PS 3537 
 .fl693 
 H5 
 1915 
 Copy 1 
 
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Class__„rS5S57 
 
 Book____A4$3H4r 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
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unh a Urn otI|frs 
 
 By 
 J. E. SANFORD 
 
 Press ol WALDO R. HART, 
 Fredonia, N. Y. 
 
1^ 
 
 5^1 
 
 ^^%^^ 
 
 Copyright, 1915 
 
 By J. E. SANFORD 
 
 Elixabeth, N. J. 
 
 DEC II 1915 
 
 ©CI.A418003 
 
TO 
 
 EDWARD DOE, 
 
 THE BEST OFFICE BOY IN THE WORLD. 
 
Pietro is old and is bent and is gray, 
 
 Decoration by EARL HORTER 
 
Pietro is old and is bent and is gray. 
 A woi-n barrel organ he turns all the day. 
 And one tune you hear every time you pass by, 
 That old childhood favorite, sweet " Rockaby. " 
 
 "Rockaby baby, on the treetop — " 
 
 Into his cap the pennies now drop. 
 
 "When the bough breaks the cradle will fall — " 
 
 What tender visons those old notes recall. 
 
 Men who are busy with weighty affairs 
 Pause tor a moment forgetting their cares. 
 Memory quickly goes back to the day 
 Their own mother sang it her own loving way. 
 
 "Rockaby baby, mother is here — " 
 Surely she is; you can see her face dear. 
 "Angels of slumber, hovering nigh — '' 
 Pietro, there's gold in your old lullaby. 
 
 Pietro 's one tune echoes on year to year; 
 Poverty's gnawing he never need fear. 
 Rivals may come with their ragtime more spry. 
 But Pietro will win with his sweet lullaby. 
 
 "Rockaby baby" — memory's wings 
 Take the man back as his money he flings. 
 "Rockaby baby — " evening draws nighi — 
 O, Pietro, once more with your old lullaby. 
 
HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (^aah mh 1. ^. A. 
 
 We've South and North and West and East, 
 And forty races to say the least; 
 We fight and quarrel o 'er petty things. 
 And talk of anarchists, trusts and rings; 
 But just one hint of our country's call, 
 And the grand old flag is over all. 
 
 Let Europe sneer at our politics 
 
 And call us a loose thrown bunch of sticks. 
 
 To scatter widely when trouble nears. 
 
 One crisis serves to dispel all fears; 
 
 When moved to strike us, the foeman finds. 
 
 The grand old flag is the tie that binds. 
 
 We've men from all the warring lands; 
 'Twas said they never would join their hands; 
 We 've people here of all sects and creeds. 
 But they'll stand as one for the country's needs 
 And we don 't believe that we soon can fall. 
 When the grand old flag covers each and all. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 
 
 ICnyaltQ 
 
 You may boast Avith right of the rocket Might 
 
 Oi' yotir shining motor car. 
 You may tell the run your machine has done 
 
 When you 've never known a jar. 
 You may learn by heart ev 'ry bolt and part 
 
 And in "tuning up" rejoice, 
 But I'll take the course with my good bay horse 
 
 Who thrills to hear my voice. 
 
 You may pass me far with your zipping car 
 
 And your gait keep all the way. 
 And perhaps the speed of my good old steed 
 
 May flag by close of day; 
 But he pulls the rein, and he says as plain, 
 
 "Old Scout, you're there, I see," 
 And no mere machine can e 'er come between 
 
 Such fine old chum and me. 
 
 You may love the feel of the steering wheel 
 
 As you whirl the landscape by, 
 And may strain to snatch the slightest catch 
 
 In the works, with ear and eye, 
 And with practiced skill you may mend each ill 
 
 And delight each part to test, 
 But my good old bay will look down and neigh, 
 
 "Yes, it hurts, but you know best." 
 
 And perhaps your lights show the road at nights 
 
 As a guard from crash or fall. 
 But my old bay's sense is a sure defense 
 
 And I have no fears at all. 
 And till nerve and mind and a love most kind 
 
 Can be made of steel and brass. 
 You may speed your way and I '11 keep my bay. 
 
 Who neighs when he hears me pass. 
 
HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (ill|p Men Wljn i^aup '%at Arross" 
 
 Thf-y come from the ends of the dark backwoods 
 
 And sleep in a hall-room cot. 
 They starve for a year on their twelve a week, 
 
 And worry and work and trot; 
 Deliver the goods for a stingy wage 
 
 In fear of a grinding boss; 
 Oh, later the\- like to tell these yarns — 
 
 The men who have got across. 
 
 They know what it is to be "down and out," 
 
 With neither a sou nor friend. 
 They know how to make a pittance last 
 
 When it's days to the glad week-end; 
 They know turned collars and home pressea 
 clothes. 
 
 When a dime is a grie\'ous loss, 
 And some of them help a friend in need — 
 
 The men who have got across. 
 
 'Tis life to sit in the cool cafe 
 
 With a crowd of self-made men, 
 When they drop the waiter an extra tip 
 
 And call up old times again; 
 And they laugh at the rocky road they went 
 
 Till it takes an asphalt gloss. 
 The kings of the earth with their hearts of gold, 
 
 The men who have got across. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 
 
 mtrambpr to Sate 
 
 "Annual income twenty pounds; annual expenditures twenty 
 pounds, ought and six; result misery. "—Wilkins Micawber. 
 
 Mae Green works in a dry goods store; 
 
 Her pay is six a week, 
 Try as she will to make ends meet 
 
 She cannot stop the leak. 
 With board and shoes and waists and hats 
 
 And seven cents for lunch, 
 She sees the gray wolf at he door 
 
 And hears his molars crunch. 
 
 And Hiram Jones works in a shop; 
 
 His weekly wage is ten. 
 He finds he cannot meet the pace 
 
 And mix with other men. 
 While Joseph Smith gets twenty-five 
 
 And rents a litle fiat. 
 He says with food and tiny shoes 
 
 He don't know where he's at. 
 
 John Higgins at one hundred per 
 
 Is member of a club. 
 For theatres and taxicabs 
 
 He feels his purse-sides rub. 
 And Rufus Hawes, the millionaire, 
 
 Declares it makes him sigh 
 That palaces and limousines 
 
 And jewels are so high. 
 
 The chase to catch expenses is 
 
 The problem of the hour, 
 No matter if you're poor and weak 
 
 Or rich and blessed with powder. 
 And one thing stands before the re.st 
 
 In waging of the fight. 
 No matter what our income is, 
 
 Micawber had it right. 
 
10 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 The first frost crept like a nightly thief 
 
 O'er field and garden and vineyard fair, 
 And he laid his hands on the vine and leaf, 
 
 And when he parted, no joy was there. 
 For he clutched the throat of the waving corn, 
 
 And it bowed its plume and its life was fled. 
 And he stopped the blood of the plants ere morn, 
 
 And the garden drooped as a field of dead. 
 
 And the blue grapes back from the spoiler shrank 
 
 When he ."^tripped their cloak of protecting green 
 
 Though the blow fell short, their defense hung 
 
 dank, 
 
 And they knew their fate when the wind blew 
 
 keen. 
 
 O 'er field and garden and vineyard fair. 
 
 There was death and weeping and terror rife. 
 
 But the woods were touched with a radiance rare. 
 And the dull leaves blossomed in hues of life. 
 
 And the little brown nuts rattled down in glee — 
 
 "We're out of prison — ha, ha, we're free." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 11 
 
 Rest on the earth your weary head, 
 Hard as it is to be one's bed, 
 'Tis softer for your gentle smile 
 That made this wilderness worth while. 
 
 O modest, pathway-cheering friend. 
 Who gathered sunshine but to lend. 
 And found more joy the more on earth 
 Because each soul to you had worth. 
 
 In .seeking a frail wife to cheer. 
 With humor, homely and sincere. 
 You found the hidden lamp whose fianie 
 Hag made all people love your name. 
 
 No Midas treasures were your store, 
 The wealth you had was worth far more. 
 It greater grew for what you gave, 
 And is not vanished with the grave. 
 
 Delightful, gentle, trusted man. 
 If all the race but held your plan. 
 Each member would be comrade true. 
 And would be mourned as we mourn you. 
 
12 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Said William Jones to Hiram Brown, "Let's go 
 
 out lor a walk; 
 I'm tired of all these women folk's everlastini? 
 
 talk." 
 Said Hiram Brown: "They get my goat as sure 
 
 as you are horn; 
 'J'heir tongues run on from morn to night ami 
 
 then from night to morn. 
 I stayed around a sewing circle just the other day, 
 And conversation that I heard ran on about this 
 
 way: 
 
 'Why, Judith Jonks. h<>\v do you do? That dress 
 is just too sweet, ' 
 
 'Say, have you seen that woman that has moved 
 in un our .street?' 
 
 'Now when I can tomatoes I use alspice, 'stead 
 of cloves. ' 
 
 'We had such times with little flies; they ju.si 
 came in in droves. ' 
 
 And then they started on one stretch, with some- 
 thing said by each, 
 
 About the clothes a woman wore that stayed down 
 at the beach." 
 
 ' ' Say. let 's forget about 'em, then, ' ' suggested 
 
 William Jones; 
 "There's Isaac Jenkins coming, driving that old 
 
 bag of bones. 
 I'd surely think he'd gel some style; ju.st look at 
 
 that old rig — 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 13 
 
 ^\'hy, hello, Ike, how's taters? When you going- 
 to kill your pig? 
 
 "I hear Joe Barclay's bought him a new reap- 
 er." "Is that so? 
 
 Where under sun he'll get the cash to pay is 
 more'n I know." 
 
 "You look all spruced up, William; why I bet a 
 
 fly would slip 
 That struck that piece of clearing you made on 
 
 your upper lip. 
 A safety?" "Well, I got one, bMt I couldn't 
 
 make it do; 
 Gone back to my 'old broad -ax'; Hiram, how is 
 
 it with you?" 
 "I had one of those 'Triplex' that an agent mad«^ 
 
 me buy; 
 Out easy (when T say that I must wink the other 
 
 eye ) . " 
 
 "Some pipe that — what you smoking? Clippings? 
 
 I like 'Cabbage Blend.' " 
 "Grange Thursday, just for routine; I doni 
 
 think I shall attend." 
 ''Gone, Isaac? Well, so long, then; stop around 
 
 when you come back; 
 I ain 't been to the cro.ssroads till I mighty near 
 
 lost track. ' ' 
 "He's gone, that old pe.stiver; come on, Hiram, 
 
 let's go in; 
 But the gossip of these women is a, thing I hate 
 
 like sin." 
 
14 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ®l|p mh IFurniture 
 
 Did yoii ever give your home up, store your fui- 
 niture and leave? 
 
 Did you ever for a year for the familiar objects 
 grieve ? 
 
 Did you ever view a stranger's things in lodg- 
 ings or hotel? 
 
 Then the feelings when one's own arrives, per- 
 haps you know full well. 
 
 It seemed one time you never wished to see the 
 stuff again. 
 
 You thought you loathed the fixtures from recep- 
 tion hall to den; 
 
 But a year of hired apartments and of friendly 
 things a dearth 
 
 Makes one think that his old rubbish is the dear- 
 est stuff on earth. 
 
 You stroke the chairs and tables as pertaining 
 
 to yourself, 
 And there's benediction placing your own books 
 
 upon the shelf; 
 And the sun-light through the windows takes the 
 
 old-time kind of glow, 
 And Big Ben resumes his ticking where you stilled 
 
 him months ago. 
 
 Every dent upon the bookcase, every crack in 
 
 frame or glass, 
 Has a history familiar that grows fonder as years 
 
 pass; 
 And the mars and breaks of shipping seem like 
 
 wounds upon a friend; 
 You are grieved that they should happen and you 
 
 do your best to mend. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 15 
 
 Oh, the bridal pair seem happy in their cozy 
 little flat, 
 
 With their '•dollar weekly" talile and their wed- 
 ding present mat: 
 
 But for furniture and fixtures to bring out the 
 lasting smile, 
 
 You should labor years to get them, then just 
 leave them for awhile. 
 
 (Ho a lBlu0 lEy^li I^orUbb 
 
 Here's to nature's color true, 
 Many-mooded, queenly blue — 
 Blue on earth and blue on sea, 
 Robin's egg and fleur de lis. 
 
 Blue below and blue in skies. 
 Blue of blues within your eyes. 
 Nature holds no fairer hue. 
 All-pervading, lovely blue. 
 
 Eyes of black may flash like coals; 
 Byes of gray ma.y search your souls; 
 Eyes of brown may plead with you. 
 But we trust those eyes of blue. 
 
 Drink to beauty, drink to grace, 
 Drink to form or drink to face — 
 Hostess, all of these we do 
 When we toast those eyes of blue. 
 
16 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 '^a JtBtiitg matter 
 
 "War is what Sherman said," they laagh 
 AVhen some strange name defies the tongue; 
 
 Thus solemn word is turned to chaff 
 And saddest meaning Hghtly flung. 
 
 How few there are who stop to span 
 
 The years to where 'mid shot and shell, 
 
 Brave Sherman, gallant, tender man. 
 
 Gave that grim message, "War is hell." 
 
 Friend fought with friend, the nation bled 
 
 In internecine rivalry, 
 A^'hcn Shern^an his brave army led 
 
 Across old Georgia to the sea. 
 
 That suff'ring on his path must trail 
 On weak and 'fenceless, he knew well, 
 
 Yet knowing that he must not fail. 
 He grimly uttered. "War is hell." 
 
 The solemn word becomes a jest: 
 'Tis lightly bandied here and there. 
 
 By those who might not stand the test 
 Should real war's tocsin rend the air. 
 
 While millions fight and thousands bleed, 
 And widows' wails join In the knell, 
 
 'Twere better for the gay to heed 
 The meaning of that "War is hell." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 17 
 
 A ilalk ttt tl)0 ^atn 
 
 When it seems that all of creation 
 Is full of trouble and pain, 
 
 I love to break from the turmoil 
 And g^o to walk in the rain. 
 
 Wrapped in a cozy oil-skin 
 Rain drops against my face, 
 
 Coo! all the day's vexation. 
 Wash out each fretful trace. 
 
 No one to bar my progress. 
 No one to note my mood, 
 
 Here in the seething city 
 T can find solitude. 
 
 Screened by the driving rain-drops. 
 
 Shielded and fresh and free. 
 All of the world seems fashioned 
 
 Just for my thoughts and me. 
 
 Air that was never cleaner. 
 
 Never a thing to cloy. 
 Balm for the pangs of heart-ache. 
 
 Coolness and life and joy. 
 
 Visions of happy moments 
 Come in an endless train, 
 
 Nothing on earth quite like it, 
 Walking out in the rain. 
 
18 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 The knitting women count twenty-two— Guillotine scene in Tale 
 of Two Cities. 
 
 In the dampness of a wine-shop, 
 
 Where dark Paris loomed around, 
 And the rising revolution 
 
 Cast its shadow on the ground. 
 Sitting, sitting, sitting, 
 Knitting, knitting, knitting. 
 And the record of their stitches 
 Was of heads to kiss the ground. 
 
 O those vengeful Paris women 
 
 Underneath the despot's heel, 
 Longing but to see oppressors 
 Bleeding 'neath tho falling steel. 
 Knitting, knitting, knitting. 
 Flitting, flitting, flitting, 
 Here and there with clicking needles 
 Ceaseless as the fatal wheel. 
 
 But the glass of time has brought us 
 
 To another day of strife. 
 With a mass of freezing soldiers 
 Fighting for each nation 's life. 
 In the trenches lying, 
 Dying, dying, dying, 
 In the snow in open trenches, 
 
 Thinking each of home and wife. 
 
 Once again the knitting women 
 
 In each mart and home are here, 
 But the message of their needles 
 Is a word of hope and cheer, 
 Sitting, sitting, sitting, 
 Knitting, knitting, knitting. 
 In the hope of doing mercy 
 
 To the men to some one dear. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 19 
 
 l^amt 
 
 We're housekeeping now in our own little flat. 
 
 And it 's home. 
 The rooms they are bare, but we're careless of 
 that, 
 
 For it's home. 
 The furniture still is a thousand miles west, 
 We're missing the things that we always liked 
 
 best; 
 But we get our own meals and we laugh at the 
 rest — 
 
 For we 're home. 
 
 A cot and a stove and two boxes for chairs; 
 
 But it's home. 
 No table — 'we eat on the trunk, but who cares? 
 
 For it's home. 
 Two cups and two saucers — no, nothing in 
 
 "twelves" — 
 Two knives and two forks and two spouns — and 
 
 ourselves — 
 Two plates and some other small things on the 
 shelves — 
 
 But it 's home. 
 
 We've stayed at hotels till we hate the mere 
 name — 
 
 Now we 're home. 
 And the boarding-hou.se life is a homesick old 
 game — 
 
 So we're home. 
 We'll eat and be merry of canned goods and tea, 
 And think of the feasts in the home that's to be, 
 And a happier pair is found nowhere than we. 
 
 In our home. 
 
20 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 l|ta (Fliankfigiuing 
 
 He sat on a stool in a "ham and — " lunch 
 
 And gazed at the man in white. 
 His eyes roamed thence to the rude-chalked signs 
 That blinked in the glaring light. 
 
 He glanced at the "Sausage and wheats for ten," 
 
 The "Pork with a side of peas," 
 And said: "Yes, I'll take just a little more 
 
 White meat, with some dressing, please. 
 
 "The turnip is fine, and I'd like some squash. 
 But I'll have to leave room for pie. 
 
 Just pass the gravy; I'll help myself; 
 I don 't like potatoes dry. 
 
 "I'd like to eat more of this home-cooked stuff; 
 
 It's good to be home once more. 
 Hello; here's a wishbone; who wants to wish? 
 
 I'll bet there's some luck in store." 
 
 The white-coated man gave a meaning trown, 
 
 "Your order, or leave," said he. 
 The customer's mind with a start came back. 
 
 "Well, what shalll I eat? Let's see. 
 
 "Some cabbage and ham, and some coffee — 
 dark — 
 
 My limit, I guess, today. 
 
 That leaves mo a nickel? You keep it, friend. 
 
 Forget what you heard me say. ' ' 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 21 
 
 The mail clerk earns his money now. 
 
 Of all times in the year; 
 The letters and the mailing cards 
 
 Pile up to make life drear; 
 But what bring on the greatest gloom 
 
 And yet are borne the most 
 Are bundles that come open in 
 
 The Christmas parcel post. 
 
 They've ninety kinds of covering 
 
 And eighty kinds of string; 
 They'd spill their store of Christmas cheer 
 
 If they should get one fling; 
 But Charlie, Al and Jim and Pete, 
 
 Deal gently with the mess, 
 They know each bundle bears its freight 
 
 Of loving thoughtfulness. 
 
 A package splits to show some socks 
 
 Sent to an absent son; 
 A box-lid breaks and spills the ties 
 
 Inscribed "My Little Hon — " 
 With rips and cracks and sifts and splits 
 
 The mailmen would go wild, 
 But knowing of the hearts behind 
 
 They keep a manner mild. 
 
 The shipping clerk no mercy gets 
 
 When parcels fall in twain; 
 The mailm.en and expressmen vie 
 
 To show he gives them pain; 
 But weird and frail and fearsome loads 
 
 Are carried through the mail 
 When Christmas spirit guide.", the hands 
 
 Whose skill may often fail. 
 
22 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 SIliP ioirB Iptiffit lull 
 
 The Dolltown Social Register devotes a page of 
 
 space 
 To telling of the benefit that recently took place. 
 The ballroom was a toy store that was trimmed 
 
 in red and green, 
 And dolls of every age and size lent color to the 
 
 scene. 
 
 'Twas given for the benefit of dolls in other climes 
 Whose Christmas would be darkened by the 
 
 troubles of the times. 
 In former years these dolls had been the fairest 
 
 of them all, 
 Their absence was the only thing that marred the 
 
 splendid ball. 
 
 And yet here was a source of pride, the Register 
 narrates, 
 
 To see the beauties who were reared in the United 
 States. 
 
 Whatever might be lacking in complexion, poi-o 
 or dress 
 
 Was made up by the many charms of native love- 
 liness. 
 
 Miss Ethel Pinkcheeks led the line in gown of 
 
 filmy lace 
 With Captain Arthur Bluecoat, finest soldier in 
 
 the place. 
 And tripping through the mazes were a throng 
 
 of great and small. 
 While little Kewpies ran with punch and cake 
 
 around the hall. 
 
 They opened with "Virginny Reel" to break the 
 
 social ice, 
 Then paired off for the waltzes, which were al 
 
 ways encored twice. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 23 
 
 And then some dancing dolls showed how the 
 
 latest steps are done, 
 And when all tried the tango there were all 
 
 amounts of fun. 
 
 The music was the finest that the Dolltown band 
 
 could play, 
 And Dolltown 's Santa's visit made the revelers 
 
 more gay. 
 Refreshments then were served, and dolls could 
 
 n-it have eaten more. 
 The party las'ted till 'twas time to open up the 
 
 .store. 
 
 The proceeds will be sent to aid the foreign 
 
 Christmas cheer, 
 With wishes kind and earnest hopes for better 
 
 times next year, 
 The Regi.ster, however, lets a clever reader guess 
 The dolls were glad they didn 't have to vie with 
 
 Paris dress. 
 
 The plum cake mother set away 
 
 For Christmas weeks ago 
 Will soon be brought to vievv again 
 
 On festal board to glow. 
 
 With pride she hid the precious loaf 
 
 From eager little eyes 
 With thoughts of Tommy's wonderment 
 
 And Susie's glad surpri.se. 
 
 But when the cake is brought to light 
 "Twill bear the marks of thumbs. 
 
 They didn't steal the cake, mamma, 
 They only picked the plums. 
 
24 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (HJj? (Sift f e lH'xktli 
 
 Smith sat at his desk when his Christmas was 
 
 done, 
 And gazed at the ash-tray inscribed, "From your 
 
 son." 
 Cigars from his wife he. reserved for a "bore," 
 Then turned to some bills and the envelopes tore. 
 
 " 'To desk set' — yes that's the one daughter 
 gave me; 
 
 Why throw out the old one is what I can't see. 
 
 'Cigars' — why can't wife let me buy them my- 
 self? 
 
 'To dressing gown,' only to lay on the shelf." 
 
 With comments like these he communed with 
 
 his ills, 
 While adding the total of Christmas gift bills; 
 Then he groaned at the sum and maligned old 
 
 Saint Nick, 
 When he came to a qnocr little package "From 
 
 Dick." 
 
 A penwiper quaint was revealed to his view, 
 With a scrawley note: "Papa I did this for you. 
 It's not very good, I'm afraid; but I guessed 
 If I did what I could, you'd excuse me the rest." 
 
 And when he had read the queer note from his 
 
 child. 
 He turned to his work with a manner more 
 
 mild, 
 "I'll pay the bills and imagine it's joy, 
 For the sake of this one loving gift from my 
 
 boy. ' ' 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 25 
 
 Thing's weren't looking rosy for the Jones' 
 
 Christmas Day; 
 For business was slaclv, and Dad was lucky on 
 
 half- pay. 
 With clothes and rent and fuel bills and seven 
 
 mouths to feed, 
 It looked as if the presents would be mighty slim 
 
 indeed. 
 
 A boughten gift from each to each had been the 
 
 Jones ' way 
 With Christmas wreaths and trimmings and an 
 
 evening at a play. 
 Did dropped a chance remark about a Christmas 
 
 long ago, 
 And mother caught a thought that made her 
 
 pleasant features glow. 
 
 "The very thing," she cried; "we'll have the 
 
 finest Christmas yet. 
 With all our modern customs it is strange we 
 
 should forget. ' ' 
 Her project caused the children to reflect her 
 
 glowing cheeks. 
 And from that time to Christmas was a busy 
 
 term of weeks. 
 
 Dad tinkered In the basement with a hammer, 
 
 saw and plane. 
 And Mother made her knitting needles shine and 
 
 click again. 
 While Sis was ever busy with crochet work, silk 
 
 and floss; 
 The Twins did mystic little stunts and quarreled 
 
 " who was boss. " 
 
26 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Bach kept l^iis Viork o, secret, while the days went 
 
 flitting past 
 Until the calendar made known The Night was 
 
 here at last. 
 The Twins had trudged Johnson's woods for 
 
 hemlock: spruce and pine, 
 While Sis slit colored papers which she worked 
 
 an hour to twine. 
 
 The family .sat 'i-ound the fire while Sis and 
 
 ^iothr-r read; 
 Then every one his stocking hung and slipped 
 
 away to bed. 
 Some stealthy sounds were heard around the 
 
 hoii.^e throughout the night, 
 But no one sought to .see his gifts till Christmas 
 
 morning light. 
 
 Then cries of pleasure filled the air in varied 
 key and tone. 
 
 Each chaffed the other's glad surprise, and mar- 
 veled at his own. 
 
 The twins had sleds, a bookcase Sis; a workbox 
 Mother drew. 
 
 These were Dad's gifts; the others furnished 
 each his quota, too. 
 
 They spent the day comparing notes about each 
 
 clever ruse, 
 And dinner found the group with all the joys of 
 
 earth let loose. 
 They played the good old-fashioned games and 
 
 when the evening came 
 They sat around the fire again and watched its 
 
 homelike flame. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 27 
 
 And Dad a^d Mother told about the days when 
 
 they were young, 
 While all the children on their words in eager 
 
 rapture hung. 
 The time wf^ni )■>■ so fast it seemed as if the 
 
 clock was wrong 
 When midnight chimed and Mother said " 'Tis 
 
 time to run along." 
 And as good -nigh 1 was said to each with loving, 
 
 hearty cheer, 
 They said the "hard times" Christmas was the 
 
 best in man\' a year. 
 
 3Fnr Wljtrlj Wt (^xnt QU^anka 
 
 We stand at peace with all the world. 
 What word more welcome could we say? 
 
 With swords in sheath and war-flags furled, 
 We gather for Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 What word more welcome could we say. 
 When looking out beyond the waves, 
 
 We see the horrid, bloody fray 
 
 That fills a million rough-dug graves? 
 
 With swords in sheath and war-flags furled, 
 What Nation favored as are we? 
 
 We watch the strife that tears the world. 
 And thank the Hand that keeps us free. 
 
 We gather for Thanksgi\ing Day, 
 And may our praises never cease 
 
 To One who makes it ours to say. 
 
 With all the world we stand at peace. 
 
28 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 InJipr JmmutiP (talors 
 
 Over the cruiser-combed eastern track, 
 
 Swept by marauding- bands, 
 Guided to bristling, mirte-strewn ports. 
 
 Welcomed by warring lands; 
 English and German and French make haste 
 
 Giving- a passage clear, 
 Speeding the craft that is friend to all. 
 
 Ship of the Christmas cheer. 
 
 Loaded by loving and thoughtful hands 
 
 W^here froin grim war we're free. 
 Sent for the comfort of troubled ones. 
 
 Stricken across the sea, 
 Heavy with generous gifts to bring 
 
 Sunshine where now 'tis drear. 
 Seldom a craft had yv.-\i erra-il glau, 
 
 Ship of the Christmas cheer. 
 
 Jason the name of the noble boat, 
 
 Named for that hero old. 
 Him who the iJerilous seas once sailed 
 
 Hunting for fleece of gold. 
 Rich the reward that his voyage brought. 
 
 Back in that ancient year, 
 Richer the treasure the Jason holds 
 
 Treasure of Christmas chrer. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 
 
 I went to the city and spent mj^ pile 
 
 Tn tasting its far vaunted luxury. 
 Each one whom I met had for me a smile 
 
 As long as my money was flowing free. 
 While bills had a ru.stle or coin a clink, 
 
 The lightsome gay world was my willing pawn, 
 But no wind so chill through a cabin chink 
 
 As the looks I received when my cash was 
 gone. 
 
 I went to my home and I found a glow 
 
 Of fire and candle and dear ones' glance, 
 The chair that I love and the books I know 
 
 Of history, poem or fine romance. 
 More shining by far, than the bright cafe 
 
 The radiance shone through that happy place, 
 And none when my riches had flown away 
 
 Would answer my nod with a chilly face. 
 
 The city has pleasures if one can pay. 
 
 Subservient all to the chink of gold. 
 But gone is the gleam of the Great White Way 
 
 For one when the end of his wealth is told. 
 
 But home and the loved ones and books and 
 chair 
 
 Are lasting for him who will seek their grace 
 
 And better to seek for your comfort there 
 
 Than scatter your substance in empty chase. 
 
30 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ^'^6 l^tmxh Mamnxt 
 
 There were honors for the Mogul when the Sons 
 of Thunder met 
 With a bunqiH I and some speeches and the 
 rest. 
 He'd risen from tlieir numl>er till the brightest 
 crown was set 
 Upon his brow and all did his behest. 
 He'd been Rviler of the Punjab, Prince of X an 
 Lord of Y, 
 The order knew his name from sea to sea. 
 But the honor of this evening was the highest of 
 the high 
 When he gaAe his eldest son the Third Degree. 
 
 There were high officials waiting to escort him 
 to the throne; 
 He waved them back and sought a place apart 
 Where "torture" tools were kept that might 
 abash a man of stone 
 .-^nd implements to cow the bravest heart. 
 "Have every pitchfork sharp," he told the mas- 
 ter of affairs, 
 "And have the goat as frisky as can be. 
 I want to show the Order we're a family that 
 dares. 
 T 'm going to give my son the Third Degree." 
 
 And when at last the candidate was led into the 
 hall. 
 
 With warlike mien the Mogul barred his way. 
 
 And when he saw the way his son responded to 
 to the call. 
 
 He almost lost the lines that he should say. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 31 
 
 He gave him all the hardships of the Road to 
 Jei'icho; 
 He didn't spare a thing from A to Z, 
 And the crown of all his honors was the priv- 
 ilege to know 
 11 is eldest son had stood the Third Degree. 
 
 "I know that Santa Claus is real," 
 
 Said little Johnnie Fry, 
 * ' Because my papa says he is, 
 
 And he don 't tell a lie. 
 
 But out on Broad street yesterday 
 
 I saw him ev'ry block, 
 And if he brings the things I asked 
 
 He '11 have a heavy stock. 
 
 "Rut here's the thing that puzzles me 
 
 With all my faith in him, 
 Some places he'd look round and fat, 
 
 And sometimes tall and slim." 
 
 SI|F Sartlmuakf 
 
 The monster. Earth, but wrinkled up his hide 
 AVhere it was stiff from lying in the sun, 
 
 And with that wriggle countless hundreds died. 
 Nor cared the monster at the carnage done. 
 
32 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ^pavt 
 
 The lake is floored with gleamy ice; 
 
 The air is crisp and Iceen 
 Tlie shouts of joyous life rings out 
 
 And glint of skates is seen. 
 And skimming swift with merry zest 
 
 The dancing skaters fly, 
 While mingled colors weave a charnx 
 
 Delightful to the eye. 
 
 Sing hey, sing ho. 
 
 And here 's a lively race. 
 
 Sing ah, sing oh. 
 
 And there's a stirring pace. 
 With laugh and shout. 
 
 And merry whir and ring. 
 The sport of sports is at its height 
 
 And every lad's a king. 
 
 The pigeon wing and figure eight 
 
 Are cut in ardent glee. 
 The cross-steps test the skater's skill, 
 
 A dainty thing to see. 
 While boys and girls in mystic maze 
 
 Through varied figures reel. 
 In little groups you '11 see them try 
 
 A tango done on steel. 
 
 Sing hey, sing ho. 
 
 And whirl and glide and dip: 
 Sing ah, sing oh, 
 
 Be careful not to slip. 
 With whir and scrape 
 
 They glide and sweep and sing. 
 The sport of sports is at its height 
 
 And every lad 's a king. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 33 
 
 (File i>lratt9rr 
 
 'Tis tough to be a stranger in a busy city street 
 
 And watch the tide of people ebb and flow 
 And find in all the faces that your waiting glances 
 meet 
 There's not a single feature that yon know. 
 The types you see remind you of Josephus, Tom 
 or Jim; 
 You start to speak, then catch yourself and 
 halt; 
 But 'twould seem just like the music of the an- 
 cient Seraphim 
 To have a man step up with, "Howdy, Walt." 
 
 The heart of any snowstorm is a place of perfect 
 peace; 
 There's no one to molest and none to sneer; 
 Your thoughts come as companions in a stream 
 that does not cease; 
 The solitude is filled with life and cheer; 
 But the lonesomest and blankest place a man can 
 ever be, 
 That leads your very soul to cry out loud. 
 Is to find a total stranger in each living face 
 you see 
 In any thoughtless, selfish city crowd. 
 
 Sometime from out the turmoil you will catch a 
 friend from home; 
 He'll not escape if it's within your power; 
 You'll make him tell in detail stuff enough to 
 fill a tome 
 Of people whom you knew in childhood's hour. 
 The people of a city are all human I suppose; 
 That they don 't know^ you may not be their 
 fault; 
 But oft and oft a fellow sees them pass in hur- 
 ried droves 
 And longs for just one voice to call him Walt. 
 
34 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ®l|p (Eommutpr'fi ^unbay 
 
 Six days he's rushed each dawning morn 
 
 To catch that hated train — 
 Alarm clock 's call, a jump, a run. 
 
 Resentment in his brain, 
 But on the Sunday sweet his sleep 
 
 And late the breakfast bell, 
 This day he nee^dn 't go to work, 
 
 His peace is hard to tell. 
 
 Where egg and toast he'd snatched in haste, 
 
 He eats his lazy fill. 
 And then his Sunday paper reads 
 
 In peace serene and still. 
 The shave hf 'd done with fever haste 
 
 Consumes unheard of time; 
 His bath is tempered to his taste; 
 
 The water seems sublime. 
 
 And now v>!th jacket and cigar 
 
 He roams about the place 
 And plans his garden for the spring 
 
 With smile upon his face. 
 The children troop around his steps. 
 
 New color in each cheek. 
 And tell the things they've kept in store 
 
 For Daddy for a week. 
 
 Perhaps he cares to go to church 
 
 And grace the family pew; 
 Perhaps he sits at home to smoke 
 
 Until the session's through; 
 But dinner, best meal of the week, 
 
 Finds all around the board, 
 The emptiness of six long days 
 
 In Just one hour restored. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 35 
 
 Some calls, a walk, mayhap a spin, 
 
 Then tea and parlor light. 
 An evening passed with books or chat 
 
 And then at last "Good night." 
 Next day the same old rush resumes 
 
 With haste and chase and din 
 But one full day in peace at home 
 
 Is worth it all to win. 
 
 OIl|r Olommuter 
 
 Up from the bed at the dawn of day, 
 
 Razor and tub and clothes, 
 Munching his breakfast while on the way, 
 
 Just as the whistle blows; 
 Catching the rail of a moving train. 
 
 Crowding to find a seat, 
 Searching to answer to "Tickets, please!" 
 
 Glimpsing the morning sheet. 
 Mixed in a hurrying jam of life. 
 
 Plodders and "plebes" and "plutes, " 
 So the kaleidoscope, changing fast. 
 
 Whirls when a man commutes. 
 
 Off at the transfer as like as not, 
 
 Then into Jersey Town, 
 Ci-ammed in the lift in a carload lot. 
 
 Dropping for fathoms down; 
 Then with a rumble the bulging cars 
 
 Through the cold tunnel glide, 
 Belched to the busiest spot on earth 
 
 Over on Gotham side. 
 Day after day in a hectic swirl 
 
 Swifter than "shoot the chutes." 
 Still there's no life of the kind on earth, 
 
 Once any man commutes. 
 
36 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Mtn M\}o i^avt IBuurtt? 
 
 There are men we meet who appear apart 
 
 From the world and its small affairs, 
 Who are not puffed up by its plaudits weak 
 
 Xor (-rushed by its petty cares, 
 "Whose souls are deep and whose minds are broad 
 
 And who grasp things broader, higher, 
 They are men who have gone through the fining 
 flames 
 
 And have come forth tried by fire. 
 
 They have held their way to the jaws of death. 
 
 They have felt the cruel knife. 
 They have watched the bed where their loved 
 ones lay 
 
 And have seen them pass from life; 
 And from out of it all they have caught a gleam 
 
 To which only few aspire; 
 And they're known to all who have felt their 
 touch 
 
 As the strong men tried by fire. 
 
 And the little gains and the paltry pelf 
 
 That the meagre minded chase 
 They will cast aside as not worth the while 
 
 And will seek a nobler race. 
 F'or their sorrow shows how the little things 
 
 AVhether trouble or desire 
 Are but straws that lie in the upward jnith 
 
 Of a soul that's tried with fire. 
 
 They will seek the good of the whole wide race 
 
 And will aim to make it rise; 
 And no ant-hill height will content the aim 
 
 That is guided to the skies; 
 And the world has cause for its blessings full 
 
 And its sons will never tire 
 In their glad acclaim of friends of man, 
 
 The martyrs tried by fire. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 37 
 
 ®I|P i'uburbantlps* ©ulittg 
 
 Fresh and crisp from the morning trains 
 
 The up-State folks arrive; 
 They came to town for a pleasant day, 
 
 And they show that they're alive. 
 They laigh their way past the taximen 
 
 Who'd like to take their pelf, 
 For the ruralite in the town to-day 
 
 Can look out for himself. 
 
 They know the way to the best cafe; 
 
 They mix in the shopping swirl; 
 And the city dame no more looks down 
 
 On the well-dressed country girl. 
 They get good seats for the matinee 
 
 Or look some paintings o'er, 
 "With a dinner, sumptuous, but well-bought, 
 
 As a pleasant thing in store. 
 
 At night they go on the Great White Way 
 
 That leads to the playhouse bright. 
 And they pick with care from the passing shows 
 
 And their choice is often right. 
 They compare this .star with the one last month 
 
 And discuss the words and plot. 
 And a. garden luncheon ends their stay 
 
 In the town as like as not. 
 
 Then happy in a day well-spent 
 
 They go to the midnight train, 
 That will roll them back with lightning speed 
 
 To their rural homes again. 
 The "rube" with hayseed in his hair 
 
 Is gone from city strife, 
 And the ruralite who comes to-day 
 
 Gets all that there is in life. 
 
38 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 W^tn tl|^ IuqUb Horn 
 
 (Written after seeing a Canadian soldier bid his little son good- 
 bye on his way to a train at Windsor, Ont. He was bound for the 
 mobilization camp at Val Cartier, and thence to the front.) 
 
 Why do you squeeze my hand, daddy? 
 
 Why do you walk so slow? 
 Why are you sad to-day, daddy? 
 
 Just hear those bugrlcs blow. 
 
 Why does my mamma cry, daddy? 
 
 Why does she sob that way? 
 What do they mean by war, daddy? 
 
 Why are you sad today? 
 
 Why don't you look more glad, daddy? 
 
 Dressed in that pretty coat? 
 I always shout for .ioy, daddy, 
 
 Wearing mine on the boat. 
 
 O, what a nice big gun, daddy — • 
 Can I shoot that some day? 
 
 Why do you squeeze my hand, daddy' 
 Why do you look that way? 
 
 See all the soldier men, daddy — 
 You going with them, too? 
 
 See how they get in line, daddy — 
 What are they go'n' to do? 
 
 Why must you go with them, daddy' 
 Why can't you take me — 'Why? 
 
 \^'hy do you hug me close, daddy? 
 Why do you say good-bye? 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 39 
 
 HautsiiFd ISare 
 
 He went to Siringtown on the Pike 
 
 To lind a rural scribe. 
 He read of them and thought he'd like 
 
 To know one of the tribe. 
 
 The kind that ran an Army piess, 
 
 Took cabbages for pay 
 And told how Perkins killed his pig 
 
 And Bronson shod his bay. 
 
 The rural scribe was waiting when 
 He left the morning train. 
 
 He had the latest auto car 
 Without a scratch or stain. 
 
 He took him to the office clean 
 
 And showed his linotype. 
 No hayseed printer lounged around 
 
 And smoked a corncob pipe. 
 
 The scribe had stock in trolley lines 
 
 And money in the bank, 
 He wondered why his city guest 
 
 Should look so very blank. 
 
 "You brought your evening clothes, I hope; 
 
 We have a ball tonight." 
 But he who sought the corn-husk press 
 
 Had found relief in fiight. 
 
40 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 I '\'e followed you from childhood's hour 
 
 And through each passing year, 
 Through days of life and pride and hope 
 
 And other days more drear. 
 I heard you ask her for her hand 
 
 And saw her loving look. 
 And now I'm forced to say good-bye — 
 
 I'm finishing the book. 
 
 The author calls it twenty years; 
 
 It 's been three days for me 
 Since you were widow's loyal son 
 
 With trousers out at knee. 
 I saw the village bully trounced. 
 
 The fruit theft rightly placed. 
 And then throuTh school and college days 
 
 Tour triumphs I have traced. 
 
 And \\hpn to Congress you were sent 
 
 And still were up in air 
 If Mary Blake, your childhood friend 
 
 Was yet in mood to care, 
 I couldn't go to sleep at night 
 
 lentil she said the word. 
 Although I read 'twas whispered low, 
 
 I heard, old friend, I heard. 
 
 And now on yiaire 39!) — 
 
 The final one's four hundred — 
 I see the puzzles all explained 
 
 At which so long I've wondered. 
 T turn the page and friendship's zeal 
 
 Brings .ioy almost to laughter, 
 Because the page assures me you 
 
 Lived happy ever after. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 41 
 
 ®1|0 Wih drip 
 
 The aged salesman took his grip 
 
 From off a dusty shelf. 
 'Twas worn and old and bent and patched 
 
 In keeping with himself. 
 He felt each time-worn snap and hinge, 
 
 Each handle and each lock, 
 And said, ' ' Old grip, both you and I 
 
 Are rather out of stock. 
 
 "You stuck by me through thick and thin 
 
 When I was on the road. 
 I sometimes hated you because 
 
 You made such heavy load. 
 But if you missed the trains, I knew 
 
 That I had lost a friend. 
 You 'had the goods,' and showed them, too; 
 
 Your aid you'll always lend. 
 
 "I carried you from coast to coast 
 
 When I was in my prime. 
 On shorter trips when it was found 
 
 That I was past my time, 
 And when they dropped me from the roll 
 
 With message of regret, 
 I clung to you and brought you home 
 
 And we are comrades yet. ' ' 
 
 The salesman wiped his dimming eye, 
 
 '* Good-bye, old friend," said bo. 
 "The road's a long, long way behind 
 
 That welcomed you and me; 
 But sometimes I must get you out 
 
 And feel each hinge and lock, 
 For each of us has had his day. 
 
 And each is out of stock." 
 
42 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 They suffer and labor and bleed 
 
 All over the earth's broad face. 
 They've millions who are In need, 
 
 This suffering Hebrew race. 
 But when he has coin to give 
 
 And trouble to him is known. 
 Wherever a Jew may live, 
 
 He cares for his race's own. 
 
 For ages o 'er land and sea 
 
 They've wandered 'neath scourging rod. 
 And seldom have been left free 
 
 To serve as they would their God. 
 But this is recorded bright 
 
 ]n books by the Great White Throne — 
 With shekel or widow's mite. 
 
 They care for their race's own. 
 
 The faith that has kept them strong 
 
 Through centuries' cruel clash 
 Of pillage and fire and wrong 
 
 And sting of oppression's lash. 
 Has caused them to grasp and save 
 
 Till you say they have hearts of stone. 
 But in palace or hut or cave. 
 
 They care for their race's own. 
 
 Let Kishineff's bloody tale 
 
 Be told in a fairer land — 
 As soon a.s a ship can sail 
 
 They load it with lavish hand. 
 Let hunger and want take wing 
 
 To Hebrews in any zone. 
 Their jewels and cash they fling? — 
 
 Thoy care for thoir race's own. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 43 
 
 Though writers may paint them darli 
 
 In stories forever fresh, 
 Of Fagln with ways that cark, 
 Of Shylock with pound of flesh, 
 Full many might heed the way 
 
 They answer the widow's groan. 
 Like no one on earth to-day. 
 
 They care for their race 's own. 
 
 lielrom? Caller 
 
 Hello, my litt-a bamba boy, 
 Come-a to bring da papa joy, 
 Evera day in da fruit-a stan' 
 I keep-a da eye for my litta man. 
 
 Aiwa' smilin' da same-a way 
 
 Like waves they laugh in da Naples bay, 
 
 Cheeks so rosy they seem to me 
 
 Like da sun-a set in da Eetaly. 
 
 Speak da piece what you had to learn. 
 My! dat 's good as da play-house turn. 
 Some da^" bamba, when you're a man. 
 You'll be orator in da Ian'. 
 
 Here! dat orange da best I got, 
 Still you getta da best — why not? 
 Somehow, nothing but best will do 
 For American boy as nice as yon. 
 
 What? You going to mamma, eh? 
 Well, come back on some otha day. 
 Want a penny? For candy? Yes? 
 You 're American boy, I guess. 
 
44 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Little Tommy Ray 
 
 Ts happy all the day. 
 
 His home is in an alley 
 
 Where you 'd think it hard to play. 
 
 But be that as it may, 
 
 Wee Tommy has a way 
 
 Of making most of everything 
 
 Whioh in his path may stra.y. 
 
 A broken stick to Tommy is a prancing, frac- 
 tions steed, 
 
 A soap box is an auto with a record-breaking 
 speed. 
 
 A three-wheeled, worn-out roller-skate he res- 
 cued from the trash 
 
 Is coach and four that any prince would envy 
 for its dash. 
 
 For little Tommy Ray 
 
 Has a sunshine making way 
 
 And there always will be happiness 
 
 Wherever he may stay. 
 
 And the skies must needs be gray 
 
 Wheresoever he may stray 
 
 That can dampen Tommy's spirits 
 
 When he wishes to be gay. 
 
 His mother goes out washing and his father's 
 
 long since dead, 
 And his brothers cannot go to school but have 
 
 to toil Instead, 
 And you'd think that little Tommy would feel 
 
 sorry all alone; 
 But for half a block around him you can hear 
 
 his merry tone. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 45 
 
 For little Tommy Ray 
 Sees all things the cheerful way. 
 If there's no one else around him 
 Why, he's all the time to play. 
 If you asked me, I should say, 
 That we might spend any day 
 With niuch profit taking lessons 
 From our little Tommy Ray. 
 
 ^ta^ttSBxvt lUnfxtitBB 
 
 When he had to build a wood fire 
 Every morning in the cold, 
 
 He declared to have a furnace 
 Would be worth a pile of gold. 
 
 But when that was in the basement, 
 He declared it gave him pains 
 
 To reach out of bed each morning 
 And adjust the damper chains. 
 
 Now he has them automatic 
 But 'tis still an awful shock. 
 
 For they regulate by clockwork 
 And he has to wind the clock. 
 
 Janttg if. (Eroabu 
 
 Her lips are still and o'er her form 
 
 A nation drops its tears. 
 But notes like hers will ne'er be stilled 
 
 Through all the passing years. 
 
46 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 mmu wft 
 
 With pawing hoofs and straining' necks 
 
 And coats smoothed down full well, 
 The legislative nags are off, 
 
 They just have heard the bell. 
 The yearly steeple handicap 
 
 Is being run once more. 
 The mounts will make the course as tht 
 
 Have made it oft before. 
 
 Adown the velvet quarter-.stretch 
 
 The prancing nags will glide — 
 'That 's when they get the flowers from 
 
 The patrons of their side. 
 But soon the hurdles will be seen 
 
 And they'll begin to fret. 
 When voters call for favors 
 
 They can never hope to get. 
 
 The wfiter jump will meet them 
 
 On the local option issue. 
 But some will dodge the suffrage fence: 
 
 Oh. "duckers, " how we'll miss you. 
 The brush jump will be offered 
 
 When it comes to public tracts 
 And then the last grand hurdle 
 
 That of keeping down the tax. 
 
 A few will make the run with grace 
 
 The way the course is planned. 
 And these will trot up proudly 
 
 To the voters' judging stand; 
 But others with a drooping head 
 
 And slackness of the rein 
 Will tell how they'll make the rounr"! 
 
 If they're sent back again. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 47 
 
 An AiiiuBtablf Halrntm? 
 
 Fair lady (or are you a brunette 
 
 Or tend to rosy hue?) 
 My shrine shall be your eyes of brown 
 
 (Or black, or gray, or blue.) 
 Your slender form (or are you short 
 
 Or statuesque or plump?) 
 I much adore: your smile, (frown, glare) 
 
 Brings to my throat a lump. 
 
 Your tiny hand (or is it large?) 
 
 I 'd love like anything 
 To garnish with a diamond (ruby 
 
 Emerald, garnet) ring. 
 Your flaxen hair (or black or red, 
 
 Peroxide blonde or brown) 
 So well sets off your silken (wool 
 
 Or cotton fabric) gown. 
 
 With ears like shells (snail, clam or conch) 
 
 List to my eager tale. 
 Turn toward me like some ocean sprite 
 
 (Or mermaid, shrimp or whale.) 
 Speak to me in your silver voice 
 
 (Or high, or loud, or deep). 
 And promise you v.ill grace my home — 
 
 (And wash and bake and sweep.) 
 
 I'll fly with you to far Cathay, 
 
 (Or Ishpeming or Butte), 
 And you shall stay with me for aye 
 
 (Provided that you suit.) 
 I'll drink your health in nectar sweet 
 
 (Or water, ale or wine) 
 And crave the joy of being your 
 
 (Or someone's) Valentine. 
 
48 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Chuff! Chiuff! Puff! Puff! 
 
 Liabors the freight, on the grade. 
 Pulling its train of passive cars 
 
 Each with its cargo weighed. 
 Far through the night its panting sounds, 
 
 Echoing loud and clear; 
 Oh, the memories back it brings 
 
 Buried for many a year. 
 
 Chuff. Chuff! Puff! Puff! 
 
 So went the old Way Freight, 
 Back on that backwoods' Erie branch; 
 
 Every day 'twas late. 
 Up on the grade by the Devil 's Gulf, 
 
 Loud o 'er the wooden bridge, 
 Then with a roar through the long, deep cut, 
 
 (Ml to the top of the ridge. 
 
 Village boys leaving their berry pails 
 
 Ran to adventure new. 
 Climbing caboo.se or the sheer car-side, 
 
 Chaffing the smiling crew. 
 Talk of their thirty-five miles of track 
 
 Seemed more than Sindbad's tale. 
 Being a brakeman .seemed more just then 
 
 Than on the sea to sail. 
 
 Chuff! Chuff! Puff! Puff! 
 
 Sometimes it spoils my sleep. 
 Lying awake I berate the trains 
 
 Climbing the up-grade steep. 
 But sometimes it calls up a vision glad — 
 
 Like the old Way Freight it seems. 
 And the clumsy old train takes me far away 
 
 To boyhood and to dreams. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 49 
 
 Ei}t J^anliattbbr 
 
 He came to my door at twilight 
 
 With doggedly drooping head; 
 He asked for a bit of money 
 
 Or maybe a crust of bread. 
 The place was creepy and lonely 
 
 And tramps they were thick each day, 
 So T shook my head at the stranger, 
 
 Who wearily turned away. 
 
 Perhaps I was right to do It; 
 
 I couldn't invite the horde 
 Who dropped from the nearby freight trains 
 
 And over the highway poured, 
 But as in the growing darkness 
 
 He shambled with weary tread, 
 I longed to call back the stranger 
 
 And fill him with meat and bread. 
 
 Among the great gang of hoboes 
 
 Infesting the neighborhood 
 Perhaps here was one exception; 
 
 Perhaps his excuse was good; 
 And somehow his face keeps haunting, 
 
 And somehow I hear his tread, 
 And I blush with shame at refusing 
 
 A brother a piece of bread. 
 
 I hope I am never needy. 
 
 Though ne'er was I blessed with wealth; 
 I hope I am ne'er an outcast. 
 
 All broken in purse and health. 
 For if e'er comes need to petition 
 
 A crumb from a rich man 's store, 
 I 'It think of the tramp at twilight 
 
 I turned from my open door. 
 
30 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Scarce one ot the crowd knows another by 
 name, 
 
 Yet each is a comrade and friend, 
 This group that is seen on the corner each morn 
 
 As the trolley car comes 'round the bend. 
 They talk of the weather, the service, the news. 
 
 Election, sensation, the game. 
 They nod as they meet, say "Good-Bye" as they 
 part; 
 
 l"et none knows another by name. 
 
 At fifty past .seven they're there on the street, 
 
 The same persons day after day. 
 They gaze up the track for a sight of the car 
 
 And guess at its cause of delay. 
 They chat of their foibles, their work or their 
 sport, 
 
 Their tastes are quite often the same, 
 They chaff as they pay the conductor their fare, 
 
 And none knows another one's name. 
 
 This queer little club is a mark of the ways 
 
 Which city life brings more and more, 
 Though housed in one block or perhaps in one 
 flat 
 
 One doesn't know who is next door. 
 The old rural manner of each knowing each 
 
 Is dropped for a tone of reserve, 
 And yet there's a greeting for each of the group 
 
 As the trolley car comes 'round the curve. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 51 
 
 Yet sometimes the ice will he broken the while 
 
 VVlien one of the conclave is gone, 
 'Tis found that he's moved or perhaps that he'fi 
 ill 
 
 Or the Reaper has beckoned him on. 
 The absence of one gives a kinship to all, 
 
 Rut soon the condition's the same. 
 They're friends as they wait in the group on the 
 street, 
 
 Yet none knows another one's name. 
 
 The sad bricklayer took his pen 
 
 And to his love did scrawl; 
 " 'Twixt you and me there seems to be 
 
 A three course high brick wall. 
 
 "No plaster e'er can heal my heart 
 When longings for you come; 
 
 I realize this hod, hod world 
 Is ever out of plumb. 
 
 "The concrete fact comes to my mind 
 
 And mortarflies my soul. 
 That I must ever lack the sand 
 
 To gain the longed-for goal. 
 
 "And yet I swear in these few lines. 
 My love shall ne'er diminish. 
 
 And should you spurn me from your life, 
 I'll come to some hard finish." 
 
52 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ®tjf ^vUnh If torn ^omt 
 
 With Balmacaan and caipet-bag and face alight 
 with smile. 
 
 My old-time neighbor dropped to town to visit 
 me awhile. 
 
 We used to like to stand and chat as night be- 
 gan to gloom, 
 
 But you can 't think how good he looked with 
 greetings straight from home. 
 
 I ran to take his luggage as he swung from oft 
 
 the train; 
 'Twas "Howdy, Bob; it does seem good to shake 
 
 j'^our hand again; 
 And down the platform to the car and two miles 
 
 to my street 
 I pumped him for a steady stream like that when 
 
 gossips meet. 
 
 He told me who had filled his lawn, who had 
 
 new roof of tin, 
 A little local politics with dodging out and in. 
 1 watch the back-home papers, but I didn't know 
 
 it all 
 Until my good old neighbor came to make that 
 
 little call. 
 
 We found the dinner ready; it had been pre- 
 pared with care, 
 
 It seemed just like old times to see my good 
 friend sitting there; 
 
 But while I piled the "helpings" and insisted he 
 take more, 
 
 The feast for me was home news from his never- 
 ending store. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 53 
 
 'Tvvas late ere we owned bedtime, for we sat up 
 
 long to chat, 
 To keep him here next day I almost hid his grip 
 
 and hat. 
 For if you'd know the pleasure that a call like 
 
 that can give, 
 Just visit some old crony from the place you 
 
 used to live. 
 
 A l^npn Ifouaf 
 
 It must be nice to have a house 
 
 All for your very own. 
 And know that none could enter there 
 
 Save only you alone. 
 
 And yet a house that's built of wood, 
 
 Cement or tile or brick, 
 T.s always just the same old shape 
 
 .Although it makes you sick. 
 
 My house is splendid as the rest. 
 And suits each mental caper. 
 
 Because I haven't built it yet; 
 It's only done on paper. 
 
54 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 l^onnrablg l^ttinh 
 
 The motor's driving horses from our fire depart- 
 ment now, 
 And Jim and Pete and Jeff and Mike are 
 booked for other trades. 
 Perhaps they'll run on milk-carts — "first as- 
 sistant to a cow ; ' ' 
 Where'er they are tlie firemen will lament 
 their equine aids. 
 
 \'\"nen sounds the hoarse-lunged whistle and the 
 bell clang's the alarm, 
 And firemen board the auto now and puffing' 
 speed away. 
 They'll miss the grand old hor.ses that went 
 tugging on one's arm. 
 The clatt 'ring hoofs that sounded on the .iour- 
 ney to the fray. 
 
 The wise old nags surely knew what the pealing 
 m.essage meant. 
 One stroke upon the gong would set them. 
 prancing in the stall. 
 They knew their place in harness, and, once 
 coupled up, they went 
 With straining muscles down the way, respond- 
 ing to the call. 
 
 lake warriors near the battlefield, they smelt the 
 smoke afar; 
 The falling sparks aroused thein to another 
 burst of speed. 
 The fireman may go quicker in his shining aut.> 
 car. 
 But 'twill bo many moons ere he forgets the 
 friendly steed. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 55 
 
 And Jim and Pete and Jeff and Mike are booked 
 for other work; 
 Perhaps the humble dirt-cart will at last their 
 efforts claim; 
 But friends will say with vigor they were never 
 known to shirk, 
 And chasing fires without their help will hard- 
 ly seem the same. 
 
 ''My friend, come dine with me," he urged, 
 
 When I was rich in power. 
 He seized my arm and led me off 
 
 To waste a precious hour. 
 
 And on the ground that we were friends, 
 
 He cozened me to serve his ends. 
 
 "My friend, come ride with mo," he said, 
 When I was blessed with wealth. 
 
 And as we rode he sought to win 
 My cash by ways of stealth. 
 Insisting that one always lends 
 With loosened purse-strings to his friends. 
 
 "My friend, come rest with me," he says 
 
 When I have lost my all. 
 He does a thousand gentle things 
 
 To soothe me from my fall. 
 
 But he who now above me bends 
 
 Is neither of the other "friends." 
 
56 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ^t. 3^atrirk*B Sag 
 
 Ye 're off for the day's parade, Terry, 
 
 With green in your buttonhole; 
 Ye look like the pride of life, Terry, 
 
 An' srladden your grandpop's soul; 
 But I wonder now and then, Terry, 
 
 Tf ye know what it could mean. 
 The first time yo heard in a free land 
 
 "The Wearin' o' the Green." 
 
 Way yonder in '49, Terry, 
 
 T came here a lad, nineteen, 
 Wilh brog-ans upon my feet, Terry, 
 
 An' T, like our emblem, green. 
 The time nince I left the sod, Terry, 
 
 Seemed many a long, long moon. 
 Till this day o' year, I leaped to hear 
 
 The dear old familiar tune. 
 
 It heartened me more than food, Terrj'; 
 
 I jined the parade that day. 
 An' that's when I met your grandma, 
 
 A colleen both sweet and gay. 
 We went to the priest soon after 
 
 And started on life's wide sea; 
 Our cottage you 'd .say 'twas a hovel — - 
 
 Was palace to her and me. 
 
 I worked with hod and with barrow. 
 
 Then got a job on the force. 
 And your dad, the first of eleven. 
 
 He went to the Council, of course: 
 And you, there, the child of good fortune. 
 
 Have college and travel and all. 
 But you 're never ashamed of your grandpop- 
 
 Go on now and stay for the ball. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 57 
 
 Soerg 3lnrl| a IKittg 
 
 King Albert, wise ones shoolt tiieir heads 
 
 Wlien you began to reign, 
 Comparing you with Leopold 
 
 For strength and grasp and brain; 
 O'er-looked that a.ged ruler's faults 
 
 To mourn his power of plan; 
 But Albert, you have come through clsan. 
 
 And every inch a man. 
 
 They thought the gentle face was weak. 
 
 The fair hair wanted strength. 
 The blue eyes rot the kind to see 
 
 All things the kingdom's length; 
 Bit when the war of Titans broke 
 
 And brought the awful test, 
 The gentle-mannered, boyish king 
 
 Was reckoned with the best. 
 
 "The Koenig is the man who can," 
 
 The German proverb runs; 
 And Belgium's ruler proves his right 
 
 In face of awful guns. 
 Like kings of old he leads the fray 
 
 Where soldiers thickest fall. 
 What 'er may come, the gentle king 
 
 Will be a king of all. 
 
 The wise ones gravely shook their heads 
 
 When you began to reign; 
 They said the power of Leopold 
 
 Would never come again; 
 But 'twixt the millstones of the great 
 
 We hear your true steel ring — 
 A man, though ground to nameless fate — 
 
 And every inch a king. 
 
58 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (UIi? l^ni iEarkB an ti|f ^ooktnBt 
 
 You think you should plane off the heel-marks 
 
 From the top of my antique desk; 
 You say that they mar the finish 
 
 Of the bookcase so picturesque, 
 That the nail-marks will always be showing 
 
 On the polished mahogany board, 
 But by planing it down to the surface 
 
 The luster might be restored. 
 
 Perhaps you are right; let me see them; 
 
 'Tis true they deface the wood — 
 Yes; here is a tiny crescent 
 
 From a shoe that was stout and good. 
 I must have been all of five, when 
 
 I stamped in that group of nails 
 As I climbed to what then seemed a mountain 
 
 For "Andersen's Fairy Tales." 
 
 Here's another, a little larger — 
 
 I'd say from a child-size "10". 
 I presume it was "Gulliver's Travels" 
 
 That I was in quest of then; 
 And this near the other corner 
 
 Brings memories long forgot 
 Of the time I first made the acquaintance 
 
 Of that peerless romancer, Scott. 
 
 A child by my father's bookcase, 
 
 I ranged through the shelves at will 
 With his kind, wise mind to help me 
 
 With treasures my own to fill. 
 His books were my friends in his absence; 
 
 I had license to seek and to learn. 
 I suppose that I scratched up his desk-top, 
 
 But I gathered up wealth in turn. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 59 
 
 I know they're not handsome to look at, 
 
 Those tracks in the polished wood, 
 But they mark out a trail of sweet memories 
 
 When their story is understood. 
 Why, yes, you may mend the veneering 
 
 And put back the broken panes; 
 But the heel-marks, I think I will keep them 
 
 While the story they tell me remains. 
 
 2Il|e dire at iEoent 
 
 Now soon the men of bat and ball 
 
 Will walk into the fray 
 With blaring band and cheering crowds 
 
 And small boys' "Hip! Hooray!" 
 
 The umpire with majestic mien 
 
 Will bellow forth "Play ball." 
 The runners down the white-washed lines 
 
 Will heed the coacher's call. 
 
 "Yer out!" the ump will call; "You're blind!" 
 
 The angry crowd will roar. 
 Pop bottles, cushions, threats and groans 
 
 Will fly at him galore. 
 
 Primeval-minded lusty fans 
 
 See joy too great to speak. 
 The spring-time season 's on again^ — 
 
 The Peps are home this week. 
 
60 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ulrafiSr iHani Violator 
 
 My name is Dotty Dimple and I'm three montlis 
 
 old today. 
 I s'pose that I'll be four before they let me get 
 
 away. 
 My papa says I'm funny and my mamma says 
 
 I'm sweet; 
 But I'm arrested for obstructing traffic in' the 
 
 street. 
 
 It used to be such fun, you know, to be there on 
 
 the walk. 
 Your biuggy turned this way or that while 
 
 Mamma stopped to talk; 
 And more than forty babies, big and small and 
 
 white and black. 
 Would all be mixed up oddly with the buggies in 
 
 the track. 
 
 But lately the police have almost spoiled our lit- 
 tle club, 
 
 They say the street's for walking — isn't that the 
 purest flub? 
 
 We had to have our buggies all lined up along 
 the curb. 
 
 Where no one could fall over us and no one could 
 disturb. 
 
 My mamma didn 't like it and it also made me 
 
 sore, 
 So she left my carriage crosswise when she went 
 
 into the store, 
 And the big polceman took me and he brought 
 
 me here to jail — 
 Oh, there's my mamma coming; wonder if she's 
 
 got my bail. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 61 
 
 JItflr tl|p ($aa^ of t\)t (Eause 
 
 "I shall not go to Sing Sing unless the prisoners there want me. 
 
 —Thomas Mott Osborne 
 
 'Tvvas on a dreary morning; 
 
 The jury had returned, 
 And Blinky stood to hear his fate — 
 
 A warehouse he had burned. 
 "Found guilty," was the verdict; 
 
 The judge said, "Twentj^ years; 
 Hast aught to say?" and Blinky rose 
 
 And blurted through his tears: 
 
 Chorus: 
 
 ' * I cannot go to Sing Sing, 
 
 They do not want me there; 
 In their elite society 
 
 I cannot have a share. 
 I cannot go to Sing Sing; 
 
 They do not care for me. 
 O, Judge^ the thing for you to do 
 
 Is just to set me free." 
 
 'Twas in a Chinese laundry; 
 
 The birthday feast was spread. 
 Sing Lee, the master of the day. 
 
 Sat at the table's head. 
 He called on flute-voiced Yum Gow 
 
 To give his latest song, 
 But Yum made answer in these words, 
 
 With face both sad and long: 
 
 I cannot go to sing, Sing; 
 
 They do not want me there. 
 For melodies like those of mine 
 
 The diners do not care." 
 A rice-bowl .stopped his protest; 
 
 'Twas easiest to fling. 
 And as he struck the floor he moaned: 
 
 "I cannot go to sing." 
 
62 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 0t|ortrak0 ©im? 
 
 Give epicures the costly work 
 
 Of chefs of high degree. 
 An humble dish of middle spring 
 
 Is good enough for me. 
 P'or never man has made a meal, 
 
 Methinks he never v\nll, 
 Like supper in a farmhouse room 
 
 With shortcake on the bill. 
 
 With flaky crust of snowy white 
 
 Well spread with butter o'er, 
 Then luscious berries crowded thit 
 
 Till it will hold no more; 
 Another layer like the first; 
 
 Perhaps a third on top; 
 You think that you can eat for aye 
 
 And mourn that you must stop. 
 
 The bright cafe may have its call 
 
 For those who like to roam. 
 But there's no dish like one I know 
 
 And that cooked right at home. 
 And if I were to choose the place 
 
 Wherein to eat my fill, 
 I'd choose some cozy farmhouse room 
 
 With shortcake on the bill. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 63 
 
 (3n Spntpui 
 
 Boy Scouts, good scouts, 
 
 Sturdy, brave and true, 
 Strong for any sei'vice. 
 
 Quick to dare and do, 
 Boy Scouts, bold scouts, 
 
 Trained In brain and hand. 
 Great to serve the welfare 
 
 Of s'our native land. 
 
 Boy Scouts, bold scouts. 
 
 Braving cold and damp, 
 Hiking o'er the country. 
 
 Rounding up for camp. 
 Trail craft, wood craft. 
 
 Art of making fire. 
 Odors soon of supper 
 
 Which we most desire. 
 
 Boy Scouts, our scouts. 
 
 Following the flag. 
 True to God and country. 
 
 Never known to lag. 
 Strong scouts, clean scouts, 
 
 Every one true-blue — 
 Guardians of the future. 
 
 Hats are off to you. 
 
64 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 QIomtiPnaatt0n 
 
 The New Year's now begun, lad; 
 
 It may mean much to you. 
 And much you may have won, lad. 
 
 Before its tinie is through; 
 But this is to remember. 
 
 The truest saying yet — < 
 From New Year's to December, 
 
 You pay I'or all you get. 
 
 The man who hunts for treasure 
 
 Must pay in toil and care; 
 The man who seeks for pleasure 
 
 Will find the cost is there. 
 Perhaps in reputation, 
 
 Perhaps 'twill be in health. 
 There's always compensation 
 
 To make for joy or wealth. 
 
 It may be that your money 
 
 Will come to you again; 
 That days with sky more sunny 
 
 Will follow days of rain. 
 But health and reputation 
 
 And friends are hard to call 
 When once you 've lo.st the station. 
 
 You may regret them all. 
 
 And so there's this to say, lad, 
 
 Beginning this new year. 
 Where'er you get, you'll pay, lad; 
 
 The law is plain and clear. 
 But where the valuation 
 
 Is worth the value lost. 
 Don't fear the compensation; 
 
 Turn in and pay the cost. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 65 
 
 Neiarhbors in the Ghetto vie 
 
 To prove each nation right. 
 Ally, Teuton, neutral mix 
 
 And quarrel day and night. 
 But the Ghetto children know 
 
 No enmity nor pain 
 When Pietro 's street piano plays 
 
 That Tipperary strain. 
 
 "It's a long way to Tipperary" — 
 
 Lithe limb and toe 
 Twinkle in posture merry, 
 
 And the childish features glow. 
 "Good-bye, Piccadilly," 
 
 How they catching the witching air— 
 " It 's a long way to Tipperary, ' ' 
 
 But they know no care. 
 
 Tiny Ivan swings Katrina 
 
 In the whirling niaz.-^: 
 Little Jakob grasps Carina 
 
 As the music plays. 
 Micky Finn with Lou from Tyrol 
 
 Steps along so gay. 
 For race lines are forgotten in 
 
 The Tipperary lay. 
 
 "It's a long way to Tipperary" — 
 
 Thrill to the sound. 
 Pietro 's a mediator 
 
 As his crank turns 'round. 
 Teuton and Celt and Tuscan, 
 
 Tots from Spain and France 
 Join in the common measure 
 
 Of the Tipperary dance. 
 
66 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Since that dark day, so many years ago, 
 
 When Christ was offered for the people's sin, 
 
 Goad Friday ne'er has dawned on so much woe 
 As this, its yearly date, has ushered in. 
 
 Now nations that acknowledge Christ a king 
 Strike at each other's throats and will not 
 cease. 
 
 For what was all that awful suffering 
 
 Our Lord endured to bring a day of peace? 
 
 But as the tomb which took His mangled form 
 Was burst for Him at Sabbath's early ray. 
 
 Perhaps the love He bore us, mild and warm. 
 May usher in a world-wide Easter day. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 67 
 
 lllrm0rtal iay 
 
 Plutteringr bright o 'er each soldier 's grave 
 The flag of the land that he helped to save 
 Beckons the passer as if to say: 
 "Honor the dead on our heroes' day." 
 
 Some have lain long in their last low tent; 
 Others have gone from a long life spent 
 Serving their country in peaceful ways 
 E 'en as they did in the war-time days. 
 
 Strong were they once both to dare and do. 
 Those that are spared are but weak and few. 
 Still let the nation they saved display 
 Meed to the dead on our heroes' day. 
 
68 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 '•(Eoottmg" (irapw 
 
 Concords are on the market, 
 
 Best of the vinej'^ard 's goods — 
 Baskets from fragrant basswood, 
 
 Cut in the Arkwright woods. 
 Bringing me back Chautauqua, 
 
 As by a magic boon — 
 Baskets of luscious Concords 
 
 From vines where I used to "coon' 
 
 Names that I know on the labels — 
 
 Benjamin, Putnam, and Moore, 
 Masters of fruitful uplands 
 
 Bordering Erie's shore; 
 Visions of waving vineyards. 
 
 Warm in October sun, 
 Merriest shouts of the "huskers, " 
 
 Mixing their work with fun. 
 
 Wagons with richest burdens 
 
 Bound for the fragrant shed. 
 Beautiful, hazy autumn 
 
 'Round you and overhead, 
 Breeze from the lake at evening, 
 
 Clouds o'er the harvest moon. 
 Long, shady aisles of grape-vines — 
 
 That's where we used to "coon." 
 
 Fatty and Enoch and Lefty, 
 
 Doddy and sly old Jake, 
 Watching the farmers' windows. 
 
 Ready to make "the break." 
 Dewy the vineyard stretches 
 
 Under the fitful moon. 
 Stolen fruits are the sweetest — 
 
 That's why we loved to "coon." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 69 
 
 Chases through shadowy grape-rows, 
 
 Touch of the night-chilled fruit, 
 Sweetness supplied by nature 
 
 Doubled by zest of pursuit, 
 Vision of angry farmer 
 
 With rock salt loaded gun, 
 "Chankings" left on his doorstep, 
 
 Just to add point to the fun. 
 
 Innocent faces at breakfast, 
 Hearts beating out a tune — 
 
 Wonder if father's "onto" 
 
 The fact that we've been to "coon." 
 
 Let me look over the labels — 
 
 Thompson and Horton and Moon, 
 Hutchinson, Farnham and Adanis, 
 
 Washburn and Peter Kuhn. 
 Cracked are the clusters from shipping. 
 
 Warm from the heat of the town — 
 I'd give a whole month for one evening 
 
 "Cooning" from Jockey Brown. 
 
 Better than banquets and dinners. 
 
 Better than joys of a June 
 Are memories brought by these Concords 
 
 From vines where I used to "coon". 
 
70 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Moti)tr Santa 
 
 Her form is bent: her hair is gray; 
 Hard work and care have had their way; 
 But restless workers heed the tones 
 Heard from the lips of Mother Jones. 
 
 She leads the strikers at the mine, 
 Like horses driven, housed like kine. 
 She pleads their cause before the great, 
 Who have no answer but their hate. 
 
 In South, in North, in East, in West, 
 
 By every workman loved the best, 
 
 She bears their hardship, soothes their care 
 
 And teaches them their cross to bear. 
 
 She champions the down-trod man. 
 As militant she leads the clan, 
 Yet when to fight would do nriost harm. 
 She counsels workers not to arm. 
 
 'Twas so at Roosevelt yesterday; 
 She urged the men against a fray. 
 And counseling for ways of peace, 
 Her voice made the uprising cease. 
 
 Silk hat of vintage '9^, 
 
 A dress suit loaned by Mose; 
 Big diamond made of Pittsburg plate 
 
 And mammonth lapel rose. 
 No, 'tis no comic masquerade, 
 
 No calethumpian hoax — 
 The "back home" crowd will dine tonight, 
 
 And he must "show" the folks. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 71 
 
 Ull|^ (Hitg bu tl|p lay 
 
 (Panama-Pacific International Exposition) 
 
 In a golden time in a golden state, 
 A city rose by a golden gate, 
 
 A city of fairy dreams; 
 And the gate looked out on a boundless sea, 
 And the city was fair as fair could be 
 As it glowed in the sunset beams. 
 
 And its jewels gleamed like a queenly crown. 
 And its graceful lines dropped softly down 
 To the rippling, dancing bay. 
 The city was built for a short, glad year. 
 But the people, told that its end was near. 
 Would hold it with them for aye. 
 
 •' 'Twill melt," said some, "like a vision fair," 
 As the dewdrops melt in the morning air;" 
 
 But the hopeful ones said, "Nay. 
 We will keep the best of our city here 
 To gladden us in each passing year 
 With its beauties by the bay." 
 
 — San Francisco Examiner 
 Copyright Star Company. 
 
 W^e've witches quaint and goblins dread. 
 
 And spectres gaunt with misery, 
 And graveyard spirits, seers' spooks. 
 
 And all the eerie galaxy; 
 But Tam O 'Shanter and the rest. 
 
 Who've taught us this dread troop to shun. 
 Can't scare us from the office "ghcst" 
 
 That walks each time the week is done. 
 
72 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 With a head-band near to her shell-pink ear, 
 
 Sat the aero-hello girl. 
 And the mass of tones from the world's five zones 
 
 Set her fluffy head awhiil — 
 For the Persian Shah and Slam 's Poo-Bah 
 
 Were making a date to dine. 
 When a gruff voiced man yelled from Isphana: 
 
 "Hang up; I want the line." 
 
 Then the bell-voiced girl broke on the swirl 
 
 For a call to Singapore; 
 But from Honolu' came a message through 
 
 To a New York dry-goods store: 
 And a tangled sound began to pound 
 
 Her ear with a deadly click, 
 And poor Central stopped and her head-band 
 dropped — 
 "Give it up; that's old Czar Nick." 
 
 — San Francisco Examiner 
 Copyright Star Company. 
 
 (50 tlye S^parteb 
 
 The sounds of mirth and joy rang out 
 From guest and friends and host; 
 
 But revelry departed as 
 
 They drank the silent toast. 
 
 "To friends who were and are no more," 
 They rai.sed their glasses high; 
 
 And when the feast went on again, 
 Mist showed in many an eye. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 73 
 
 At ll|p (J^rultHts 
 
 C, F, G, T, R, 
 
 And the other one looks like Q. 
 'Tis fanny the pranks of those printed lines 
 
 There staring across at you. 
 You think you can read them all; 
 
 You used to a year ago. 
 The fact that they blur and squirm and twist 
 Is not a nice thing to know. 
 
 F, J, G, Q, T, 
 
 One more and 'twould all be fine. 
 But you know 'tis the trick of the turning lens 
 
 That help.s you to read the line. 
 It comes with a twisty blur, 
 
 A turn and it stands out clear. 
 You sigh at the change that has come to pass 
 
 In your eyes in a flitting year. 
 
 F, R, T, L, C, 
 
 But the lens is a convex now. 
 And the thought that the glasses must be your 
 lot 
 
 Brings wrinkles across your brow. 
 You think how you used to laugh 
 
 At Teacher behind his back, 
 And ask if they'll call you a "four-eyed mug," 
 
 That impudent, lawless pack! 
 
 S, Z, Y, K, T, 
 
 But they're out of their rightful place. 
 'Tis strange how your vision is altered quite 
 
 By something before your face. 
 And the letters dance around 
 
 At the turn of the doctor's wri.st — 
 And is there a thing in the whole wide world 
 
 That you see without some twist? 
 
74 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 No C!Ir«BorBt|tp 
 
 To Christmas-land at the far North Pole 
 
 Where Santa Claus holds sway. 
 The mails will run for the little folks 
 
 From now to Christmas day. 
 The word goes forth from the Letterman 
 
 That he will send them through, 
 Though frozen fields, where the big bears growl 
 
 May make it hard to do. 
 
 Once on a time they were all held back 
 
 And little girls and boys 
 Got not one thing of all they asked 
 
 In candy, dolls and toys; 
 But Santa Claus, he felt so bad 
 
 To think he didn't know 
 He wrote and asked the Letter-man 
 
 Next time to let them go. 
 
 So Santa Claus will get all his mail 
 
 From small folks in this town. 
 And little notes from tiny hands 
 
 Will weight the mail bags down. 
 And Santa's friends who can afford 
 
 To help bring Christmas joys. 
 Will need to plan to aid Old Nick 
 
 Make good with girls and boys. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 75 
 
 1Exru0ra 
 
 Life is a sfrim taskmaster — 
 
 'Tis well if you realize — 
 Results are the one thinff counted, 
 
 No matter how hard one tries. 
 You may have the best excuses 
 
 With proofs of the strongest sort; 
 But only one thing is noticed — 
 
 The tale of the bricks is short. 
 
 Perhaps they will give a pittance 
 
 To keep you from hunger's grip. 
 Perhaps they will say: "Poor fellow; 
 
 Too bad that his hand should slip." 
 But with all this feeble kindness, 
 
 The matter that really counts 
 Is whether *he v/ork is delivered 
 
 In requisite amounts. 
 
 Your car may be late at work-time. 
 
 Or sleep may ha\'e failed your eyes — 
 The time clock there by the entrance 
 
 Will keep no record of "whys." 
 And pain may stiffen the fingers, 
 
 And sorrow divert the thought; 
 But when they compute your wages, 
 
 These troubles will count for naught. 
 
 Life is a grim task- master — 
 
 'Tis well if this fact one heeds. 
 The only thing that he reckons 
 
 On his changeless page is deeds; 
 And here is the fact that meets us, 
 
 And often may be of use — 
 The smallest task that is finished 
 
 Is better than best excuse. 
 
76 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 211)^ MoBeB at ^tf am 
 
 I like to read in Holy Writ 
 
 The story never old 
 Of how the land of corn and wine 
 
 To Moses' eye was rolled. 
 But told his feet could never press 
 
 The sod toward which he'd striven, 
 For younger leader he resigned 
 
 And bowed to will of Heaven. 
 
 Manhattan Transfer's bareness views 
 
 A Pisgah scene each hour. 
 The Moses locomotive stands 
 
 In undiminished power. 
 Upon the sight the Woolworth looms, 
 
 Yet he of smoke and flame 
 Must give his charge to other hands 
 
 And turn from whence he came. 
 
 As Jordan old was parted for 
 
 The feet of Israel's band, 
 The Hudson tunnel clears the way 
 
 To Gotham's promised land, 
 And as the prophet's steps v%erc stayed 
 
 In sight of Canaan's shore, 
 The leader Steam, which found the way, 
 
 Is not permitted o'er. 
 
 The gray plume of the engine seems 
 Like prophet's beard of old. 
 
 For years he led his docile train 
 To where the Hudson rolled. 
 
 But when the way was cut along 
 The bed of that great stream. 
 
 The young electric engine trod 
 
 The path denied to steam. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 77 
 
 (EoHtlu Sttfiprt 
 
 The rug- bug is a funny beast; 
 
 I can't describe his looks; 
 But I can say he has a «ay 
 
 To lighten pocket-books. 
 
 You get a block of cash in stock 
 
 And aim. to make it more; 
 With spirits high you'll stop to buy 
 
 A rug from out the store. 
 
 Just something small for den or hall, 
 'Twill scarcely cost a dollar; 
 
 But once inside, that bug will ride 
 Securely in your collar. 
 
 For stacked in piles of seeming miles, 
 Axminster, Wilton, Brussels, 
 
 You 're lured along by siren song 
 Of blends and weaves and rustles. 
 
 And for the lure there is no cui-e. 
 
 Nor physical nor mental. 
 Until your gold is in the hold 
 
 Of some shrewd Oriental. 
 
 The rug-bug is a wily beast 
 
 As any now among you 
 You never know how far you '11 go 
 
 When once the thing has stung you. 
 
78 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (Lord Roberts) 
 
 You have met your end at last. 
 
 Noble "Bobs." 
 I>ike some great tree in the blast, 
 
 Splendid "Bobs." 
 Though you weathered four-score years, 
 Calmed the people through their fears. 
 Now you win the nation 's tears — 
 
 Their own ' ' Bobs. ' ' 
 
 Hero to our fathers' sires. 
 
 Soldier "Bobs"; 
 India's and Af ric 's fires, 
 
 Knew you, "Bobs." 
 Trusted as a stripling then 
 You upheld your colors when 
 Kandahar thrice-tested men. 
 
 Gallant "Bobs." 
 
 Grieved and old, you turned again. 
 
 Honored "Bobs," 
 Drove the Boer back to his den. 
 
 Brave old "Bobs." 
 And when life was almost through. 
 Showed yourself a soldier true. 
 Went where Rngland needed you — 
 
 Martyr "Bobs." 
 
 While a nation hows in grief. 
 
 Princely "Bobs," 
 The example of their chief. 
 
 Noble "Bobs," 
 AVill make soldiers stronger stand. 
 Great of heart and strong of bnnf^. 
 In defense of your dear land — 
 
 Deathless "Bobs." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 79 
 
 Tho folks have the mail order craze, 
 Be it dresses, or drugget, or drays, 
 Or a w.atch for the wrist. 
 They will buy from a list. 
 Though I can never see where it pays. 
 
 Each rocker, lanip, bureau or pail. 
 Though cheaper right home at a sale. 
 
 Where 'tis easy to see, 
 
 They wil buy C. O. D., 
 For the sake of just shopping by mail. 
 
 But now on their joy there's a blot; 
 
 To the end of the rope Ihey have got. 
 A house they would buy 
 And they cannot see Avhy 
 
 The dealers can't send them a lot. 
 
 llngratrful 
 
 I saw a little prairie dog 
 
 So wistful and alone. 
 He gazed at me as I passed by 
 
 And almost seemed to moan 
 "O sad, neglected prairie dog," 
 
 I said I'm lonely too. 
 I'll make this place a farming spot 
 And live along with you." 
 
 I built a cot and plowed a field 
 And made my plans to stay 
 
 But when I sought my prarie dog 
 1 found he'd fled away. 
 
80 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 HnariPntifir iEotogment 
 
 I never studied botany; 
 
 My Latin lore is scant; 
 By classic name I vvouldn 't know 
 
 A tree or shrub or plant; 
 But walking 'mongst the growing things 
 
 And drinking in the scene, 
 Enough that skies above are blue 
 
 And grass below is green. 
 
 The leaves that peep through buds of brown 
 
 Are beautiful to me, 
 Not knowing serrate, spatulate 
 
 Or such from X Y Z. 
 The flowers nodding from the grass 
 
 To me are just as sweet 
 As if in polysyllable 
 
 Their names I could repeat. 
 
 With buds on trees and moss on banks 
 
 And birds upon the wing, 
 I do not need a science book 
 
 To help enjoy the spring; 
 And walking out on days like this 
 
 Most certainly confirms 
 The thought that Nature smiles for all 
 
 Though weak on Latin terms. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 81 
 
 ®t|p iEmergpttry Brake 
 
 1 saw a thing with a dangling string 
 
 In a corner of the ear. 
 I gazed intent, for I have a bent 
 
 To find what such things are. 
 1 looked and looked till my neck was crooked, 
 
 To figure out the thing, 
 And it seemed to talk and my wonder mock 
 
 With its dangling, swaying string. 
 
 Till without a sound and with no one 'round, 
 
 I gave a good hard jerk. 
 Yes, 'twas rather wrong, but I'd waited long 
 
 To see how it would work. 
 Then the train stopped short and with sudden 
 snort 
 
 The engine just broke loose; 
 And I'm lying low; but I had to know; 
 
 And I think that's some excuse. 
 
 (§\xt-{BvsitUh 
 
 The shade of Maud S. wandered back to her stall. 
 
 The stable was changed to a turkey-trot hall. 
 
 And Gotham 's Four Hundred cavorted and 
 pranced 
 
 Where after her triumphs the grand horse had 
 danced. 
 
 "I showed 'em two-forty," the old horse ex- 
 claimed, 
 
 "But these people's speed has my best efforts 
 shamed." 
 
82 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 l^p'ii Urttiug a Book 
 
 He's writing: a book. 
 
 For the lure of the mmse he a good job forsook, 
 For days and for days and the nights in between. 
 In his fiat he's kept pounding his typing machine. 
 And his heart fills with pride as his fancy-child 
 
 grows, 
 For publislicrs soon must come begging, he knows. 
 He'll live till that day by some hook or some 
 
 crook. 
 He's writing a book. 
 
 He's writing a book. 
 
 You count yourself lucky for one advance look. 
 
 Or perhaps he will snatch a short time from his 
 
 mill 
 And read to you portions with pride and good 
 
 will ; 
 And you gasp at the daring of word and of plot, 
 And you feel he must win and you envy his lot 
 And marvel that any brain ever could cook 
 That wonderful book. 
 
 With that magic book, 
 
 Your friend soars aloft on the wing like a rook. 
 
 And with inotive power none but the might of his 
 
 brain 
 He carries you off to far Kansas or Spain. 
 As he reads the live lines and you see his eyes 
 
 gleam. 
 The hero and heroine close to you seem, 
 And yoU revel in scene after scene from their 
 
 lives. 
 The pictures are clear as though cut out with 
 
 knives, 
 And the action moves on with the purl of a brook. 
 In his wondrous book. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 83 
 
 While he 's on his book. 
 
 His friends will all miss him from each old-time 
 
 nook; 
 And they gather in groups one another to tell 
 How he'll be back among them if all should go 
 
 well, 
 And some claim they've known of his genius for 
 
 years, 
 While others from envy will give vent to sneers; 
 But they nev<^r can know the pure uplift and Joy 
 That comes to him there and that never can cloy, 
 And winning or losing, he never mistook, 
 Tn writing a book. 
 
 IRnrittttg Olrg 
 
 Give me three winks of sleep, Mother, 
 
 Only three winks of sleep. 
 Why do you make me rise, Mother? 
 
 Pray, won't the wheat-cakes keep? 
 Set them back on the stove, Mother; 
 
 Save me some coffee, too. 
 Give me three winks of sleep, Mother, 
 
 Just for this morning, do. 
 
 Oh, yes, I know, it's 7, Mother: 
 
 Train goes at ten to 8. 
 Still, I can make it fine. Mother; 
 
 Just let the breakfast wait. 
 Only three winks of sleep, Mother. 
 
 Ere it is time to go — 
 Train due in fifteen minutes? 
 
 Why don't you tell one so? 
 
84 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 How often have you listened on a quiet sum- 
 mer's night 
 To the whistles for the drawbridge on the 
 Sound, 
 And the booming from the steamers with re- 
 sponse so shrill and light 
 Must be echoing in minds the world around. 
 Oh, it haunts you when you 've heard it, till you 
 never can forget, 
 For the bellow from the steamer seems to say: 
 "I'm coming there, I'm coming; have 5'ou made 
 a channel yet? " 
 And a piping blast replies: "I'll clear the 
 way. ' ' 
 
 And mayhap your mind will picture as you listen 
 to the song. 
 Some precious cargo moving to the sea, 
 And you think of massive engines that are mov- 
 ing it along 
 To the ports where you 've so often longed to be. 
 But with all the wealth and power that is borne 
 upon the tide 
 And the brain and brawn that's mustered in 
 the crew, 
 There will be no noble voyage to the distant parts 
 and wide. 
 Till the tiny donkey engine lets them through. 
 
 Oh, the shrilling donkey engine ne'er can travel 
 
 from its post, 
 And its life like yours may be a dreary round. 
 And its power is so tiny that its whistle seems a 
 
 boast, 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 85 
 
 But without it giant ships would fast be bound. 
 And you listen to the whistles on a quiet sum- 
 mer's night, 
 With their shrilling " Whee! " and echo-stirring 
 "Whoo!" 
 There's a lesson you may gather; oft an arbiter 
 of might 
 Cannot move till some wee engine lets him 
 through. 
 
 A ^prtitg Hh^i 
 
 When spring-like breezes kiss the land 
 
 And woo me from the town, 
 I love to stroll in open ways 
 
 Some purling brook adown. 
 And wander through the wooded fields 
 
 That skirt its waters clear 
 To where the legend greets the eye — 
 
 "You must not trespass here" 
 
 With gun on arm I make my way 
 
 O'er rural hill and plain. 
 And think of how the balmy air 
 
 Gives respite from all pain. 
 For all the ills that vex the soul 
 
 I find a sweet solution. 
 What sign is this? It says: "Keep off 
 
 Or suffer prosecution." 
 
 Yon shaded cot shall be a bower 
 
 Whei-ein I '11 dine and rest. 
 With cakes and milk and rosy fruit 
 
 All mine for the request. 
 What words of welcome do I see 
 
 Affixed to that old log? 
 They tell me unmistakably: 
 
 "Keep out; beware the dog." 
 
86 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Spring SIraimng (itmr 
 
 Now soon the swatters of the ball 
 
 Will journey to the South, 
 Where sunny waters greet the eye 
 
 And corn-pones tempt the mouth, 
 AY here landlords wear their broadest smile 
 
 And girls are sweet and g"ay. 
 Spring training time is at the door; 
 
 The teams are on the way. 
 
 From poolroom and from dentist shop. 
 From drug store and from law, 
 
 From life of ease or frugal toil 
 At home with Maw and Paw, 
 
 They're answering the magnate's call. 
 And at an early day 
 
 They'll gambol o'er the Southern field; 
 The season 's on the way. 
 
 The scribes will soon be tearing hair 
 
 To fill their daily space; 
 They'll write of golf, of sea, of air. 
 
 And features of the place. 
 The fans at home will eat the dope 
 
 As fans will always do. 
 And wonder not how little news 
 
 Of sport has trickled through. 
 
 And on the ball-lot 's stretch of green 
 
 The men will train to form, 
 The veterans with easy mien. 
 
 The nervous "bushers" warm. 
 And some new men will make the team 
 
 And some old vets will fall; 
 For short and shaky is the life 
 
 Of swatters of the ball. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 87 
 
 And soon they \vill be turning" back 
 
 Familiar v\;th the ropes 
 But stop along the tortuous way 
 
 To play the rural hopes. 
 And when in April we attend 
 
 Thfi gladfiomp o.'iening day. 
 We'll welcome back the good old team; 
 
 The season 's on the way. 
 
 MoUb 
 
 Prisoners deep in the hidden way, 
 
 Shut from the scenes of a busy world, 
 Thus are the thousands who toil each day 
 
 I'orward and back in the subway whirled. 
 Over their heads is the hum of trade, 
 
 Never once ceasing throughout the year, 
 Yet in these burrows that man has made 
 
 Not a weak murmur can reach the ear. 
 
 Far up above is the light of day, 
 
 Hurrying footsteps and busy hands. 
 Surging of people in every way, 
 
 Meeting of races from distant lands. 
 Ships may plough over their narrow cell, 
 
 Bound for a voyage across the seas. 
 Sailors hail friends with a Itisty yell. 
 
 Naught of the tumult can pierce to these. 
 
 Spirited swiftly by paths most blind, 
 
 Thousands and thousands are borne each day. 
 Leaving the life of the town behind. 
 
 Rising from depths of earth far away. 
 Over their heads is the open air. 
 
 Bustle and life and the walks of men. 
 But to these moles there is just one care, 
 
 Getting to labor and home again. 
 
88 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 Nmt-iEfiflpnttal 
 
 Jervisha Jackson scrubbed to send 
 
 Her lUife to study art. 
 She thought that he'd be famous 
 
 If he only got a start. 
 
 But gazing- at his easel 
 
 She saw something to appal. 
 
 For Paife had drawn the old red cow 
 With not a tail at all. 
 
 ' ' You see, it 's dis way, Maw, ' ' he said 
 
 As she began to wail, 
 "The teacher tole us get the form. 
 
 Not boddah with de-tail." 
 
 Ol0ntoting ©rratm^ut 
 
 ''Canst cure my corn?" he cried in pain. 
 
 "Yea," said the mind cure man. 
 Just place your mind upon the spot 
 
 And think as hard's you can." 
 
 The patient tried his best to keep 
 
 His head upon his feet. 
 But when he got the mind-cure bill 
 
 He couldn't make ends meet. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS «9 
 
 ^t ICept at 3t 
 
 He's assistant prosecutor 
 
 In a thriving Western town 
 And I'd like to have the income 
 
 That my friend is pulling down, 
 But although 'tis he that has it, 
 
 I'm not jealous of his luck. 
 For it came from perseverance. 
 
 Hardest work and finest pluck. 
 
 I remember when he started 
 
 In the law school long ago. 
 We had places near together 
 
 In the very self -same row. 
 And I often had my lessons 
 
 Well as *ie did, every bit; 
 But he won the final battle 
 
 By his everlasting grit. 
 
 When he wasn't conning Blackstonfe 
 
 He was working in a shop. 
 And with days and nights of labor 
 
 It would seem that he would drop; 
 But he somehow topped the up-grade. 
 
 Got his sheepskin, took his oath. 
 And they've given him an office. 
 
 And to hear it I'm not loath. 
 
 Tapping on my "mill" this evening, 
 
 I remember that old school. 
 Where we faced the "quiz" together, 
 
 Stumbling over form and rule. 
 And though paths have gone asunder 
 
 Envy for him ne'er shall lurk 
 For old classmate won ad\'anremont 
 
 By persistence, nerve and work. 
 
90 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 K^Ug at ll|f ^tmtx 
 
 (Elizabeth, N. J.) 
 
 The strong men of El Mora, 
 
 By the nine gods they swore. 
 The copious floods of Roselle Park; 
 
 Should sweep by them no more. 
 By the nine g"ods they swore it. 
 
 And stormed the council hall — 
 Bade city dads no time to waste, 
 But sent brave Neafsey forth in haste. 
 
 The hated trench to wall. 
 
 Bold Neafsey walled the sewer; 
 
 El Mora slept once more. 
 When standing firm with Roselle Park, 
 The county lords, Freeholders dark. 
 
 The dam in fragments tore. 
 Then Neafsy at the Mayor's call 
 Again with concrete built the wall. 
 
 He called the noble Kelly, 
 
 A gallant bluecoat he. 
 And said: "The force has not your peer 
 
 To guard the sewer for me." 
 And Kelly donned his helmet 
 
 And rubbed his badge with care. 
 "A man can freeze to death but once — 
 
 Aye, aye. sir; I'll be there" 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 91 
 
 There be some score householders, 
 
 The staunchest in the land 
 Who sit in fair El Mora. 
 
 As her improvement band; 
 And with one voice this body 
 
 Has g-lad approval given: 
 "Well done, well done, our Neafsey bold, 
 
 And Kelly, blest of heaven." 
 
 Just then a scout came flying, 
 
 All wild with haste and fear, 
 "To arms! The Mayor of Roselle Park 
 
 And all his clan are here; 
 And Daniel of the Dynamite 
 
 Ts ripe to do their wish." 
 Then all El Mora's leaders ran 
 
 To meet the hosts of Fish. 
 
 I wot not if Roselle Park men 
 
 Were lurking in the wood. 
 But cheered by all El Mora's best 
 
 The gallant Kelly stood. 
 While Sergeants Fretz and Reitemeyer 
 
 Bring reinforcements good. 
 Von Bischoffshausen on the left, 
 
 Delaney on the right, 
 And brave Kilmett and Sattler true, 
 
 All spoiling for the fight. 
 
 Full well would sound a tale of arms. 
 
 With gallant men and bold, 
 But these stood side by side all night 
 
 And only caught a cold. 
 And when the bard shall seek a theme. 
 
 His thrilling notes and pure 
 Must tell how Neafsey did the job 
 
 And Kelly watched the sewer. 
 
92 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 (ill|p Btmtr laltU 
 
 1^0. trumpets, pound a war note! 
 
 Ho, people, clear the way. 
 The cops shall stand in all their pride 
 
 Upon the streets to-day. 
 Where frets the battled sewer 
 
 Behind its wall of lime, 
 Brave Gibney broug-ht the serried hosts 
 
 Of Roselle Park to time. 
 
 You 've read Von Bischoffshausen 's 
 
 And Kelly's gallant stand 
 When fair El Mora's need was dire 
 
 And foemen were at hand. 
 But now we tell of Gribney 
 
 Who, .standing in his might. 
 Put Fish, the head of Roselle Park, 
 
 And all his host to flight. 
 
 Brave Gibney at the sewer 
 
 Mu.sed how the hand of fate 
 Broke "doings" on another's beat 
 
 And left him off the slate. 
 "Ah," quoth the gallant bluecoat, 
 
 "Had I been there that night, 
 I'd scoured the woods from dark to dawn 
 
 Ere one escaped in flight." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 93 
 
 But hark; what distant rumble, 
 
 What glint upon the eye 
 Stirs Gibney like a riot call 
 
 When bricks begin to fly? 
 Adown the way the Mayor of Roselle Park ap- 
 pears, 
 
 And with him come that mighty crew, 
 "With swarthy face, Italians two. 
 
 Who bear their picks like spears. 
 
 Then from the ranks proud Harwood, 
 
 P"or that is Fish's name. 
 Spake, "Let us crack that dam and we 
 
 Will go from whence we came, ' ' 
 But Gibney reached his holster 
 
 And drew his shining "Gat" — 
 "The man who says he'll g'et by me 
 
 Is talking through his hat." 
 
 Proud Harwood thought how on that spot 
 
 Full many years ago, 
 A British bayonet ran through 
 
 And laid a soldier low. 
 He didn't like to think of .steel 
 
 Nor face that Gibney gun. 
 So he and both his mighty host 
 
 Back-tracked it on the run. 
 
 I still am hoping that some time 
 
 On that historic spot 
 This humble bard may find a ta'o 
 
 Of mighty battle fought, 
 But now to "Kelly at the Sewer," 
 
 There's naught to add but that 
 Brave Gibney put a host to flight 
 
 With nothing but a "Gat." 
 
94 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ®t|r i^trat^gg of Ifarmooh 
 
 P'or one full moon El Mora 
 
 In blissful safety slept 
 Because the city 's concrete wall 
 
 Roselle Park sewer kept. 
 The prowess of bold Kelly 
 
 Had made their homes secure^ 
 For since the night he went on guard 
 
 That wall had stayed the sewer. 
 
 But ways of guile are subtle 
 
 And ways of sin are dark, 
 But craftier, deeper, darker still 
 
 The ways of Roselle Park. 
 They knew while Kelly guarded 
 
 At night their hand mvist stay. 
 And so they formed the crafty plan 
 
 To storm the place by day. 
 
 And Tipping, Shea and Scudder 
 
 Were sent to do the thing, 
 For Harwood's moustache well was known 
 
 And vengeance quick would bringf. 
 "With pick and crow and mattock. 
 
 Swift worked the crafty three; 
 But Wade, he of the engineers 
 
 Right haply chanced to see, 
 And soon by phonic message 
 
 And puffing gosolene. 
 The forces of EI Mora s friends 
 
 Were rallied to the scene. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 95 
 
 O then did fall a scene of rout 
 
 And one tliat bnrred escape 
 Though Tipping tip and Scudder S'-nd 
 
 And Shea "shtart on the lape. " 
 And to the bastile's yawning doors 
 
 The culprits three were taken 
 And not till Tipping 's gold was pledged 
 
 Was grasp upon them shaken. 
 
 Hoselle Park sewer's battled wall 
 
 Shows forth full many a theme 
 How Gibney stayed bold Harwood 's hand 
 
 And Kelly watched the stream 
 But this within the annals long 
 
 On its own page shall stand. 
 For showing that who breaks that wall 
 
 Shall feel the law's stern hand. 
 
 But now Roselle Park's sewer spduts 
 
 Upon El Mora fair 
 Because King Harwood sent his hosts 
 
 When Kelly wasn 't there. 
 
 ITott MuUn'a Mau 
 
 The Kaiser's cruiser Emden, 
 
 A sunken wreck is she; 
 The scourge of British shipping 
 
 Is lying fathoms low. 
 But foes salute her master, 
 
 Von Muller loved will be; 
 For helpless wife and children, 
 
 He let a vessel go. 
 
96 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 The merchantman Kabin^a 
 
 Fell in the Emden 's path, 
 What g-ood to plead for mercy. 
 
 Her skipper thought, but no — 
 When told a helpless woman 
 
 Would suffer by his wrath, 
 \'on MuUer took his men away 
 
 And let the vessel go. 
 
 But first unto the woman 
 
 The captured ship he gave 
 Remarking to the skipper. 
 
 ''Please let your owners know, 
 So far as it concerns them 
 
 Y ou 're deep beneath the wave, 
 Bur for your wife and children 
 
 I'd rather let you go." 
 
 ^'<)n Muller in war '.s annals 
 
 A golden line has he. 
 Example for the rulers 
 
 Now causing endless woe. 
 He might have sent the foeman 
 
 To the bottom of the sea. 
 But for a wife and children. 
 
 He told them they might go. 
 
 Five million are embn tiled; 
 
 Ten thousand fall each day; 
 The widows and the orphans 
 
 Are plunged in blackest woe. 
 How better if the rulers 
 
 Could like Von Muller say: 
 "You're whipped, but for the children 
 
 And wives I'll let you go." 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 97 
 
 2[I|0 ^nQxnnt 
 
 The army's foremost engineers 
 
 For many days had tried 
 To build a mass!\e pontoon bridge. 
 
 But cannon quelled their pride. 
 A quiet builder did the work. 
 
 Just one span in the clear. 
 The army 's best took off their hats 
 
 To Jack Frost, engineer. 
 
 A deep morass had barred the march 
 
 Arranged with subtle skill. 
 The engineers could find no plan 
 
 The hiungry bog to fill, 
 But then the wizard of the frost 
 
 To flout their puny might. 
 Made solid footing through the way 
 
 Within a single night. 
 
 A pestilence hung o'er the field 
 
 AVhere thousands had been slain. 
 To stop the noisome, fearful thing 
 
 All efforts had been vain. 
 The sanitary engineer 
 
 Jack Frost to scorn their lore 
 Put forth his wand, the air w^as pure 
 
 Where it had reeked before. 
 
 "Jick Frost. Jack Frost, you king," they cried; 
 
 Remain with us for aye. ' ' 
 The wizard gave a mocking laugh; 
 
 "Then be it as you say." 
 He sank upon the 'fenseless band 
 
 And froze them into stone. 
 •'T care not for your plans," he cried; 
 
 •'T work to serve my own." 
 
98 HIS ONE TUNE 
 
 ®tp to tif? ii^all|f r Mm 
 
 Mr. Weather Man, you're wise — 
 
 Far more so than I — 
 Know just how much trouble lies 
 
 Back of bright blue sky. 
 Yet in methods, I must say. 
 
 You're not up-to-date. 
 Take for instance, now, the wa3' 
 
 Rains accumulate. 
 
 Every year about this time 
 
 Everything is soaked, 
 Can't keep dry worth half a dime 
 
 'Less you 're rubber cloaked. 
 Then in August when the earth 
 
 Really wants rain, 
 You won't grant a pennyworth. 
 
 That's what gives us pain. 
 
 Here's the tip I have for you, 
 
 Mr. Weather Man — 
 Why not try your work to do 
 
 On the storage plan? 
 Storage men are getting rich 
 
 So the papers say. 
 Selling eggs in winter which 
 
 They have iced in May. 
 
 So if you're up-to-date. 
 
 Popular and nice. 
 When your rains accumulate. 
 
 Put them dow:n on ice. 
 Store the January thaw. 
 
 Likewise April showers — 
 Ice them till the summer time 
 
 For those crops of ours. 
 
AND A FEW OTHERS 99 
 
 We admire you many ways, 
 
 Mr. Weather iVIan, 
 And we think j-ou'll find it pays — 
 
 This cold storagre plan. 
 
 (Etiautauqua 
 
 I Ve wandered somewhat west and east 
 
 And sought new places for my home; 
 But old Chautauqua never ceased 
 
 To be the best beneath the dome. 
 The Hudson bathes the Palisades; 
 
 The mellow Catskills kiss the skies; 
 The Mohawk 's rich in lights and shades — • 
 
 Chautauqua's finest in my eyes. 
 
 I like the ocean 's tossing deep, 
 
 The Mis.sissippi 's giant stream, 
 But sight of neither e'er can keep 
 
 Lake Erie's shores from out my dream. 
 I like to gaze on Woolworth 's tower; 
 
 I like the endless western plain; 
 But neither o'er me has a power 
 
 Like seeing my old home again. 
 
 I crossed its breadth the other day, 
 
 Its hills, its shores, its vinej'ards fair, 
 And proud indeed I was to say 
 
 That naught with it can quite compare. 
 And north and south and east and west 
 
 May show their wonders rich and grand; 
 But Bloomfield's lines will ring the best — 
 
 "There is no land like this dear land."