread, and may the
same be broken upon her silly head."
"This bridegroom," said the
maiden, "untutored is and rude, but
still he is not laden with habits vain
and lewd. 1 hope to see him trundle
each evening to his kraal, and not
blow in his bundle for long cold
pints of ale. With my consent he '11
never get next the slot machine, or
use his best endeavor to burn up
gasoline. No tailor hath arrayed
him, no valet hath defaced! He
stands as Nature made him, broad-
chested, slim of waist! And he can
swim the Niger, or rob a lion's lair,
or whip a full-grown tiger at Reno
or elsewhere! And if he would
abandon our simple heathen ways,
and learn to place his hand on some
foolish white men's craze, O idol, in
94
your dudgeon, obey bis bride's be-
best! Take up your big spiked
bludgeon, and swat bim galley
west 1"
95
THEORY AND PRACTICE
IN public I talk of Milton and give
Him ecstatic praise, and say tbat I
love to ponder for hours o'er his liv¬
ing lays; I speak of his noble epic,
that jewel which proudly shines, and
quote from his splendid sonnets (I
know maybe twenty lines) ; but
when I am home John Milton is left
on the bookcase shelf; he's rather
too dull for reading—you know how
it is yourself; to lighten the weight
of sorrow that over my spirit hangs,
I dig up the works of Irwin or Nes-
bit or Kendrick Bangs.
I talk much of Thomas Hardy
when I'm with the cultured crowd,
and say that few modern writers so
richly have been endowed; I speak
of his subtle treatment of life and
its grim distress, and quote from
"The Trumpet Major" or spiel a few
lines from "Tess." But when I am
in my chamber, where no one can
see me read, remote from the high¬
brow people and all that the high-
96
trows need, I never kave known a
longing to react for tke Hardy
tomes; I put in a joyous evening
witk Watson and Skerlock Holmes.
I talk a good deal of Wagner in
parlor and drawing room, and speak
of tke gorgeous fabrics ke wove on
kis wondrous loom, tke fabrics of
sound and beauty, tke wonderful
scroll of tone, and say tkat tkis
migkty genius remains in a class
alone. I wkistle "Tke Pilgrims'
Ckorus," and ckortle of "Loken-
grin," and say tkat all otker music
is merely a venial sin. But wken at
my own piano Susannak sits down
to play, I beg ker to cut out Wagner
and skoo all kis noise away. "I'm
weary and worn and beaten; my
spirits," I say, "are low; so give us
some kelpful music—a few bars of
'Jungle Joe!' "
97
FOOL AND SAGE
' I 'HE fool and his money are
parted, not long did they stay in
cahoots; but the fool is the cheer¬
iest-hearted and gladdest of human
galoots. His neighbor is better and
wiser, six figures might tell what
he's worth; but O how folks wish
the old miser would fall off the edge
of the earth!
98
THEN AND NOW
IN olden times the gifted hard
found life a pathway rough and
hard. Starvation often was his
goad, and some dark garret his
abode, and there, when nights were
long and chill, he sadly plied his
creaking quill. He wrote of shep¬
herds and their crooks, of verdant
vales and bahhling brooks, display¬
ing artfully his lore—while bailiffs
threatened at the door. And hav¬
ing wrought his best, he took with
trembling hands his little book to
lay before some haughty lord, and
cringe around for a reward. Some
times, perchance, he got a purse;
anon he only drew a curse; and
often in a prison yard the weary,
debt-incumbered bard was herded
with the squalid throng, and damned
the shining peaks of song.
The world moves on. The bard
today finds life a soft and easy
way. If he elects to cut his hair
he has the price and some to spare.
99
Attired in purple, lie goes by with
hard boiled shirt and scrambled tie,
and you can hear his bullion clank
as he goes prancing to the bank.
He writes no tame, insipid books of
dairy maids or shepherds' crooks,
of singing birds or burbling streams,
or any other worn - out themes.
Anon he touches up his lyre to
boost a patent rubber tire, or sings
a noble song that thrills concerning
someone's beeswax pills. His lyre's
a wonder to behold; its frame is
pearl, its strings are gold. His
sheetiron laurels never fade; the
grocer's glad to get his trade. While
he can make the muses sweat he'll
never go to jail for debt.
He calmly puts his harp away,
when he has toiled a 10-hour day,
and softly sighs: "There's nothing
wrong with this old graft of death¬
less song!"
100
THE SLEEPER
I HEY Lave planted him deep in a
grave by the fence, where the
sand burs are thick and the jimson
is dense; he's sleeping at last, and
as still as a mouse, held down by a
boulder as big as a house, and the
whangdoodle mourns in a neigh¬
boring tree, with a voice that's as
sad as the sorrowing sea. They
have planted him deep in the silt
and the sand, with appropriate airs
by the fife and drum band, and they
joyfully yell when the sad rites are
o'er: "Gosh ding him, he's taking
his straw votes no more."
101
FOOLING AROUND
/™\LD GRIGGINS the grocer, has
gone to the dump, and people
who knew him say he was a chump;
his prospects were fine when he
opened his store, and customers
brought him their bullion and ore,
and bought his potatoes and pump¬
kins and peas, his milk and molasses,
his chicory, cheese. But soon they
went elsewhere to blow in their
plunks, for Gnggins turned out such
a foolish old hunks; while others
were rustling for shilling and pound,
old Griggins the grocer kept fooling
around.
He stood in the alley and ranted
and tore, debating the tariff with
some one next door; he roasted the
tariff on spigots and spoons while
customers waited to purchase some
prunes; he argued that congress is
out for the pelf, and left his trade
palace to wait on itself. And pa¬
trons got huffy, their molars they
102
ground, while Griggins the grocer
was fooling around.
Old Griggins kept cases on sprint¬
ers and pugs, and talked of their
records, while people with jugs were
wishing he'd fill them with syrup or
oil, and cut out his yarns, which were
starting to spoil; he'd talk ahout
Jeffries or Johnsmg or Gotch for
forty-five minutes or more hy the
watch, while customers jingled their
coin in his store, and waited and
waited, and sweated and swore. At
last they would leave his old joint
on the bound, while Griggins the
grocer was fooling around.
The man who would win in these
strenuous days must tend to his
knitting in forty-five ways, be eager
and hustling, with vim all athrob, his
mind not afield, but intent on his job.
The sheriff will come with his horse
and his hound to talk with the man
who keeps fooling around.
103
GUESS WHO!
I IE is the press and the people,
*■ the sultan who rules the Turks;
he is the hell in the steeple, and he
is the whole hlamed works. He is
the hill and valley, the dawning, the
dusk, the moon; he is the large white
alley, he is the man in the moon.
He is the soothing slumher, he is the
soul awake, he is the hig cu¬
cumber, that gives us the belly¬
ache. He is the fire that quickens,
the company that insures; he is
the ill that sickens, and he is
the thing that cures. He is the rul¬
ing Russian, and we are the grovel¬
ing skates; he is the constitution,
and he's the United States.
104
TRYING AGAIN
\TO boarding bouse, tavern or inn
^ ' was in sight; so into a cavern
went Bruce, in sore plight. By
enemies bunted, a price on bis bead,
and all bis schemes shunted, be
wished be was dead. "In vain my
endeavor, repulsed my demands;
I'll try again never—I throw up my
bands!" And so be lay sighing and
cussing bis late, and wished be was
lying stone dead in a crate. A spider
was spinning its web by the wall;
now losing, now winning, now taking
a fall; though often it tumbled, it
breathed not a sob, nor crawfished
nor grumbled, but stuck to its job.
Then Bruce opened wider bis eyes
and exclaimed: "That dodgasted
spider has made me ashamed! I'm
but a four-flusher to sit here and
whine! This morning must usher in
triumphs of mine!"
He canned all his wailing and cut
out the frown, and went forth
a-smiling, and won a large crown!
105
And legions of fellows with tears
in their eyes, who wear out their
hellows with groaning and sighs,
who think they are goners, ordained
to the dump, would harvest some
honors if they would just hump!
The spiders are teaching, the same
as of old; the spiders are preaching
a gospel of gold: "Though baffled
and broken, O children of men, let
grief be unspoken—go at it again!"
106
ICONOCLASM
l^ING SKEPTIC wears his modern
crown, his stern, destructive
law prevails; he's tearing all our
idols down, disproving all our fav'rite
tales. Is there a legend you hold
dear, some legend of the long ago?
King Skeptic hears it with a sneer,
and digs up history to show that
things of that sort never chanced,
and never could, and never will.
"We have,' he says, "so much ad¬
vanced, that fairy tales don't fill the
till. No faked-up tales of knightly
acts, no Robin Hood romance for
me; the only things worth while are
Facts, Statistics, and the Rule of
Three."
With diagrams he shows full well
that old-time tales are things to
scorn; that such a man as William
Tell, in liklihood, was never born.
If Gessler lived and had a hat, he
didn't hang it on a pole; the rules of
Euclid show us that—so goes King
Skeptic's rigmarole. But, granting
107
that He Had a lid, and Hung it on a
pole awhile, and granting tHat tHe
people did How down to reverence
tHat tile, tHis does not prove tHat
William sHot an apple tHrougH an
apple's core, and so tHe anecdote is
rot—don't let us Hear it any more.
One-eyed Horatius never Held tHe
bridge beside His comrades bold,
wbile Sextus and His foe men yelled
—because tbere was no bridge to
Hold. WitH Fact King Skeptic
pounds your Head, and prods you
witH it to tHe Hilt, and sHows Hor¬
atius Had been dead ten years before
tHe bridge was built. "He fell not
in tHe Tiber's foam, performed no
feats of arms sublime. I know!
THe city clerk of Rome sent me tHe
records of tHat time!"
Mazeppa's ride was all a joke, as
all tHe statisticians know; tHe Horse
he rode was city broke, and stopped
whene'er He whispered "whoa."
Most luckily, the village vet wrote
down the facts with rugged power;
103
Mazeppa simply made a bet the
horse could go three miles an hour;
he wasn't strapped upon its hack, no
perils dire did him befall; he rode
around a kite-shaped track, and lost
his bet, and that was all.
And so it goes; you can't relate a
legend of heroic acts but that the
Skeptic then will state objections
based on Deadly Facts. Romance
is but a total loss, and all the joy of
life departs; we've nothing left but
Charlie Ross, and he'll turn up, to
break our hearts.
109
GATHERING ROSES
I'VE gathered roses and the like,
in many glad and golden Junes;
hut now, as down the world I hike,
my weary hands are filled with
prunes. I've gathered roses o'er
and o'er, and some were white, and
some were red; hut when I took
them to the store, the grocer wanted
eggs instead. I gathered roses long
ago, in other days, in other scenes;
and people said: "You ought to go,
and dig the weeds out of your
beans." A million roses bloomed
and died, a million more will die
today; that man is wise who lets
them slide, and gathers up the hales
of hay.
no
THE FUTURE SPORT
THE airsliip is a thing achieved;
it has its rightful place, as well
as any autocart that ever ran a race.
The farmer, in the coming years,
when eggs to town he brings, will
flop along above the trees, upon his
rusty wings. The doctor, when he
has a call, from patients far or near,
will quickly strap his pinions on, and
hit the atmosphere. And airship
racing then will be the sport to please
the crowds; there'll be racecourses
overhead, and grandstands in the
clouds. The umpire, on his patent
wings, will hover here and there;
the fans, with rented parachutes,
will prance along the air; the joyous
shrieks of flying sports will keep the
welkin hot, and soaring cops will
blithely chase the scorching aero¬
naut. We'll soon be living overhead,
our families and all; and then we'll
only need the earth to land on when
we fall.
111
TAKING ADVICE
A FORTY-FOOT constrictor once
was swallowing a goat, and hav¬
ing lots of trouble, for the horns
stuck in his throat. And then a wart-
hog came along, and said: "Oh, fool¬
ish snake! To swallow all your
victuals whole is surely a mistake.
It puts your stomach out of plumb,
your liver out of whack, and gives you
all the symptoms in the latest al¬
manac. If serpents for abundant
health would have a fair renown,
they'll chew a mouthful half an
hour before they take it down. Eat
slowly, with a tranquil mind and
heart serene beneath, and always
use a finger bowl, and always pick
your teeth. I'm reading up Woods
Hutchinson and Fletcher and those
guys, and following the rules they
make, which are extremely wise,
and oh, it pains me to the quick,
and jars my shrinking soul, to see
a foolish snake like you absorbing
dinners whole!"
112
The serpent got his dinner down,
with whiskers, horns and feet, then
slept three weeks; then looked
around for something more to eat.
And, having killed a jahberwock,
and found it fat and nice, he thought
he'd eat according to the warthog's
sage advice.
Ah, never more that snake is seen
upon his native heath! The little
serpents tell the tale of how he
starved to death!
Moral:
The counsel of the great may help
the man next door, 'tis true, and
yet turn out to he a frost when
followed up by you.
113
POST-MORTEM INDUSTRY
V/OU'VE heard of Richard Randle
* Rox? He died; they put him in
a box, and lowered him into a grave,
and said: **He'll surely now be¬
have."
For years this fertile Richard
penned books, rhymes and essays
without end. His helpful, moral
dope was seen in every uplift maga¬
zine, and people used to wonder how
the wheels within that bulging brow
produced such countless bales of
thought, such wondrous wealth of
tomyrot; and folks chewed cloves
and cotton waste to try to take
away the taste.
At last he died before his time—
killed off by an ingrowing rhyme.
The mourners laid him on his pall,
his three assorted names and all,
and said: "Doggone him! Now
he ll stop this thing of writing help¬
ful slop." He got the finest grave
in town, and marble things to hold
him down.
114
Long years Lave passed since
R. R. Rox was placed in silver-
mounted box; and does be rest in
peace? Instead, he's working Larder
now he's dead. New books are
coming from Lis pen until tbe chas¬
tened sons of men look round, their
eyelids red with grief—look round,
imploring for relief. "Is there no
way," so wails the Lost, "to lay this
Richard Randle's ghost?"
115
THE CONQUEROR
The pugilist, tall and majestic,
and proud of his numerous scars,
was telling of foreign, domestic, and
all kinds of Homeric wars. His
hearers were standing before him in
attitudes speaking of awe, for what
could they do hut adore him, the
man with the prognathous jaw?
"My make-up," he said, "rather
queer is, I've never seen others
that way; I simply don't know what
a fear is; I really rej'oice in the fray,
I guess I'm the champion glarer, my
glance seems to wilt all my foes; I've
seen fellows crumple with terror
before we had got down to hlows.
This made me so often the victor;
no qualms in my bosom I feel; I
don't fear a boa constrictor—my
heart is an engine of steel."
And so of his feats superhuman
he talked in a voice ringing loud,
until a small, fiery-eyed woman
came elbowing up through the crowd.
us
Tke Conqueror
Her voice, like her person, was
spindling, but Hercules heard when
she called: "Come home, now, and
cut up some kindling, or I will be
snatching you bald!" No more of
his triumphs he lilted, like Spartacus
spieling in Rome; the steel hearted
warrior wilted, and followed his con-
querer home.
119
THE TRUTHFUL MERCHANT
IF Ananias lived today and ran the
corner store, he couldn't keep the
wolf away from his old creaking
door. For men who spend their
hard-earned rocks won't patronize
the man who must forever, when he
talks, make truth an also ran.
I bought a whole new suit of
clothes from Bilks, across the street.
He said to me: "Such rags as those
just simply can't he heat. They
ornament the clothier's trade, and
eke the tailor's shears; they will
not shrink, they will not fade, they'll
last a hundred years. Go forth,"
said Bilks, "upon the street, in all
your pomp and pride, and every
pretty girl you meet will wish she
was your bride."
So I went forth in brave array,
the city's one best bet. There was
a little shower that day, and I got
slightly wet. And then the truth
was driven in that my new rags
12#
were punk. Alas, my friends, it was
a sin the way those trousers shrunk!
The buttons from my waistcoat flew
with dull and sickening crack; my
coat soon changed from brown to
blue and then split up the back.
Old Bilks gold-bricked me in that
deal, but does his system pay?
He'll never get another wheel from
me till Judgment Day. The kopeck
that you win by guile may swell
your roll today, but in the clammy
afterwhile it melts that roll away.
121
STANDING PAT
YOUR arguments for modern
^ things with me cannot avail; my
father reaped his grain hy hand and
thrashed it with a flail; then who
am I to strike new paths and buy
machinery? The methods good
enough for dad are good enough
for me! I want no hydrant by
my house—such doodads I won't
keep! My father drew the water
from a well three furlongs deep, and
skinned his hands and broke his
back a-pulling at the rope, and
methods that my father used will
do for me, I hope! Don't talk of
your electric light; a candle's all
I need; my father always went to
bed when 'twas too dark to read;
I want no books or magazines to
clutter up my shack; my father
never read a thing but Johnson's
almanac. A bathroom? Blowing
wealth for that ridiculous appears;
my father never used to bathe, and
lived for ninety years. I care not
122
for your "progress" talk, "reform"
or other tricks; my father never
used to vote or fuss with politics;
he never cared three whoops in
Troy which side should win or lose,
and I'm content to go his gait, and
wear my father's shoes.
123
THE OUTCAST
V/OU ask me why I weep and
moan, like some lost spirit in
despair, and why I wonder off
alone, and paw the ground and
tear my hair? You ask me why
I pack this gun, all loaded up,
prepared to shoot? Alas! my
troubles have begun—the women
folk are canning fruit! There is
no place for me to eat, unless I
eat upon the floor; and peelings
get beneath my feet, and make me
fall a block or more; the odors from
the boiling jam, all day assail my
weary snoot; you find me, then,
the wreck I am—the women folk
are canning fruit! O, they have
peaches on the chairs, and moldy
apples on the floor, and wormy
plums upon the stairs, and piles
of pears outside the door; and they
are boiling pulp and juice, and you
may hear them yell and hoot; a
man's existence is the deuce—the
women folk are canning fruit!
124
ODE TO KANSAS
J^ANSAS: Where we've torn the
shackles
From the farmer's leg;
Kansas: Where the hen that cackles.
Always lays an egg;
Where the cows are fairly achin'
To go on with record hreakin'.
And the hogs are raising bacon
By the keg!
125
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS
s
IT is good to watch dear father as
he blithely skips along, on his
face no sign of bother, on his lips a
cheerful song; peeling spuds and
scraping fishes, putting doilies on the
chairs, sweeping floors and washing
dishes, busy with his household
cares. Now the kitchen fire is burn¬
ing; to get supper he will start—
mother soon will be returning from
her labors in the mart.
Poor tired mother! Daily toiling
to provide our meat and bread!
Where the eager crowd is moiling,
struggling on with weary tread!
Battling with stockjobbing ladies,
meeting all their wiles and tricks,
or embarking in the Hades of the
city's politics! But forgotten is the
pother, all the work day cares are
gone, when she comes home to dear
father with his nice clean apron on!
kkffTI * 1 • 1 H •
lhere s your chair, he says; sit
in it; supper will be cooked eft-
soons; I will dish it in a minute—
126
scrambled egg s and sbredded
prunes." It is good to watch him
moving round the stove with eager
zeal, in his every action proving
that his love goes with the meal.
When the evening meal is eaten
and the things are cleared away,
then we sit around repeatin' cares
and triumphs of the day; and the
high resounding rafter echoes to our
harmless jokes, to our buoyant peals
of laughter, while tired mother sits
and smokes. Thus her jaded mind
relaxes in an atmosphere so gay, and
she thinks no more of taxes or of
bills that she must pay; smiles are
soon her face adorning, in our nets
of love enmeshed, and she goes to
work next morning like a giantess
refreshed.
127
CELEBRITIES
LIE Lad written lovely verses,
* ^ touching hollyhocks and hears¬
es, lotus-eaters, ladies, lilies, porcu¬
pines and pigs and pies, nothing
human was beyond him, and admir¬
ing people conned him, adoration in
their bosoms and a rapture in their
eyes. He had sung of figs and
quinces in the tents of Bedouin
princes, he'd embalmed the Roman
Forum and the Parthenon of Greece;
many of his odes were written in the
shrouding fogs of Britain, while he
watched the suffrage ladies mixing
things with the police.
So we met to do him honor; wor¬
shipper and eager fawner begged a
tassel of his whiskers, or his auto¬
graph in ink; never was there so
much sighin* round a pallid human
lion, as he stood his lines explain¬
ing, taking out the hitch and kink!
All were in a joyous flutter, till
we heard some fellow mutter: "Here
128
comes Griggs, tlie soutlipaw pitcher,
fairly burdened with bis fame! He
it was who beat tbe Phillies—gave
the Quaker bugs the willies—he it
was who saved our bacon in that
'leven-inning game!'
Then we crowded round the pitch¬
er, making that great man the richer
by a ton of adulation, in a red-hot
fervor flung; and the poet, in a
pickle, mused upon the false and
fickle plaudits of the heartless rab¬
ble, till the dinner gong was rung!
129
THE VIRTUOUS EDITOR
T USE my Trenchant, fertile pen to
help along the cause of men and
make the sad world brighter, to
give all good ambitions wings, to
help the poor to better things and
make their burdens lighter. The
page whereon my screeds appear
enjoys a sacred atmosphere; it's
helpful and uplifting; it hands out
morals by the ton, and shows the
people how to shun the rocks to
which they're drifting.
You say my other pages reek with
filthy "cures for cancer"? Im¬
pertinently, sir, you speak, and I
refuse to answer.
All causes good and true and pure,
and everything that should endure
I'm always found supporting; and
in my lighter moments I to heights
of inspiration fly, the soft - eyed
muses courting. To those who
wander far astray I, like a shepherd,
point the way to paths and fields
Llvsian; no sordid motives soil my
130
pen as I assist my fellow men, no
meanness mars my vision.
You say I print too many ads, unfit
for youths' perusal, of fakers' pills
and liver pads? I gave you one re¬
fusal to argue that, so quit your fuss
and cease your foolish chatter; it is
heneath me to discuss a purely
business matter.
I point out all the shabby tricks
which now disgrace our politics,
those tricks which shame the devil;
I ask the voters to deface corruption
and our country place upon a higher
level. Through endless wastes of
words I roam to make the Fireside
and the Home the nation s shrine
and glory; and Purity must ring
again in every offspring of my pen,
in every screed and story.
You say my paper isn't fit for
aught but toughs and muckers?
That all the fakers come to it when
they would fleece the suckers? Your
criticism takes the buns! It's surely
most surprising! You'll have to see
the man who runs the foreign adver¬
tising.
131
THIS DISMAL AGE
"IT is a humdrum world," he said,
* "in which we now abide! alas! the
good old times are dead when brave
knights used to ride to war upon
their armored steeds; then blood'
shed was in style; then men could
do heroic deeds, and life was worth
the while. If I should go with lance
and sword to enemy of mine—to one
by whom I've long been bored, and
cleave him to the chine, there'd be
no plaudits long and loud, no wreaths
from ladies pale; the cops would
seek me in a crowd, and hustle me
to jail. If down the highway I
should press, beneath the summer
skies, to rescue damsels in distress
and wipe their weeping eyes, I'd
win no praises from the sports;
they'd call me a galoot; I'd have to
answer in the courts to breach-of-
promise suit. Adventure is a thing
that's dead, we've reached a low
estate, and I was born, alas!" he
said, "five hundred years too late."
I
132
He took tke morning paper then,
which reeked with thrilling things,
with tales of fighting modern men;
the strife of money kings; the eager,
husy, human streams throughout
this mundane hive; the struggle of
the hasehall teams, which for the
pennant strive; the polar hero and
his sled; the race of motor cars; the
flight of aernauts overhead, outlined
against the stars.
"It is a humdrum age," he sighed,
"of avarice the fruit. Upon a steed
I'd like to ride, and wear a cast iron
suit, and live as lived the knights of
old, the heroes of romance; I'd like
to carry spurs of gold and wield a
sword and lance; hut in this drear
and pallid age, from Denver to Des
Moines, there's naught to stir a
nohle rage—there's nothing counts
hut coin!"
133
BOOST THINGS
F"\ON'T sit supinely on your roost,
but come along and belp us boost,
for better things of every kind, and
leave your kicking clothes behind.
Olet us boost for better streets, and
softer beds, and longer sheets; for
smoother lawns and better lights,
and shorter-winded blatherskites;
for finer homes, and larger trees, for
bats and boots and bumble bees;
for shorter hours and longer pay,
and fewer thistles in our hay, for
better grub, and bigger pies, for
two more moons to light the skies.
And let the wolves of war be loosed
on every man who doesn't boost!
134
THE ADVENTURER
LIE had braved tbe hungry ocean
*■ when tbe same was in commo¬
tion, be bad floated on tbe wreckage
of bis tempest-sbattered bark; be
bad flirted in deep waters witb tbe
merman's wives and daughters, be
bad scrapped through seven sessions
witb a large man-eating shark.
He bad roamed in regions polar,
where there's no effulgence solar, be
bad slain tbe festive walrus and tbe
haughty arctic bear; and bis watch¬
word bad been spoken in tbe wastes
by whites unbroken, and be shelled
out many gumdrops to tbe natives
living there.
In tbe jungles, dark and fearful,
where tbe tiger, fat and cheerful,
gnaws tbe bones of foreign hunters,
be bad gone, unscathed, bis way; be
bad whipped a big constrictor, and
emerged tbe smiling victor from a
scrimmage witb a hippo, which was
fond of deadly fray.
135
He was shot with poisoned arrows
and his tale of anguish harrows up
the bosom of the reader, but he lived
to journey home; he was chased by
wolves in Russia, thrown in prison
cell in Prussia, and was captured by
fierce bandits in the neighborhood of
Rome. He had lived where dwells
the savage whose ambition is to rav¬
age and to fill his cozy wigwam with
a handsome line of scalps; he had
lived with desert races, sought the
strange and distant places, he had
stood upon the summit of the lofti¬
est of Alps.
To his home at last returning,
filled with sentimental yearning,
"Now," he cried, "farewell to danger
—I have left its stormy track!" Far
from scenes of strife and riot he de¬
sired long years of quiet, but a cast¬
ing from an airship fell three miles
and broke his back.
136
THEY ALL COME BACK
' I 'HE stars will come back to the
azure vault when the clouds are
all blown away; and the sun will
come back when the night is done,
and give us another day; the cows
will come back from the meadows
lush, and the birds to their trysting
tree, but the money 1 paid to a
mining shark will never come back
to me ! The leaves will come back
to the naked boughs, the flowers to
the frosty brae; the spring will
come back like a blooming bride,
and the breezes that blow in May;
and joy will come back to the stricken
heart, and laughter and hope and
glee, but the money I blew for some
mining stock will never come back
to me!
137
HOME BUILDERS
/^LD Bullion lias a stack of rick
tilings in kis skack; of Persian
rugs and antique jugs and costly
bric-a-brac. There's art work in
tke kail, fine paintings on tke wall;
and yet a gloom as of tke tomb is
banging over all. Here costly books
abound. "This cost a thousand
pound; tkat trade-mark blur means
Elzivir—I've nothing cheap around.
Here's Venus in tke foam; tke
statue came from Rome; I bought
tke best tke world possessed when
I built up this home." Thus proudly
Bullion talks, as through kis home
he walks, and tells tke cost of
things embossed, of vases, screens
and crocks. No children's laughter
rings, among those costly things;
no sounds of play by night or
day; no happy housewife sings.
For romping girl or boy might easily
destroy a priceless jug, or stain a
rug, and ruin Bullion's joy. The
guests of Bullion yawn, impatient to
138
lie gone, afraid they'll mar some
lacquered jar, or tread some fan
upon.
Down here where Tiller dwells
you hear triumphant yells of girls
and hoys who play with toys, with
hoops and horns and hells. There
are no costly screens; no relics of
dead queens; hut on the stand,
close to your hand, cheap hooks
and magazines. There's no Egyp¬
tian crock, or painted jahherwock,
hut hy the wall there stands a tall
and loud six-dollar clock. Old Tiller
can't impart much lore concerning
art, or tell the price of virtu nice
until he breaks your heart. But in
his home abide those joys which
seem denied to stately halls upon
whose walls are works of pomp and
pride. That pomp which smothers
joy, and chills a girl or hoy, may
have and hold the hue of gold, but
it has base alloy.
139
FAILURE AND SUCCESS
I IE was selling tacks and turnips
* * in a gloomy corner store, and
he never washed his windows and
he never swept the floor, and he let
the cohwehs gather on the ceiling
and the walls, and he let his whisk¬
ers flourish till they brushed his
overalls. So his customers forsook
him—for his patrons were not
chumps—and the sheriff came and
got him and that merchant humped
the humps.
I IE was selling hens and ham-
mocks, as he'd done since days
of youth, and he queered himself
with many, for he never told the
truth. Oh, he thought it rather
cunning if he sold a rooster old as a
young and tender pullet through the
artful lies he told; and he'd sell a
shoddy hammock as a thing of silken
thread, and the customer would hust
it and fall out upon his head; so his
customers forsook him, and he sadly
140
watched them flit, and the sheriff
came and got him, and that mer¬
chant hit the grit.
I IF, was selling shoes and sugar—
* l sugar, from the sunny South—
and he'd roast the opposition when
he should have shut his mouth. He
would stand and rant and rumhle
by the hour of Mr. Tweet, who was
selling shoes and sugar in the shack
across the street; and he'd vow all
kinds of vengeance, and he'd tell all
kinds of tales, till his wearied patrons
sometimes rose and smote him with
his scales; for they cared about his
troubles and his sorrows not three
whoops, and the sheriff came and
got him, and that merchant looped
the loops.
I_JE was selling books and bees-
wax, and his store was neat
and clean, and the place was bright
and cheerful, and the atmosphere
serene. He was tidy in his person,
and his clerks were much the same.
141
and no precious time was wasted in
the tiresome knocking game. And
the customer who entered was with
courtesy received, and he felt quite
proud and happy when of cash he
was relieved. And the merchant's
word was golden, what he said was
always true, and he sold no moldy
beeswax, saying it was good as new.
And his trade kept on increasing till
his hank account was fat, and the
sheriff, when he met him, always
bowed and tipped his hat.
142
THE OPEN ROAD
Romance
' I O walk again the open road I
*• have a springtime longing; I
yearn to leave my town abode, the
jostling and the thronging, and
tread again the quiet lanes, among
the woodland creatures; where birds
are singing joyous strains to beat
the music teachers. Afar from
honks of motor cars, and all the
city's clamor, I'd like to sleep
beneath the stars, and feel no
katzenjammer when in the vernal
dawn I wake, as chipper as the
foxes, to eat my frugal oatmeal cake
put up in paper boxes. I fain would
revel in the breeze that blows across
the clover, and drink from brooks,
with stately trees, like Druids, bend¬
ing over. I'd leave the pavement
and the wall, the too persistent
neighbor, and hear the rooster's
early call that wakes the world to
labor. I'd seek the hayhelds whose
perfume the jaded heart doth
143
nourish, I'd go where wayside roses
bloom and johnny-jump-ups flourish.
I'd see the pasture flecked with
sheep and mule and colt and heifer,
and let my spirit lie asleep upon the
twilight zephyr. Oh, town, I leave
you for a week, your burdens and
your duties! The country calls me
—I must seek its glories and its
beauties!
Reality
^ EE whiz! I'd give a million
bones to be back home a-sleep-
ing! My shoes are full of burs and
stones, and 1 am tired of weeping.
Last night I sought a stack of hay,
where slumber's fetters bound me,
and at the cold, bleak break of day
a husky farmer found me. I tried
to pacify his nibs when he stood
there and blessed me; alas, his
pitchfork smote my ribs, his cow¬
hide shoes caressed me. The
dogs throughout this countryside
all seem to think they need me;
they've gathered samples of my
144
hide, and many times they ve
treed me. And when I roamed the
woodland path to see the wild-
flowers' tinting, a bull pursued me
in its wrath and broke all records
sprinting. At noontide I sat down
to rest, and rose depressed and
dizzy; I'd sat upon a hornets nest,
and all the birds got busy. My
whiskers now are full of hay, my
legs are lame and weary; it's been
a-raining every day, and all the
world is dreary. The road will do
for those who like a pathway rough
and gritty; I've had enough—just
watch me hike back to the good old
city.
145
THE MILLIONAIRES
' I 'HEY like to make tlie people
think that all their piles of yel¬
low chink, are weary burdens, to be
borne, with eyes that weep and
hearts that mourn; but as you jog
along the road, you see no million¬
aires unload. They like to talk and
drone and drool, to growing youths
in Sunday school, and tell them that
the poor man's lot is just the thing
that hits the spot; to warn them of
ambition's goad—they talk, and talk,
but don't unload. They like to talk
of days long gone, when life for them
was at its dawn, and they were poor
and bent with toil, and drew their
living from the soil, and lived in
some obscure abode—and so they
dream, but don't unload. They like
to take a check in hand, and, headed
by the village band, present it to
some charity—'twould mean five
cents to you or me ; then they're em¬
balmed in song and ode; they smirk
and smile, but don't unload.
146
LITTLE MISTAKES
I USED to trade at Grocer Gregg's
and paid him heaps of cash for
flour and cheese and germ-proof
eggs, and cans of succotash. But
now he doesn't get my trade—that's
why his hosom aches; I had to quit
him, for he made so many small
mistakes.
He'd send me stale and wilted
greens when I had ordered fresh;
he's send me gutta percha Leans,
all string and little flesh. And when
I journeyed to his store to read the
riot act, three score apologies or
more he'd offer for the fact. That
doggone clerk of his, he'd say, had
got the order wrong; and always, in
the same old way, he'd sing the same
old song. He seemed to think apol¬
ogies were all I should desire, when
he had sent me moldy cheese or her¬
rings made of wire.
And when his hill came in, hy
jings, it always made me hot; he'd
147
have me charged with divers things
I knew I never bought. Then I
would call on Grocer Gregg in wrath
and discontent, and seize him firmly
by the leg and ask him what he
meant. Then grief was in the gro¬
cer's looks, frowns came, his eyes
betwixt; "The idiot who keeps my
books," he'd say, "has got things
mixed. I wouldn't have such breaks
as these for forty million yen; I offer
my apologies and hope you'll come
again."
i
He'd often send the things I bought
to Colonel Jones, up town, and I
would get a bunch of rot that should
have gone to Brown. And oft at
home I'd wait and wait, in vain for
Sweitzer cheese; instead of that I'd
get a crate of codfish, prunes or peas.
And then I'd go to Grocer Gregg,
and mutter as I went; "I'll take that
merchant down a peg, and in him
make a dent." He'd spring the same
old platitudes when I had reached
his den : "That vampire who delivers
goods has balled things up again."
148
Apologies are good enough, ex¬
cuses are the same; hut forty-seven
are enough to tire one of that game.
It's better far to shun mistakes, and
do things right at first, than to ex¬
plain your dizzy breaks till your sus¬
penders hurst.
149
EASY MORALITY
\Y7HEN tilings are moving slick as
grease, it s easy to be moral
tben, to wear a gentle smile of peace,
and talk about good will to men.
Suck virtue doesn't greatly weigk,
in making up tke books of life; tke
man wko ckeerful is and gay, in
times of sorrow and of strife, is bet¬
ter wortk a word of praise, tkan all
tke gents of smiling mien, wko
swear in forty different ways wken
life kas ceased to be serene. Tkis
morning, as I ambled down, a neigh¬
bor fell (tke walk was slick) and slid
kalf-way across tke town, and land¬
ed on a pile of brick. He slid along
at suck a rate tke ice was melted as
ke went; kis skins were barked, and
on kis pate tkere was a large un¬
sightly dent. And wken. he'd breath
enough to talk, ke didn't cave around
and swear, or blank tke blanked old
icy walk; ke merely cried: 'Well,
I declare!"
150
THE CRITIC
COME years ago I wrote a book,
and no one read it save myself;
it occupies a dusty nook, all sad and
lonesome, on tbe sbelf. And having
found I couldn't write sucb stories as
would please tbe mob, I sternly said,
"I'll wreak my spite on tbose wbo
can bold down tbe job." So now I
sit in gloomy state and roast an
author every day, and show he's a
misguided skate wbo should be busy
baling bay. Tbe people read me as
I cook my victims, and exclaim with
glee, "If be would only write a book,
ob where would Scott and Dickens
be?"
I used to think that I could sing,
but when a few sweet trills I'd shed,
tbe people would arise and fling dead
cats and cabbage at my bead. Then,
realizing that my throat was modeled
on tbe foghorn plan, I said, "If I
can't sing a note, I'll surely roast tbe
folks wbo can! I go to concerts
and look wise, and shudder as in
151
misery; in vain the prima donna
tries to win approving smiles from
me; in vain the tenor or the bass, to
gain from me admiring looks, pours
floods of music through his face—I
squirm as though on tenderhooks.
And people watch my curves and
sigh: "He has it all by heart, by
jing! What melody would reach the
sky if he would but consent to sing!"
When I was young I painted signs,
but not a soul my work would buy,
for all my figures and my lines were
out of drawing and awry. And so 1
said: "It breaks my heart that I
can't sell a single sign; but in the
noble realms of art as critic I shall
surely shine!" And so I grew a Van¬
dyke beard, and let my hair grow
long as grass, and studied up a jar¬
gon weird, and learned to wear a
single glass. Then to the galleries
I went and looked at paintings with
a frown, and wept in dismal discon¬
tent that art's so crushed and beaten
down. And people followed in my
tracks to ascertain my point of view;
1S2
whenever I applied the ax they gaily
swung the cleaver, too. And often,
through a solemn hush, I'd hear my
rapt admirers say: "If he would
only use the brush, Mike Angelo
would fade away!"
163
THE OLD TIMER
you'VE built up quite a city here,
with stately business blocks, and
wires a-running far and near, and
handsome concrete walks. The trol¬
ley cars go whizzing by, and smoke
from noisy mills is trailing slowly to
the sky, and blotting out the hills.
And thirty years ago I stood upon
this same old mound, with not a house
of brick or wood for twenty miles
around! I'm mighty glad to be
alive, to see the change you've made ;
it's good to watch this human hive,
and hear the hum of trade!
I list to the moans and wails
Of your town, with its toiling
hands,
But O for the lonely trails
That led to the unknown lands!
I used to camp right where we
stand, among these motor cars, and
silence brooded o'er the land, as I
lay 'neath the stars, save when the
drowsy cattle lowed, or when a
154
The Old Timer
broncho neighed; and now you have
an asphalt road, and palaces of
trade! We hear the clamor of the
host on every wind that blows, when
people take the time to boast of
how their city grows! I do not
doubt that you will rise to greater
heights of fame, and maybe paint
across the skies your city's lustrous
name!
I list to the ceaseless tramp
Of the host, with its hopes and
fears;
But O for the midnight camp
And the sound of the milling
steers!
157
THE BRIGHT FACE
"""THINGS are moving slowly? Busi-
ness seems unholy? Better
things are coming, though they seem
delayed! Sitting down and scowl¬
ing, standing up and growling, fus¬
sing round complaining will not
hring the trade! Here comes Mr.
Perkins for a quart of gherkins—
don't begin to tell him all about your
woes; you will only bore him, laying
griefs before him, and he'll be dis¬
gusted when he ups and goes. Show
him that you're cheerful, for the
merchant tearful always jars his
patrons, always makes them groan;
they don't want to hearken to the
ills that darken over you for they
have troubles of their own.
Here comes Mrs. Twutter for
three yards of butter—let her see
you smiling, let her find you gay;
be as bright and chipper as a new
tin dipper, show you're optimistic,
in the good old way! If you mope
and mumble this good dame will
158
tumble, and she'll tell Ker neighbors
that your bead is sore; no one likes
a dealer who's a dismal squealer, so
your friends will toddle to some
other store. When the luck seems
balky, and the trade is rocky, that's
the time to whistle, that's the time
to grin! Time to make a showing
that your trade is growing, time to
show your grit and rustle round like
sin.
Here comes Mr. Bunyan for a
shredded onion, bullion in his trou¬
sers, checkbook in his coat; give
him no suspicion that the dull con¬
dition in the world of commerce has
destroyed your goat!
159
LADIES AND GENTS
TV/HEN I was younger kids were
** kids, in Kansas or in Cadiz;
now all tlie boys are gentlemen, and
all tke girls are ladies. Wkere are
tke kids wko climbed tbe trees, tbe
tousled young carousers, wbo got
tbeir faces black with dirt, and tore
tbeir little trousers? Wbere are tbe
lads wbo scrapped by rounds, wbile
otber lads kept tallies? Tbe maids
wbo made tbeir pies of mud, and
danced in dirty alleys? They're
making calf-love somewbere now,
exchanging cards and kisses, they're
all fixed up in Sunday togs, and they
are Sirs and Misses. Real kids have
vanished from tbe world—which
fact is surely hades; and all tbe boys
are gentlemen, and all tbe girls are
ladies.
ico
AUTUMN JOYS
I 'HE summer days Lave gone tLeir
ways, to join the days of sum¬
mers olden; tLe eager air is making
bare tLe trees, tLe leaves are red and
golden; tLe flowers tLat bloomed are
now entombed, tLe morn is cLill, tLe
nigLt is dreary; and I confront tLe
same old stunt tLat all my life Las
made me weary. Hard by yon grove
our beating stove is standing red
and fierce and rusty; and I must
black its front and back, and get
myself all scratched and dusty. And
I must pack it on my back, about a
mile, up to our sLanty, and work
witb wire and pipes and fire, tLe
while I quote warm things from
Dante.
1(1
THE LAND OF BORES
IN the country of the hores people
*■ never shut the doors, and they
leave the windows open, so you're
always catching cold; and they lean
against your hreast while relating
moldy jest that had long and flow-
ing whiskers when by Father Adam
told. In the country of the bores
people carry sample ores, and they
talk of mines prolific till you buy ten
thousand shares; and they sell you
orange groves and revolving fire-
less stoves, while they loll upon your
divan with their feet upon your
chairs. In the country of the bores
every other fellow roars of the sins
of public servants and the need of
better things; in a nation full of vice
he alone is pure and nice, he alone
has got a halo and a flossy pair of
wings. In the country of the bores
men who wish to do their chores are
disturbed by agitators who declaim
of iron heels, urging toiling men to
rise, with chain lightning in their
1S2
eyes and do something to the tyrant
and his car with bloody wheels. In
the country of the bores evermore
the talksmith pours floods of lan¬
guage on the people, who were better
left alone. But that land is far away,
and we should rejoice today that
we're living in a country where no
bores were ever known.
163
SKILLED LABOR
' I 'HE pumpmaker came to my
*• humble abode, for the pump was
in need of repair; his auto he left
by the side of the road, and his dia¬
monds he placed on a chair. And
he said that the weather was really
too cold, for comfort, this time of
the year; and he thought from Japan
—though she's haughty and bold—
this country has nothing to fear.
He thought that our navy should
equal the best, for a navy's a warrant
of peace; and he said when a man
has a cold on his chest, there's
nothing as good as goose grease.
He thought that the peach crop is
ruined for good, and the home team
is playing good ball; and the cur¬
rency question is not understood, by
the voters he said, not at all. Then
he looked at the pump and he gave
it a whack and he kicked at the
spout and said "Shucks!" And he
joggled the handle three times up
and back, and soaked me for seven¬
teen bucks.
1(4
AN EDITORIAL SOLILOQUY
I SIT all day in my gorgeous den
and I am the boss of a hundred
men; my enemies shake at my slight*
est scowl, I make the country sit up
and howl; to the farthest ends of this
blooming land men feel the weight
of my iron hand.
But, oh, for the old, old shop.
Where I printed the Punktown
Dirk,
And the toil and stress with the
darned old press
That always refused to work!
I soothe my face with a rich cigar
and ride around in a motor car; I go
to a swell cafe to dine and soak my
works in the rarest wine. Oh, noth¬
ing's too rich for your Uncle Jones,
whose check is good for a heap of
hones!
But, oh, for the old, old shop.
Where I set up the auction hills.
And printed an ad of a liver pad.
And took out the pay in pills!
165
I've won the prize in the worldly
game, my name's inscribed on the
roll of fame; my home is stately, in
stately grounds, I have my yacht
and I ride to hounds; nothing I've
longed for has been denied; is it
any wonder I point with pride?
But, oh, for the old, old shop.
In the dusty Punktown street!
I was full of hope as I wrote my
dope,
Though I hadn't enough to eat!
i«<
YOUTHFUL GRIEVANCES
1V/IY LADS," quoth the father,
"come forth to the garden,
and merrily work in the glow of the
sun; to loiter ahout is a crime be¬
yond pardon, when there's so much
hoeing that has to he done! It
pains me to mark that you'd fain be
retreating away from the hoes and
such weapons as these; you're dili¬
gent, though, when the time comes
for eating the turnips and lettuce
and cabbage and peas."
"Alas," sigh the boys, "that our
father must work us like galley
slaves, thus, at the hoe and the
spade! More fortunate lads all
have gone to the circus, they revel
in peanuts and pink lemonade! Oh,
what is the profit of pruning and
trimming, and sowing the radish, and
planting the yam, when everyone
knows there is excellent swimming
two miles up the creek at the foot of
the dam?"
"Sail in!" cries the parent, "the
167
daytime is speeding, the night will
he here in the space of three shakes!
Oh, this is the season for digging
and seeding, for doing great deeds
with the long-handled rakes! Con¬
sider the maxims of Franklin, the
printer, the rede of the prophets, of
poets who sing; in comfort they live
through the stress of the winter, who
toil like the ants or the hees in the
spring!"
"For maxims and proverbs it's
little we're wishing," the hoys mut¬
ter low, as they wearily delve; "the
neighbor hoy says there is elegant
fishing—he went after catfish and
came home with twelve. We have
to stay here doing labors that cramp
us, while others are pulling out fish
by the pound! They're playing base¬
ball every day on the campus, and
down in the grove there's a merry-
go-round !"
Alack! If the parents could see
with the vision of boys and if boys
used the eyes of their sires, then
fun would be labor, with rapture
elysian, and toil would be play, to
the music of lyres!
168
SUNDAY
VfOW the day is fading slowly and
^ * the week is near its close; comes
the Sahbath, calm and holy, with
its quiet and repose; then the wheels
no more are driven, and the noise no
longer swells and like whisperings of
heaven, sound the far-off Sabbath
bells. Are we striving, are we reach¬
ing, {or the life serene and sweet?
Not by platitudes and preaching, not
by praying on the street, but by
doing deeds of kindness, comforting
some heart that's sore, helping those
who grope in blindness, giving some¬
thing from our store. If it be our
strong endeavor to make others'
lives less hard, then forever and
forever Sunday brings a rich reward.
169
JOHN BARLEYCORN
T LIKE to find the gifted youth, the
* youth of hrains and virtue, and
whisper in his ears: "In truth, one
flagon will not hurt you. He who
eschews the painted hreath is nothing
hut a fossil; just try a drink of
liquid death—just join me in high
wassail. * At first my words may
not avail, they hut offend and fret
him, hut I keep camping on his trail
until at last I get him.
And having marked him for my
own, I glory in the reaping; I feel
that death, and death alone, can
take him from my keeping. He's
mine to do with as I will, he's mine,
both soul and body; his one ambi¬
tion is to fill his outcast form with
toddy. At first I take away his
pride, destroy his sense of honor,
and when I see these things have
died, I know he is a goner. I house
him in a squalid den, and take his
decent garments, and entertain him
now and then with rats and other
m
varmints. I place a mortgage on his
shack, despite his feeble ravings, I
put old rags upon his back, and con¬
fiscate his savings. And thus I take
what is a man, here in your Chris¬
tian city, and make him, hy my
ancient plan, a thing to scorn and
pity.
My victims lie in Potter's Fields
in regiments and legions; John Bar¬
leycorn his scepter wields o'er all
these smiling regions. I find new
victims every day as I go blithely
roaming; a million feet I lead astray
between the dawn and gloaming.
With sparkling beer and foaming
ale I am my friends befriending,
and to the poorhouse and the jail
my followers are wending. You
hear the pageant's dreary song as
down the road it ambles; I wonder,
oftentimes, how long you'll stand
my cheerful gambols?
171
CHRISTMAS DAY
IT is tlie day of kindness, and for
* tliis day we're freed from all the
sordid blindness of selfishness and
greed; we have a thought for others,
we'd ease their load of care; and all
men are our brothers, and all the
world is fair.
This is the day of laughter, where¬
in no shadows fall; and 'neath the
cottage rafter, and in the mullioned
hall, are happy cries ascending, and
songs of joy and peace; why should
they have an ending? Why should
the music cease? The music! When
we hear it, we old men softly sigh:
"Could hut the Christmas spirit live
on, and never die!"
This is the day of giving, and
giving with a smile makes this gray
life we're living seem doubly worth
the while. When giving we're for¬
getting the counting-room and mart,
and all the work-day fretting—and
this improves the heart; forgetting
172
bonds and leases, and every sordid
goal—this sort of thing increases the
stature of the soul!
This is the day of smiling, and
faces stern and drear, on which few
smiles beguiling are seen throughout
the year, are lighted up with pleasure
and eyes are soft today, and old men
trip a measure with children in their
play. And graybeards laugh when
pelted with snow by springalds flung,
and frozen hearts are melted, and
ancient hearts are young.
It is a day for singing old songs
our fathers knew, while gladsome
bells are ringing a message sweet to
you; a day that brings us nearer to
heaven's neighborhood, that makes
our vision clearer for all that's true
and good.
On with the Christmas revels in
cottage and in hall! While from the
starry levels smiles Christ- who
loves us all!
ITS
A CRANK'S THANKSGIVING
T IKE others, I'm grateful for
1 plenty to eat; I'm fond of a plate¬
ful of rich turkey meat. For pies in
the cupboard, and coal in the bin,
for tires that are rubbered, and
motors that spin; for all of my
treasures, for all that 1 earn, for
comforts and pleasures, my thanks
I return. I'm glad that the nation is
greasy and rich, acquiring high sta¬
tion with nary a hitch; her barns are
a-bursting with mountains of grain;
her people are thirsting for glory and
gain. She'll ne'er backward linger,
this land of our dads, for she is a
dinger at nailing the scads. I'm
glad that our vessels bring cargoes
across, while counting rooms wrestle
with profit and loss; that men know
the beauties of figures and dates,
and tariffs and duties and railway
rebates.
I'm glad there are dreamers not
industry - drunk, surrounded by
schemers whose god is the plunk.
174
I'm glad we've remaining incompe¬
tent jays, not always a-straining, in
four hundred ways, to run down and
collar one big rouble more, to add to
the dollar they nailed just before.
I'm glad there are writers more
proud of their screeds than board of
trade fighters of options and deeds.
I'm glad there are preachers who
tell of a shore where wealth-weary
creatures need scheme never more.
For books that were written by
masters of thought; for harps that
were smitten with Homeric swat;
for canvases painted by monarchs
of art; for all things untainted by
tricks of the mart; for hearts that
, are kindly, with virtue and peace,
and not seeking blindly a hoard to
increase; for those who are griev¬
ing o'er life's sordid plan; for souls
still believing in heaven and man;
for homes that are lowly with love
at the board; for things that are
holy, 1 thank thee, O Lord!
176
THE BRIEF VISIT
I WON'T be long in tbis vale of
*■ tears; my works may run for a
few more years, but even tbat is a
risky bet, and tbe sports are hedging
already yet. At morning a gent feels
gay and nice; and evening finds Kim
upon tbe ice, with bis folded bands
and bis long wbite gown, and bis
toes turned up and bis plans turned
down. So, viewing tbis sad un¬
certainty, and bearing tbe wasb of
tbe Dead Man's sea, I want to
cbortle tbe best I can, and try to
cbeer up my fellow man; to make a
fellow forget bis care, and make
bim laugb wben be wants to swear,
is as mucb as a poet can bope to do,
wbose lyre is twisted and broke in
two.
176
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