Class^S PXT06" 
 
 C4EXRIGHT DEP0SH1 
 
Psychological Verse Series 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 BY 
 
 He xbz ri if uglj Gkxifltt 
 
 INTRODUCTION BY 
 
 %tebetit I. SFarttril, MM., 3L&.<&.$. 
 
 Providence, Rhode Island 
 
 The Premier publishing Co., inc. 
 1920 
 

 Copyright by " 
 THE PREMIER PUBLISHING CO., INC. 
 
 Providence, Rhode Island 
 
 press OF 
 
 E. A. JOHNSON & CO. 
 PROVIDEN CE, R. I. 
 
 DEC -9 1920 
 
 ©Ci,Ae0l985 
 
Dedicated to My Friend 
 And his aid without end. 
 
 H. H. Caxton 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 (By Frederic J. Farnell, M. D., F. A. C. P.) 
 
 The fear of facts and truths or "ontophobia" has 
 always called for unrest and hostility in both the 
 sceptic and the critic. That this little book of verse 
 may be accepted and severely criticised is to be 
 expected, but to those who are in search of truth, it 
 is sincerely hoped that the various little ways of our 
 social growth and attitude thereto will find a satiation 
 for the hunger that so exists. 
 
 However, be that as it may, one can confidently 
 anticipate that in the near future, a clearer interpre- 
 tation and a wider application of analytical principles 
 must be accepted in order to meet fairly and 
 squarely conventionalities and the reactions growing 
 out of them. Adjustment to one's self and to society 
 is necessary in order to live comfortably and happily. 
 This comfort and happiness requires not only a 
 material side of life, but also an idealistic, one made 
 real to one's self and others — it can only be obtained 
 by a proper adaptation to one's environment and 
 through contact with people. This contact which 
 should be harmonious depends largely upon our love 
 and its fixation. Should there be no emancipation of 
 our love and at the same time a fixation or a deviation 
 of it, various types of character-formation as well as 
 individuals, usually abnormal, are formed. This 
 driving inward or repression of reality is instru- 
 mental in the production of habit formations and 
 
mental conflicts. Oftentimes the attitude assumed 
 towards these subnormal or abnormal types of 
 people is that their traits are inherited. Should the 
 trait be open or exposed it is called immoral — if it 
 be cloaked or hidden it is given to hereditary poten- 
 tialities. The study of the immorality of the sub- 
 conscious, so to speak, leads one into far more serious 
 avenues of thought than the study of immorality of 
 the consciousness. In the former it is looked upon as 
 a gross defect, avoided and tabooed, whereas, in the 
 latter, even when it is explained, it is looked upon as 
 unintelligible, which is really a defense against that 
 which is new, real and true. 
 
 More and more it is becoming known that the 
 beginning of nervousness in the young adult and in 
 middle life is really due to early impressions and mal- 
 development in childhood. Here a wrong attitude 
 has been taken towards the growing problems of 
 life which hinders one's adjustment to his environ- 
 ment or even to his own individual requirements, 
 thus blocking avenues which should develop, avoid- 
 ing reality in its incipiency, arCd allowing the fixation 
 of love to take place in such components of one's 
 personality as to produce a lingering of infantile 
 sensuality. 
 
 The author has arranged in verse form some of the 
 individual problems which are met with in psycho- 
 logical analysis insisting particularly upon the pos- 
 sibility that many individuals are influenced by 
 certain unconscious tendencies as portrayed in "The 
 Favorite, ,, "Reflection," "The Dance Goes On," and 
 so forth. Whereas when one is enlightened upon the 
 origin and the setting of these tendencies those quali- 
 ties of reality, which indicate happiness, sincerity 
 
and beauty are depicted in "Loneliness," "Happi- 
 ness," and "Religion." 
 
 Henri Bergson once stated : "When a shell bursts 
 the particular way it breaks is explained both by the 
 explosive force of the powder it contains and by the 
 resistance of the metal." So it is with life, when that 
 energy or libido is unobstructed, is free and at ease, 
 it helps to form an even and well-developed life. 
 But when that energy has been buried, smothered or 
 cloaked, certain instincts and emotions break forth 
 to cramp both the outer and the inner life of that in- 
 dividual. This cramping of the emotions soon be- 
 comes a barrier between the individual and his social 
 adjustment. Should it continue and grow more fixed 
 as years roll by, the individual grows more nervous 
 and that "call" to be socially useful and productive 
 becomes less and less. These reactions corresponding 
 to the epochs in psycho-physical and psycho-sexual 
 maladaptations are evident in "Life." 
 
 Not to know one's self and face the situations, as 
 they crop up, meeting them fairly, merely means a 
 repetition of the actions, not unlike those of the 
 famous scientists in the time of Galileo, when they 
 refused to look through his telescope. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Have You Ever Thought ? . . . .11 
 
 Pictures ........ 14 
 
 Snow . . . . . . . .17 
 
 Dear Little One 19 
 
 The Favorite 22 
 
 Reflection 24 
 
 Love Locked Out 26 
 
 The Doctor's Advice 27 
 
 Cause , . . . , • , . 30 
 
 Loneliness , ... 34 
 
 Happiness . . . , . . .37 
 
 The Dance Goes On . . , . .40 
 
 Wolves- 43 
 
 Roses 46 
 
 Religion ........ 47 
 
 Flesh 49 
 
 Sin 51 
 
 Hereafter ...... . . 53 
 
 Dreams . 55 
 
 Life 58 
 
HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT? 
 
 Have you ever stopped to ponder 
 
 'Bout the cross- threads in life's mesh, 
 As the door of life slow opens 
 
 And you stand upon its thresh; 
 It's like a great big grab-bag, 
 
 Wherein you reach to find 
 Something that is worth the sum 
 
 Of the mite you leave behind. 
 
 Have you ever given due long thought 
 
 Of just where we'd all be, 
 If we ceased our tiny efforts 
 And lost our energy ; 
 "Yet what's the use?" the mob will say, 
 "What profit? — we can't see," 
 But bear a little, let me think, 
 Come list a while to me. 
 
 I've trailed the wide world over 
 
 And I've lived in every clime, 
 While oft times I've had those same thoughts 
 
 To think I'm right each time; 
 Until I'd meet another one 
 
 Who'd been one farther step, 
 He showed me where my error lay 
 
 And gave to me new "pep." 
 
 And so my education, 
 
 Which did not come from books, 
 But picked up on life's highways, 
 
 Made change to life's outlooks; 
 
 11 
 
It caused the haze to clear away, 
 
 "Til now life's like the sea 
 With little fogs just now and then 
 
 To cloud the sun from me. 
 
 The religion of my childhood days 
 
 Has all been changed — and well ; 
 For I've changed my thoughts of heaven 
 
 And I've changed my thoughts of hell; 
 My great belief is the golden rule 
 
 Which means I believe in love 
 And to do these two as your mind dictates 
 
 Will please the spirit above. 
 
 Just don't let the spirit weary 
 
 And don't let the moments drag, 
 Don't let the clouds shut out the sun 
 
 And don't let the thirsty brain lag; 
 Don't be afraid of these young new truths, 
 
 Because they conflict with the old, 
 For through that door lies happiness 
 
 And completion of the mold. 
 
 To live correct we must have truth 
 
 And truth with yourself comes first 
 And even if you're low down low 
 
 Admit to yourself the worst; 
 It's then the haze will clear away, 
 
 From wrong you'll turn to right 
 And through the change in you, my friend, 
 
 Others will see the light. 
 
 Then study your finer instincts, 
 Called ethics, or morals, or what? 
 
 12 
 
And you'll find you are often in error 
 And should be what you are not ; 
 
 For none of us find real pleasure 
 In acting against the law, 
 
 Just needing self-introspection 
 To open the proper door. 
 
 So start in now to live and think, 
 
 Start with love and a kiss; 
 You'll miss the evil that others see 
 
 And find beauties that others miss; 
 You'll find that in that mind of yours 
 
 Are channels you never knew, 
 While dreams of business and of love 
 
 Will start in coming true. 
 
 Today stop knocking others, 
 
 Reverse, and try it on self, 
 You'll have such a garden to weed at home 
 
 That others will go on the shelf; 
 Then resign from the scandal club 
 
 And with your resignation, 
 Start one just for yourself at home 
 
 To help your reformation. 
 
 To try it is to adopt the new 
 
 And never go back to the old, 
 While you pity the pin-head regulars 
 
 Of that old muck-raking fold ; 
 You'll find life's dice are rolling right, 
 
 They're seven or eleven, 
 And you won't wait 'til you're cold and stiff 
 
 To get your bit of heaven. 
 
 13 
 
PICTURES 
 
 You've all had the feeling, on entering homes, 
 As you gaze round the place where you sit, 
 That something is lacking, though you know not what, 
 And the doors to the heart of your friend all seem shut — 
 And it bothers you quite a bit. 
 
 Now I've had those feelings, oh! so many times, 
 And some friendships were shrouded in mist, 
 
 Then one day a good friend explained it to me 
 
 In a manner so simple you just had to see; 
 My old friend the psychiatrist. 
 
 There's all kinds of people with all kinds of twists 
 
 Among men you call friends in this life, 
 The amusements they seek to you time would waste 
 And you catch yourself wondering just where is their taste, 
 
 While if it's not them, it's their wife. 
 
 Now these faults are things not born in the man 
 
 And they're also not born in his mate, 
 Their bad taste and manners you can't trace by rules, 
 For they come from their home life and also their schools, — 
 
 They induce all these things that we hate. 
 
 It may be their boyhood or girlhood was hard 
 
 And refinement left out in the cold, 
 It may be their parents were always in strife, 
 Which will kill finer instincts in any child's life, — 
 
 The statue was spoiled in the mold. 
 
 They grow up and marry and housekeeping go, 
 
 And it's then for the first time we see, 
 The nest where they live, where their children are born, 
 
 14 
 
Is a place that's quite cheerless, that's really forlorn, 
 A prospect that chills you and me. 
 
 The chairs are quite comfy, the fire warm and bright, — 
 
 The greeting is warm, the cottage not small, 
 There's no class distinction to make us upset, 
 But you do feel uneasy and what makes you fret 
 Are the pictures that hang on the wall. 
 
 There are pictures of mother and father and 
 
 Both of the families from end to end, 
 But never a study of country or sea 
 That would lighten the spirit of both you and me, 
 
 Or maybe, a message would send. 
 
 We sat in his office and he said to me 
 
 "Now what do you think is the reason, 
 That the pictures round here both tearful and glad 
 Will always give comfort, though sometimes make sad, 
 
 No matter what is the season?" 
 
 4i l don't put them there to fill space on the wall 
 
 Nor to make people think that I'm learned or great, 
 But simply to rest me both evening and morn 
 When these human wrecks make me tired and forlorn, 
 To my mind they are really a gate." 
 
 "Some day give them study and you will find, 
 
 That to life all these studies are true, 
 And then when through study you grasp what they mean 
 And learn the great lessons to this time unseen, 
 
 You'll see why they also rest you." 
 
 "When people pick pictures it's not always because 
 
 That the scene there depicted is what makes them care,- 
 
 15 
 
But rather a subconscious wave throught or dream, 
 A longing and unfulfilled wish yet unseen 
 Is really what they see there. 1 ' 
 
 "Now these unfulfilled wishes in people we see 
 
 Are related to those in both me and you 
 And that feeling at home, though you never knew what,- 
 Is opening that door that to comrades was shut, 
 
 And the making of friends more true." 
 
 "Feel sorry for those who have brain twists to bear 
 
 And who never have felt the sweet subconscious call, 
 For to those who are normal and know what we know 
 You will see that their friendships and spirit will show - 
 In pictures that hang on their wall." 
 
 16 
 
SNOW 
 
 Some people think just churches can teach the Golden Rules, 
 While others go to lectures and the balance go to schools, 
 But I have just discovered that you only have to look 
 About you, in these walks of life, and read from Nature's book, 
 For all these basic principles, which teachers make so hard, 
 Are written on its pages by the all-wise-hand of God. 
 
 Just take the sweet spring flowers, the bud and then the bloom, 
 Or else just watch the window plant that's growing in your 
 
 room, 
 And as you note the progress that it makes with each new sun, 
 You'll grasp that little message that it brings for everyone; 
 It grows the same as you and I, although in time more fleet, 
 But it daily gets more beautiful, more perfect, and more sweet. 
 
 That's just one thing that speaks to me, coming from the land, 
 But similar lessons you can find — if you look — on every hand; 
 The beautiful lakes — the massive trees — • the blue-green roll- 
 ing sea — 
 They all can give their message, if you only care to see; 
 But out of Nature's pages, that speak to me soft and low, 
 The thing that seems most true to life is the pure white winter's 
 snow. 
 
 I've watched the crowds, on city's streets, surging out and in, 
 And listened to talk until I believed that we all were full of sin, 
 Until one day, when I got home and got to feeling warm, 
 I pulled an armchair to a window just to watch a storm; 
 The way the snow came to this earth and settled in our lane, 
 Brought to mind the way we came, causing both joy and pain. 
 
 When I awoke the following day and took a look outside, 
 All I could see was virgin white, piled up on every side, 
 
 17 
 
In piles grotesque it lay about in fantastic design, 
 Yet, just like a new born baby, was the first thought in my mind ; 
 Resting so quiet, looking so pure, and covering all the land, 
 While lending a beauty to things around and making them far 
 more grand. 
 
 For the many days that followed, I'd spend an hour there, 
 Letting these new thoughts come and go, while lounging in my 
 
 chair, 
 But, after I'd watched a day or so, sweet thoughts began to spoil, 
 For, as each man or truck passed by, the whiteness they would 
 
 soil; 
 And just so would that new born babe, as it grew old in this 
 
 life, 
 Lose its snow white purity through the influence of strife. 
 
 My dream was spoiled completely and I felt a righteous wrath, 
 So I took my old snow-shovel out to clear the drifting path; 
 I drove it down through dirt and grime, pushing with all my 
 
 might, 
 But, as I lifted the top dirt off, I saw underneath it was white; 
 I got the lesson instantly, a big fool I had been, 
 For just like the snow, that babe of mine, was white beneath the 
 
 skin. 
 
 My friend, if you've a blase eye and cast it on this verse, 
 
 Just take to reading Nature's book, or else you may get worse; 
 
 Don't listen to all this foolish talk, for nothing of joy will it 
 
 bring, 
 "You can't judge a book by its cover," and it's like that with 
 
 everything. 
 Your neighbor may offend your code, but form your judgment 
 
 slow, 
 For under the grime it may be white, just like my pile of snow. 
 
 18 
 
DEAR LITTLE ONE 
 
 Why have you such a troubled look 
 
 Deep in your big brown eyes? 
 Have I suggested some horrid thing 
 
 In speaking of paradise? 
 Is it because from the nature call, 
 
 The maiden warns you back? 
 Or is it because that in my love 
 
 You think there is a lack? 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 It may be that I'm different 
 
 Than the men you've known before, 
 Who have centered themselves in your girlish 
 dreams — 
 
 Using a different door. 
 They have used such different love forms 
 
 Than the ones that are used by me ; 
 You attach ulterior motives to them 
 
 And mine seem like mystery, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 But all I want is you, dear girl, 
 
 So that mine is your every vibration ; 
 First your interest and then your mind, 
 
 Before the love adoration. 
 For I ceased to feel baser passions alone 
 
 When I ceased to be like other boys; 
 And I've found the analyzed substitute 
 
 Insures the lasting joys, 
 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 19 
 
It's love that's known by only the few, 
 
 That lasting eternal kind; 
 For only the few can have this joy, 
 
 Who have the analyzed mind. 
 That is the cause of it seeming strange 
 
 At first — but under the sun, 
 I've sought for a girl to understand 
 
 And you are the only one, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 That's the reason I try so hard 
 
 To kill your every fear, 
 As I know that you must feel the call 
 
 Of me to you, my dear, 
 If you do — to turn away your heart, 
 
 To yourself, 'twould not be right, 
 For you wouldn't pull the shades at noon 
 
 To shut out God's sunlight, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 Why do I ask you to come to me, 
 
 You ask — if this love is pure? 
 But I ask you to come to school, sweetheart, 
 
 So this sweet love will endure. 
 For you have yet to reach the highest plane, 
 
 Although you're nearing the tops, 
 Where you find that wondrous vision, 
 
 And all the unbeautiful drops, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 'Tis then you'll want only your Pal and Mate 
 
 To wander with hand in hand 
 Through life's stretch then turned paradise, 
 
 That's broader than sea, sky and land. 
 
 20 
 
With not a regret to spoil the calm, 
 
 And noble work fills the day. 
 While in my arms at eventide 
 
 Brain weariness slips away, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 I've grown to need you so, my love, 
 
 That I am growing to fear 
 That I cannot work or play my best 
 
 Unless I know you're near. 
 First, you're my inspiration, 
 
 Then you're my helping hand, 
 Until now I realize you as 
 
 The completion of the man, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 I feel I've a real vocation, 
 
 I feel I can do things great; 
 But I feel I can only gain the top 
 
 With your help, sweet little mate. 
 So come to me now that I need you, 
 
 And make that dear conscience clear, 
 For there never was wrong in love sent by God, 
 
 So, therefore, there's nothing to fear, 
 Dear Little One. 
 
 21 
 
THE FAVORITE 
 
 There he stood — tall and thin, 
 
 Age only thirty, but still he had been 
 
 Always the "Ugly Duckling" in life, 
 That was the story he told to us 
 And the way he told it we had to trust, 
 
 For the Doctor and I knew of strife. 
 
 He said as a baby — aged four or five, 
 Just doctors and nurses kept him alive, 
 
 'Least that's what his dear mother said, 
 While after, in schools of the private kind, 
 His poor weak body would not let his mind 
 
 Be trained — for they kept him in bed. 
 
 And all this while other children mean, 
 Played all the tricks, on him, ever seen; 
 
 Though why, he never could figure 
 For his mother, at night, when he'd go to rest, 
 Would say other children were to him a pest, 
 
 Though her darling baby was bigger. 
 
 Then they started in calling him "mama's boy," 
 And, though it made angry, it gave him some 
 
 joy 
 
 To feel she was there to protect; 
 Yet never a thought, like would come to you, 
 To him ever came, that their words were true, 
 
 For sarcasm he'd never detect. 
 
 And so into manhood bye and bye 
 He came — but then felt, oh, so shy! 
 For he couldn't with other men talk, 
 
 22 
 
And so he'd never counted in business or play, 
 From the time mother died until this very day, 
 As the frankness of words made him balk. 
 
 The money she'd left had kept him from need 
 And the outcast still lived by her terrible 
 creed, — 
 Only pleasure in life had he lacked, 
 For his selfish and quarrelsome ways, without 
 
 end, 
 Had denied his greatest need — a friend, 
 An object of pity — for fact. 
 
 A lonely pessimist he had become 
 
 And years' training we had to overcome 
 
 To help this poor patient a bit; 
 For an unwise love has always been 
 The cause of these leeches on our social scheme 
 
 The Only Child or the Favorite. 
 
 23 
 
REFLECTION 
 
 Buried love — buried love? 
 
 Death did recall; 
 
 Left nothing at all, 
 
 But thoughts of buried love. 
 
 Joys of youth — joys of youth? 
 
 Carefree and gay, 
 
 That lived but a day, 
 
 Then passed, as did the youth. 
 
 Middle age — middle age? 
 So wise in its time, 
 It pardoned the crime, 
 Leaving free for society's age. 
 
 Baby hands — baby hands? 
 I never knew 
 The sweet touch of you, 
 Pink, dimpled baby hands. 
 
 Baby eyes — baby eyes? 
 Too old in years, 
 Now I think of the tears 
 Of reproachful baby eyes. 
 
 Baby talk — baby talk? 
 
 Rejected joys 
 
 Of girlies and boys, 
 
 With their cooing baby talk. 
 
 Baby feet — baby feet? 
 Where have you strayed, 
 
 24 
 
While I have just played, 
 Pattering baby feet. 
 
 Baby skies — baby skies? 
 Now comes the lack, 
 For I sent you back, 
 To your baby paradise. 
 
 Nights of dreams — nights of dreams? 
 
 Babies I see 
 
 Beckoning me, 
 
 There in those awful dreams. 
 
 Lonely now — lonely now? 
 Gone through the gate, 
 Leaving no duplicate, 
 And I am so lonely now. 
 
 Barren tree — barren tree? 
 Standing so mute, 
 Bearing no fruit, 
 Wither up, barren tree. 
 
 25 
 
LOVE LOCKED OUT 
 
 A little naked Cupid, 
 
 His arrows at his feet, 
 Before an ugly brown locked door, 
 
 Which told of his defeat; 
 His head is bowed upon his arms, 
 
 You wonder who's to blame, 
 And whether it's bent in sorrow, 
 
 Or whether it's hung in shame. 
 
 It hangs in a doctor's office, 
 
 A picture it is to be sure, 
 But no greater thoughts or emotions, 
 
 If the child were there, could he lure; 
 Not a lovers' quarrel, you feel, 
 
 So what was the thing about 
 That made the artist paint this child 
 
 And call it "Love Locked Out"? 
 
 You wonder what's behind the door, 
 
 That Cupid's state would cause, 
 And hundreds of reasons come to mind 
 
 With never a single pause; 
 At last you turn back to your book, 
 
 When thoughts begin to mix, 
 You open it up and note the page, 
 
 It's number six hundred and six. 
 
 ? 
 
 26 
 
THE DOCTOR'S ADVICE 
 
 It doesn't pay to lock the door 
 
 After the horse has gone, 
 Or to weep and wail and come to me 
 
 In a manner so forlorn, 
 For you mothers all procrastinate 
 
 Until your bye and bye 
 And to your girls, in the interim, 
 
 You make advice a lie. 
 
 You start the ball with the camouflage 
 
 Of — "The stork brought the baby dear," 
 And soon, when nature gives you chance, 
 
 To change the tale you fear. 
 You say to tell them of this thing 
 
 Their innocence would shelf, 
 But truth is that this miracle 
 
 Cannot be seen by self. 
 
 Now supposing that you were a lawyer 
 
 And I came to you for advice, 
 Trusting to your better judgment 
 
 And willing to pay your price; 
 Would you let me go into court, 
 
 Leaving you there behind, 
 Unless you explained the important points 
 
 And advised from your legal mind? 
 
 Yet never a lawyer had a case 
 
 In all his busy whirl, 
 As big as that which God gave you 
 
 With the birth of that dear girl; 
 Still, when her case was called in court, 
 
 27 
 
You let her go alone, 
 For self protection, no defense 
 Was given her at home. 
 
 The plea to the court was wonderful, 
 
 The defense it had no fight, 
 And yet her lawyer weeps and moans 
 
 To find her in this plight. 
 You fear the speech of the neighbors, 
 
 But you should fear worse by far, 
 For you played with the opposition, 
 
 Which gives grounds to disbar. 
 
 Times have changed, as you should know, 
 
 Since grandma was a girl, 
 From the home to every amusement 
 
 That forms our social whirl; 
 And so the way that she was trained 
 
 And even as you were taught, 
 Did not fit into your girl's life 
 
 And, even destruction brought. 
 
 Now I will give you just a tip, 
 
 Because there's more at home, 
 And you want to get their mind trunk packed 
 
 Before they start to roam; 
 If they've reached the age of reason 
 
 And ask questions or advice, 
 Just give them all their answers straight 
 
 And this won't happen twice. 
 
 How will you do it? how do I know 
 
 What you were going to say? 
 That doesn't matter — but listen close, 
 
 28 
 
For here is the only way ; 
 Tell them the story just as it is, 
 
 The prettiest one on earth, 
 And read it right out of your Bible 
 
 Concerning the Saviour's birth. 
 
 Don't make it'a toilet horror, 
 
 Or brand it a thing of shame, 
 Making talk for the secret closet 
 
 Of the miracle whence they came; 
 Let them look forward their mission to fill, 
 
 The designs of Nature don't block, 
 And you'll never come to me again 
 
 For one without wedlock. 
 
 Then, if her road is hard ahead 
 
 And life's path she must play, 
 It would not harm to speak about 
 
 The vultures on the way; 
 Let no prejudice warp your thought 
 
 In giving the proper start, 
 These vultures might be women, 
 
 Who, besides men, play their part. 
 
 29 
 
CAUSE 
 
 I ain't no professor and I ain't no wiz, 
 
 Except when you're talking of strife, 
 Was born in de gutter and dragged up by bums, 
 
 But still I got notions on life. 
 I've always been down wid de dogs underneat', 
 
 Dey calls me a mean little whelp, 
 But in place of deir coin and deir talking and all 
 
 I'll say dat what we needs is help. 
 
 Dey pity de dopey, 'least dat's what dey say, 
 
 De crook and de gun-man what shoots, 
 De women and kids which is starving and all 
 
 And de misguided — er — prostitutes; 
 Dey's got lots of missions and societies 
 
 Dat for worthy parties give bails, 
 But half of de guys what needs help de most 
 
 Is rotting near by in de jails. 
 
 De question, dey say, is de biggest on earth, 
 
 Dese guys wid de coin way up town, 
 And de women and girls what's spending deir 
 dough 
 
 Is scratching deir heads wid a frown. 
 Dey always go down to de headquarters bunch 
 
 If dey wants to get dope from police 
 So why don't dey come to us guys to get dope 
 
 If our troubles dey're anxious to cease? 
 
 De only good guy wid de gray in his nut 
 
 Dat I ever happens to meet, 
 Was examining kids to help make 'em well 
 
 He's a doctor — lives on de next street, 
 
 30 
 
He gives me "how do" and we starts to talk 
 
 'Twas right in de corner bar 
 Where he steps in 'cause de cold it was hell, 
 
 And he's waiting dere for his car. 
 
 I tells him what I tells to you, 
 
 And he nods his head while he t'inks, 
 Den he wants dat I should spill to him 
 
 All he should know 'bout us ginks. 
 So I tells him how I'm "Light Fingered Pete" 
 
 And de cops dey calls me de whelp 
 And lots of t'ings, and when I'm t'rough 
 
 He tells me his idea of help. 
 
 'It's too late now to help you, Pete, 
 
 But what I plans to do, 
 Is to nail dose kids while dey're dragging 'em up 
 
 And keep 'em from getting like you, 
 I wants to feed dem and make dem strong, 
 
 Correct de twists in deir nut and shell, 
 To keep dem in school and away from de gang 
 
 Dat's driving de helpless kids to hell." 
 
 'I plans to try and get de bunch 
 
 Dat's flinging de coin 'round here, 
 To listen, while I shows to dem, 
 
 How dey'se breeding de t'ings dey fear, 
 If I can, I'll show dem how to spend, 
 
 Give de politics crowd deir kale 
 Get de grafters building hospitals, 
 
 Instead of de stinking jail." 
 
 'While now dey takes de young boy t'ief, 
 Who's ruined by guys like you, 
 
 3! 
 
And dey t'rows him into de reform school 
 Like de law says dey should do 
 
 And when he gets into dis place 
 Dat's going to make him straight 
 
 De innocent kid must live wid de crooks, 
 He comes out — and den it's too late." 
 
 "Dey pinch some pretty little girl 
 
 Before she's out of de mold 
 For falling to pick up a couple of bucks 
 
 To keep her from starving and cold. 
 Dey stick her in places where she is told 
 
 How she should be good and true 
 And dere she's trained for a girl of de streets 
 
 By de gang — den turned over to you." 
 
 "So most of dem get out of dese dens, 
 
 Dat dey run for sweet charity's sake, 
 Where de rest of de inmates teach dem 
 
 To take chances dey'd never take. 
 And so dis bunch of reformers 
 
 Break de boy as well as de girl, 
 Dey lead dem to hell and not heaven 
 
 And help breed a rotten world." 
 
 "Good God! if dis bunch of reformers 
 
 Would only listen to me 
 I'd fix up a bunch of dese sick little kids 
 
 So regular guys dey'd see 
 Instead of de mob of white faced dopes 
 
 Dat de jugs turn out each day, 
 I'd fix up a bunch into happy health 
 
 Who'd all have a reason to pray." 
 
 32 
 
"Dey 're sick little kiddies, every one 
 
 And not de criminals which 
 Dey send away to learn every crime 
 
 Den leave dem to rot in de ditch. 
 For every work-shop dey gives to me 
 
 I'll turn out t'ousands a cure 
 And give real help to dis bunch what dreams 
 
 Of making de world more pure." 
 
 Den a car drives up and honks its horn, 
 
 I'm tanking dis guy's in luck, 
 And before he buttons up his coat 
 He puts in me mit a buck. 
 "Go get yourself what you like," says he, 
 "And if dose wanting advice comes along 
 Just slip dem de dope dat I slipped you," 
 He says — and den he was gone. 
 
 I looks at de buck, den looks after de guy, 
 
 And wondering I scratches me pate, 
 I've seen lots of guys in dis life of mine 
 
 But no one like him so great. 
 Now if we had some others dat t'ought like him 
 
 Dose kids of his — dey'd stop de sin 
 And d'ough I ain't done it since mother died, 
 
 I t'ink tonight I'll pray for him. 
 
 33 
 
LONELINESS 
 
 I can recall, when sorrow was mine 
 
 And it daily became much worse, 
 When I thought all I cared for had cast me off 
 
 And night time became a curse, 
 I hated the man who had cause for joy 
 
 And the bitterest thoughts would come, 
 So I'd seek the seclusion of chamber or crowd 
 
 For I knew that I was lonesome. 
 
 You say you can't picture me in that state, 
 
 Well! thank the Lord you're right 
 For now the day time with joy is filled 
 
 And I sleep or dream pretty at night; 
 It all came about through a very dear friend, 
 
 Who changed both my work and my play, 
 Just with plain talk — his suggestions — and such, 
 
 The lonesomeness all slipped away. 
 
 So now, my friend reader, with troubles bent 
 
 And with deep worries creasing your brow, 
 Listen to just a few main points 
 
 Of the way he showed me how 
 To bury regrets — to kill foolish fears, 
 
 To bring joy in place of heart pain, 
 To make night time restful — to make slumber 
 sweet, 
 
 And to make life worth living again. 
 
 ''Lonesome?" he queried, "and I'm to prescribe. 
 Well! the first thing you need is a friend, 
 And it's not the one in the human form, 
 But a friendship which never can end; 
 
 34 
 
I can show to you where this friend lives 
 Though you say he's so hard to find, 
 
 You've got him in jail under lock and key, 
 In your sleeping, neglected mind." 
 
 "Just take him out of his bone- walled cell 
 
 And give him the sun and air, 
 Then he will get his thought-friend's aid 
 
 To help drive out Worry and Care; 
 For these two have his jailers been, 
 
 And they smothered all Joy and Sensation, 
 But you can drive those impostors out, 
 
 If you just free Imagination." 
 
 "Let him go out and romp and play, 
 
 When the daily work is done, 
 And he will give you a wonderful time 
 
 Before back home he'll come; 
 He'll take you to see Ambition 
 
 Who lives next door to Success 
 But never those three down in the slums 
 
 Care — Worry — - and Loneliness." 
 
 "You claim he's just a dreamer, 
 
 And I hope that you are right, 
 For successful men have set their goals 
 
 In dreams by day or night. 
 And if this friend did that for them, 
 
 It's safe, I guess, to say, 
 That it wouldn't do a bit of harm 
 
 For Imagination to play." 
 
 "Then Imagination takes you 
 To the land of make-believe, 
 
 35 
 
Where all the flowers speak to you, 
 While dancing 'round the trees; 
 
 And all the little babbling brooks, 
 On their way to lakes so grand 
 
 Will all be friends and rest you 
 When Nature you understand.' ' 
 
 'Of course, he spoils his playmates 
 
 So they'll never be content, 
 Until they try out all the paths 
 
 By which old Success went, 
 But you'll always find Miss Wisdom home, 
 
 If you start to get forlorn, 
 And she will take you to the path, 
 
 By which you should have gone." 
 
 'So all the friends are near, you see, 
 
 Right there within your head 
 And the narrow quarters make them knock, 
 
 When you're awake in bed; 
 So why not let the darn things out, 
 
 That cause all this distress, 
 Then do away with those three fools 
 
 Care — Worry — and Loneliness." 
 
 36 
 
HAPPINESS 
 
 We all seek for something to satisfy, 
 
 We creatures of flesh here below, 
 But, if we were asked, could we reply 
 
 Just what it is — do we know? 
 For some, it's the comforts — clothes and food; 
 
 For some it is joy in distress; 
 But, should we strip our minds quite nude, 
 
 We all look for happiness. 
 
 The ridiculous things are the places we look, 
 
 For this "Will of the Wisp" which we seek, 
 From the cabaret halls to the big Good Book, 
 
 Our pleasure ideas are wild or meek, 
 The youth with his store of inadequate gold 
 
 Will grasp for success high above, 
 Or the girl, who is scarcely out of the mold, 
 
 Will stoop to an insecure love. 
 
 And so I could count, from day to day, 
 
 All those things that people do 
 In their vain attempts to find, in play, 
 
 An object which lasts and is true; 
 But, in this quest for happiness, 
 
 When weVe filed all these things on the shelf, 
 Is not this marvel called happiness 
 
 An adjustment within ourself ? 
 
 When we lie in bed and seek repose, 
 It is midnight — we know by the bell, 
 
 Is not the thing which rests us most, 
 The thoughts of a kindness done well? 
 
 Instead of the hit we might have made, 
 
 37 
 
Or the admiration we've won, 
 Do not we envy our fellow mate 
 
 Who has thoughts of duties well done? 
 
 Still this happiness thought requires, 
 
 If we wish it — both you and me; 
 That whoever would dare to aspire, 
 
 Must first seek self honesty; 
 We cannot be selfish or cunning, 
 
 With either ourselves or our friends, 
 For, as soon as we cheat in the running, 
 
 This thing we seek — happiness — ends. 
 
 Even now I can hear you questioning 
 
 If, for this, petty joys you have sold, 
 When will you get your full reckoning? 
 
 And I answer — it's when you are old; 
 When the twilight of this life is falling, 
 
 As in Nature it falls 'round the trees, 
 You'll be able to do your recalling 
 
 On that fund of dear memories. 
 
 This arrogant youth is deceiving, 
 
 For, even when you have done wrong, 
 It tells you tomorrow will square the thing, 
 
 So you put it aside with a song; 
 That's the reason so many keep putting off 
 
 Until they are older in life, 
 While then — it's too late — and people will 
 scoff 
 
 At your bitter memories of strife. 
 
 So, youth, go and try every by-path, 
 'Til experience makes you decide, 
 
 38 
 
That there's nothing of joy. in a partner's wrath 
 
 And you turn to the proper side, 
 Where all are joined by one true band, 
 
 Which forms the happiness seed, 
 Of the pleasant word and the helping hand, 
 
 To our struggling brother in need. 
 
 You all want your freedom of thought and work, 
 
 And maybe you aim to do good, 
 But don't lose your sense of direction, or shirk, 
 
 Or content be with half that you should 
 But rather have your point so advanced, 
 
 That you ever will have to strive, 
 So that trying to cover the great distance, 
 
 'Til death you'll keep spirit alive. 
 
 39 
 
THE DANCE GOES ON 
 
 I had a dream the other night, 
 
 In a big Broadway cafe, 
 Where I'd gone to lose a lonely streak 
 
 And while an hour away. 
 There was no one sitting across from me 
 
 And the jazz-band seemed to scream, 
 But, in spite of the noise and laughter and talk, 
 
 I started in to dream. 
 
 I was walking about in a city of old, 
 
 In the square I heard wise men preach, 
 I followed the crowd to a temple grand 
 
 And strolled along a beach ; 
 Then I came to a place where quiet reigned, 
 
 Where one heard the slightest breath, 
 'Twas a playhouse where the signs did say 
 
 They danced the Dance of Death. 
 
 The stage was set in the center quite 
 
 So it made a perfect square, 
 As one looked above — without a roof — 
 
 Just the stars were twinkling there. 
 The actors all were skeletons 
 
 And dressed in a mourner's black, 
 With white stripes made in forms of bone 
 
 Which were traced out front and back. 
 
 The music was made by cymbal and drum, 
 Then the pipes of Pan rang shrill, 
 
 Then all turned mute, except the lute, 
 Which emphasized the still. 
 
 The grewsome figures danced in pairs, 
 
 40 
 
Without a care or caution, 
 Bending and twisting their bony shapes 
 In a sensual contortion. 
 
 I felt a tugging at my sleeve 
 
 And turned round to engage 
 The look of a pair of cool grey eyes 
 Of an old and worthy sage. 
 "What do you here, my lad?" he said 
 "For you seem to have a station, 
 Where these mummers of the after world 
 Call forth the live sensation." 
 
 "Hast not lived long enough to see, 
 
 Through travels and thy wealth, 
 That life of night results from this 
 
 And does impair thy health. 
 Then soon the habit comes on thee 
 
 To dance till out of breath 
 When resultant lustful feelings turn it 
 
 To a Dance of Death." 
 
 "I do not preach against the dance 
 
 That emphasizes joy 
 And lends a pretty gliding grace 
 
 To every girl and boy. 
 But, as I look upon this scene, 
 
 Experience causes fear, 
 For from it I could tell the thoughts 
 
 Of all who gather here." 
 
 "They fly like moths about the flame, 
 Indulging themselves in heat 
 And pass through each conducive stage 
 
 41 
 
As fast as they move their feet, 
 They get physical excitement sure, 
 
 Which brings them passing joys, 
 But the physical exhaustion, lad, 
 
 Will kill these girls and boys." 
 
 He rose and bowed and bid me well 
 
 And passed out with his torch, 
 Leaving me in a quandary 
 
 To witness the dance debauch, 
 I turned my eyes back to the stage, 
 
 It now was filled, it seemed, 
 I awoke — the music did not change, 
 
 But still I knew I'd dreamed. 
 
 I watched the crowd upon the floor, 
 
 They formed a swaying throng 
 And, though I had reformer been, 
 
 I could pick nothing wrong. 
 The jazz-band played rhythmatically 
 
 For every girl and man, 
 But somehow it reminded me 
 
 Of those shrill pipes of Pan. 
 
 I picked a couple here and there 
 
 In amorous embrace, 
 Who brought those skeletons to mind 
 
 That danced with naught of grace. 
 I could not put the dream aside, 
 
 So cursed beneath my breath, 
 And left — because the scene brought back 
 
 That grewsome Dance of Death. 
 
 42 
 
WOLVES 
 
 Snow fell like sand on the plateau-land 
 
 To the whistle of wind so shrill, 
 While the howl of the pack came echoing back 
 
 From the one distant lonely hill. 
 
 The man with the sled — limbs frozen — half dead 
 
 Was lashing his dogs with a curse, 
 For he knew he'd fall soon — unless the moon 
 
 Showed its silver light 'fore he got worse. 
 
 \ 
 
 He prayed to the God he'd treated so hard, 
 
 To just give him life for a while, 
 So his cabin he'd make, which stood on his stake 
 
 In the valley — now just three mile. 
 
 \ 
 
 On each drifting sag his dog-team would lag, 
 
 A snow-shoe had come off — had gone; \ 
 
 As the bad foot broke through, for the first time he knew 
 
 That he cursed the fair day he was born. 
 
 The huskies that pulled, that for months he had bulled, 
 
 Dog-weary — grew sullen — then stopped, 
 So he cursed them to hell in a coarse- voiced yell, 
 
 Then said, "God forgive me!" — then dropped. 
 
 The freezing and smart that had crept to his heart 
 
 Had left — he felt warm — was numb, 
 But that damned thing — his brain — was active again; 
 
 Old scenes came up one by one. 
 
 The snow storm had stopped, it seemed, when he dropped, 
 Then the moon broke out from a cloud, 
 
 43 
 
And its ghostly light on the fresh snow so white 
 Was the dying man's only shroud. 
 
 He moaned as he tossed, for he knew he was lost, 
 
 Then chilled at a wolf-howl-sound, 
 'Twas the king of the pack that had circled back 
 
 And he watched from a near snow mound. 
 
 From the peak of the rise his gold-fire eyes 
 
 Were bent on the fast freezing form 
 And the man saw his breath as he howled for his death, 
 
 Good God! but the scene was forlorn. 
 
 He turned his head to look for his sled, 
 
 For it scraped as it pulled away, 
 Then the dogs' pace slacked for the rest of the pack 
 
 Were holding them there at bay. 
 
 Then his thoughts returned to memories that burned, 
 To the mother who'd gone from his life, 
 
 But they soon turned to gall as he thought of the fall 
 Of the woman he'd loved — his wife. 
 
 First he'd stuck to his home, in the city of Nome, 
 
 Vowing her lover to shoot; 
 Though he knew in his mind, like the rest of her kind, 
 
 She was really a prostitute. 
 
 Then the rush for the gold got him in its hold, 
 
 So he quit both his home and his vow, 
 Coming in haste to this terrible waste 
 
 Where his body lay dying now. 
 
 The wolf's circling cries and fast nearing eyes, 
 Cut shorter, by minutes, his life, 
 
 44 
 
And that shaggy beast his brain gave no peace, 
 For it put him in mind of his wife. 
 
 He thought of the nights, when, in passion's heights, 
 He had sought for his pretty wife's love, 
 
 While her only show was as cold as the snow 
 And dim as the blue light above. 
 
 Then he gazed at the waste — not a tree near the place 
 
 And he moaned at his childless band, 
 There was never a soul in his wife's pretty mold, 
 
 Like this, 'twas a barren land. 
 
 So he looked at the thing that these thoughts did bring, 
 
 It crouched as its death cries rang 
 And in place of its head was a woman's instead, 
 
 Just a painted face — not a wolf's fang. 
 
 By God! it was right, he decided that night, 
 
 As the wolf does so they will, 
 Though they may love at last many lives they will blast 
 
 And leave only their bones on the hill. 
 
 Of course, up above, they make some for love, 
 
 It's possible some few to find; 
 But I mean the breed that sham love for greed 
 
 And I'm putting my curse on that kind. 
 
 So on that barren plain, without any pain, 
 
 He died — and the wolf had its meal; 
 With the tragic it's rife, but it's so true to life, 
 
 That I hope a small moral you'll steal. 
 
 45 
 
ROSES 
 
 A little rose-bud, so pinkly is seen, 
 Pushing its nose up through the green, 
 Giving one just its promise bare 
 Of the fragrance and beauty enfolded there. 
 
 We know one day 'twill surely be 
 As wondrous a bloom as one could see, 
 But why do we impatient grow 
 And seek to force its progress so. 
 
 The scheme of things is all laid out 
 By someone who knows what he's about; 
 Who saves 'til later its matured wealth 
 Knowing slow progress makes lasting health. 
 
 So if in its beauty we'd repose 
 And give long life to our little rose, 
 Just let it grow under Nature's plan 
 And not soil the bud with human hand. 
 
 Lay out your bush in a pretty dell, 
 Then curb your impatient sense of smell, 
 In proper time, when there it's stayed, 
 For time you've waited you'll be repaid. 
 
 And you'll have yours full many a day, 
 When those other roses have passed away, 
 Which were pushed by avaricious hands 
 Whose science thwarted Nature's plans. 
 
 46 
 
RELIGION 
 
 What is this faith in religion worth, 
 
 If we don't make it serve an end; 
 With the morals and ethics it teaches, 
 
 Why don't we our characters blend? 
 In place of going to church like fools, 
 
 When the time there is wasted so hard, 
 Why not give thought to the reason we're there, 
 
 For the reason we're there is God. 
 
 I don't approve of all the themes, 
 
 That we hear in the pulpit talk, 
 And many a thing that some sects teach 
 
 Might even cause me to balk; 
 Still I go as I would to get my mail, 
 
 Though often I don't get a card, 
 But when I do get a message true, 
 
 It makes this living less hard. 
 
 Why not put an end to the foolish thought 
 
 That the Godly are social sticks, 
 For I don't mean religious radicals, 
 
 Or reformers with heathenish tricks; 
 But rather the one who can see God's hand 
 
 In the beauties which Nature adorn, 
 And who gives his Creator a little thanks 
 
 That his body and soul were born. 
 
 How many to church go on Sunday morn 
 And their weekly offences unload, 
 
 While they start on Monday to live again 
 By the same old erroneous code? 
 
 To err is human — we all know that, 
 
 47 
 
But still there's a human rule 
 That he who won't or cannot learn 
 Is usually dummy or fool. 
 
 The time it takes to form habits bad, 
 
 To figure it out you should, 
 For it's just as much fun and takes equal time 
 
 To form living habits good ; 
 Then you'll discover your ears and eyes 
 
 Are tunnels for training your mind, 
 While these ethics and morals they preach about, 
 
 Will tumble in natural — you'll find. 
 
 The trouble is all of the preachers 
 
 Of their tasks make something immense, 
 Instead of showing their sleeping flocks 
 
 That Religion is common sense; 
 It don't mean sack-cloth and ashes, 
 
 Or the making of living hard, 
 But just not soiling your body or soul 
 
 Which is practical love for God. 
 
 48 
 
FLESH 
 
 Life is a state that is God given sure 
 
 And he sees that we start on the journey pure, 
 
 Though He knows, when we're older, we'll all feel the lure 
 Of the arch deceiver — the Flesh. 
 
 Reformers are those who have tired of the revel, 
 Who experience religion — then live on the level, 
 And they call this lure the decoy of the Devil, 
 
 Though they add — "You must renounce the Flesh. " 
 
 The Religious, who train by philosophy's code, 
 All preach to us daily of Life's proper mode, 
 
 While they add to the weight — not lightening the load 
 Of the so-called conflict with Flesh. 
 
 We're told that the world is a caldron of sin 
 Created by God, who then throws us in, 
 
 While this monster the devil looks on with a grin 
 At the battle we have with the Flesh. 
 
 But do you believe in your innermost mind 
 
 That our wondrous Creator — all loving — all kind 
 Constructed this sin-pot, then cast us in blind 
 To fight with our body — the Flesh? 
 
 If you do, then the living of life will be hard 
 
 And you'll play in life's game with a losing card, 
 Always having more fear than love for your God 
 Who made up your body with Flesh. 
 
 Now just listen, my friends — though it's only a thought, 
 But hours of joy to me it has brought 
 So I'll tell it to you, who maybe have sought, 
 For a way to conquer the Flesh. 
 
 49 
 
When this loving God had us in the mold, 
 
 He made up our body of Flesh, which was cold, 
 Then he gave us true life, which was really a soul 
 And greater by far than the Flesh. 
 
 Our conscience, we're taught, is just a lane 
 Connecting this soul of ours with our brain, 
 
 But the lane to the soul makes it somewhat the same 
 And greater by far than the Flesh. 
 
 So devote many hours to training the mind 
 
 And, when ethics and morals come natural, you'll find 
 The trouble was that you really were blind, 
 Which caused all this fight with the Flesh. 
 
 Be joyful, be happy, and don't be sad, 
 
 God gave you life and the right to be glad, 
 He is perfect and never made anything bad 
 And remember that He made this Flesh. 
 
 Your flesh is His gift, made pure and fine, 
 
 Then he gave you a balance, call it soul or mind, 
 And only a fool throws God's gifts to the swine, 
 So learn to protect your Flesh. 
 
 Now God made this world so we'd all have a home, 
 He gave it to us with the power to roam, 
 
 It's as pure and as free as the white sea foam, 
 Except to those blinded by Flesh. 
 
 Just live as your God given mind tells you 
 
 And welcome these thoughts uplifting, though new, 
 Remembering God made all things good and true, 
 Including this life and the Flesh. 
 
 50 
 
SIN 
 
 People and society all have a funny way, 
 
 Whenever an offender you have been, 
 Of holding up their hands and showing shocked surprise 
 
 And saying you're a creature steeped in sin. 
 
 They never stop to figure out a reason for the act, 
 
 Or to give to just plain ignorance the blame, 
 But they prattle and they gossip and they fix society 
 
 So you're known and avoided in your shame. 
 
 It's this blot on society and on our social scheme 
 
 That kills the very thing we want — reform, 
 For what's the use of living straight, to fallen girl or man, 
 
 If they're known and avoided in this form? 
 
 The churches and societies all teach sweet charity 
 
 Of feeling, action, thought — but even so, 
 The people whom they're teaching and who claim to follow on 
 
 Will shun the poor offender — if they know. 
 
 So one day I decided, when these facts I'd ascertained, 
 Although they thought that I would only grin, 
 
 To go and see a friend of mine whom I thought could explain 
 This awful thing that all of us call sin. 
 
 He chuckled with amusement that I should come to him, 
 Though my question seemed to cause him no alarm, 
 
 He asked me then to name the church I'd gone to all my life, 
 Then said, "I guess I'll tell you — where's the harm." 
 
 There are many kinds of churches, with just as many creeds, 
 That are housed in humble hut or hall immense, 
 
 51 
 
And just as many kinds of men expound their doctrines, 
 But few of either one show common sense. 
 
 They preach to you hell's fire, if you dare to break God's laws, 
 The fear and love of God they say they teach; 
 
 The love of God I question, though the fear is there quite strong, 
 And they leave you quite bewildered in the breach. 
 
 Their object is to stop those fools who blindly go their way, 
 
 Just ruining their soul and body strong, 
 They strive to instill morals and ethics in their flocks 
 
 But the methods they adopt are totally wrong. 
 
 Would you, friend, take a baby, who had ruined something nice 
 
 And beat it with a rod or with your hand? 
 If you would, try letting mother pretend it's made her cry 
 
 And you'll find it is the last he'll understand. 
 
 Now most of us are babies, in the big things of this life, 
 And this is the great point I've tried to show, 
 
 That if you asked the culprit just why he did the wrong, 
 It's ten to one he'd answer — "I don't know." 
 
 So why not take the adult, just like the little child, 
 
 In place of mother, make his friends all cry; 
 Then give him something definite to help him steer his course, 
 
 In place of your indifference — then he'll try. 
 
 Don't make of him an outcast that people think unclean, 
 
 For many times, in secret, you have been 
 Through ignorance his brother, in just as gross offence, 
 
 For mostly it is ignorance — not sin. 
 
 52 
 
HEREAFTER 
 
 In this generation we all analyze 
 
 And do it for years, before we realize, 
 
 No matter how great or learned are we, 
 
 And though we believe in immortality, 
 
 When we come to our stage of departure, friend, 
 
 We find out how little we've learned in the end. 
 
 We even dare probe into life spiritual, 
 
 Intellectual — moral — and ethical, 
 
 But we see the smallness of the end of all 
 
 When the model we've used lies under the pall; 
 
 Their fixed smile mocking the thoughts which abide 
 
 That we'll reach them, through science, across the divide. 
 
 This great hereafter, of which we have read, 
 Is best symbolized by its callers, the dead, 
 And, though science by paths we may indulge, 
 You'll find their secrets they'll not divulge, 
 Until you've taken your last degree, 
 When — across the divide — we all will see. 
 
 Now the Spiritualist may take me to task 
 
 And say that, by science, my claims they'll unmask 
 
 But I claim they're unscientific, because, 
 
 Unless misinformed, they break science laws, 
 
 By helping just one, leaving multitudes blind, 
 
 While a true science reaches to all of mankind. 
 
 But why do intelligent people, you say, 
 In throngs, join this new belief every day, 
 And where will this comforting pathway lead, 
 That is taught by the unscientific creed ; 
 
 53 
 
Or how can they these secret messages send? 
 And to all of this — I don't know, my friend. 
 
 Yet still I might venture to suggest, 
 
 That taking the whole thing at its best, 
 
 If they can solve this problem — immortality, 
 
 Supposing they warp personality; 
 
 And by influence of their spirit loops 
 
 In the living make psycho-neurotic groups? 
 
 And if back to the earth in time you'll be, 
 Has this message with spirit removed mystery; 
 Which death always held, through all tradition, 
 Of the simultaneous soul transition; 
 Or why not give me the message I'm after 
 Of existence conditions in this hereafter? 
 
 But, if in their course of smiles and tears, 
 They increase our hopes and lessen our fears; 
 Make a stronger and greater desire to live, 
 To love all the truer, to happiness give; 
 Although I cannot think just as they — friend, 
 We all must admit — they have served an end. 
 
 But I'm not content to follow on blind, 
 Having much more faith in my curious mind, 
 Which says men and women have all been born 
 To live in this world in their different form 
 In such a way* so, with their last breath 
 They'll welcome the journey — not fearing death 
 Then — only then — Hereafter. 
 
 54 
 
DREAMS 
 
 Oh, would that we had insight, 
 
 To read each crazy dream, 
 That comes in our sleeping hours, 
 
 And know just what they mean; 
 For each one brings a message 
 
 And really it would pay 
 If we could analyze the things 
 
 When night time turns to day. 
 
 Although we might jump off a cliff 
 
 And sink in water deep, 
 Or fight a ten-head monster 
 
 While roaming in our sleep, 
 You'd welcome each and every one 
 
 And maybe pleasure find, 
 If someone just explained to you 
 
 Why they come to your mind. 
 
 In day time we have conscious thoughts, 
 
 By social laws they're run, 
 Dictating in our sorrows 
 
 And measuring our fun; 
 But when we get to slumberland, 
 
 With no rebuking voice, 
 We take these smothered longings out 
 
 And give them play of choice. 
 
 It's like the signal-tower 
 Out on the railroad track, 
 
 55 
 
If its keeper went away to lunch 
 And then did not come back, 
 
 For that is what our conscious guard 
 Does, when we go to bed, 
 
 And he leaves the switches open 
 On the brain-tracks in our head. 
 
 And so the simple local train 
 
 That makes the rural run, 
 Has always had a smothered wish 
 
 To have the mail train's fun; 
 So when it comes up to the switch 
 
 And is not turned aside, 
 It says — "at last my chance has come," 
 
 And opens throttles wide. 
 
 We all know that it's out of place, 
 
 But no one knows it's there, 
 So on it speeds on silver rails 
 
 Without a thought or care, 
 Until it meets the thundering mail 
 
 In wreck grotesque and weird, 
 It crashes with the waking thought 
 
 This smothered thought we feared. 
 
 But, if you figured out this dream, 
 
 It's ten to one you'd find 
 A fear that don't amount to much 
 
 Upon your conscious mind; 
 Or an unfulfilled desire, 
 
 More natural than rash, 
 Might be the little open switch 
 
 That caused the waking crash. 
 
 56 
 
Then if you had it analyzed 
 
 And saw its meaning plain, 
 You might avoid a day time wreck 
 
 Which might cause waking pain; 
 For just as painful nightmares 
 
 Cease, when the day is dawning, 
 You might avoid the daymare, friend, 
 
 If only you had a warning. 
 
 57 
 
LIFE 
 
 I wonder, friend reader, if you know, 
 Just how we human beings grow 
 
 And pass through the stages of life? 
 The stages we live in are numbered ten, 
 But I add another, for really we've been 
 
 Influenced before there was life. 
 
 BEFORE 
 
 As the farmer knows there's always need 
 To know the quality of his seed, 
 
 Before he starts to sow; 
 So on this earthly human farm 
 We all could guard our crops from harm, 
 
 If just our seed we'd know. 
 
 Then when the seed begins to grow 
 
 And harvest time comes near — we know 
 
 That labor with joy is scant, 
 But do not rave and swear around, 
 Or fail to care for the fertile ground, 
 
 For often that spoils the plant. 
 
 stage I 
 Birth, with your cloak of mystery, 
 Terrible — wonderful — awesome to see, 
 
 Sobbing which turns to song; 
 Still, unless the tree breaks with the strain, 
 Or careless mowers destroy the grain, 
 
 Your crop should turn out strong. 
 
 STAGE II 
 
 Now the stage from Birth to Eight, 
 The journey starts with its human freight, 
 
 58 
 
The parents in charge of the train, 
 And they must watch their signal lights 
 Midst daily toil and silent nights 
 
 Lest some mistake bring pain. 
 
 Wilfulness — stubbornness — manner sad, 
 Antagonism, or temper bad 
 
 Are signal lights bright red, 
 But firm, kind words and type of play 
 Can overcome these faults by day; 
 
 At night — see they're in bed. 
 
 STAGE III 
 
 Then comes the stage from Eight to Ten, 
 Though good and strong the child has been, 
 
 Watch when it goes to school; 
 All children are not brought up your way, 
 In good clean homes with good clean play, 
 
 Now they're free from parental rule. 
 
 The lie comes natural with truancy 
 And, though you're careful as can be, 
 
 There you cannot pick each friend, 
 Who might teach them to smoke or maybe steal, 
 Bringing you pain and trouble real 
 
 Through an influence hard to mend. 
 
 STAGE IV 
 
 Now comes the Ten to Fourteen stage, 
 A truly tender and dangerous age 
 
 With reactions to associates and school, 
 For that's the time companions open up the 
 gates 
 
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That lead on to the grosser antisocial traits 
 While, for prevention, there's no written rule. 
 
 stage v 
 Fourteen to Seventeen — puberty's range 
 Bringing its manhood and womanhood change, 
 
 If the stages before passed correct, 
 With the new life, which nature develops her 
 
 way, 
 Their reactions to others, to self, and to play 
 Might warp unless they connect. 
 
 Bashfulness, shyness, and innocence 
 Might show misdirection of sex or of sense; 
 
 From society they might withdraw; 
 Or development of small criminalistic traits 
 Might mean indiscretions with associates, 
 
 If they pass through another door. 
 
 It's here that the father clean men can produce, 
 Or mother to daughter straight talk introduce 
 
 And never be misunderstood ; 
 For soon comes the time in their friendships and 
 
 play 
 When others will pull this false sex-veil away, 
 
 Leaving manhood and womanhood. 
 
 stage VI 
 On from Seventeen to Twenty-one, 
 The age of college and of fun 
 
 Led on by ambitions; 
 Vocations forming over night, 
 
 60 
 
Which may be wrong and may be right, 
 All influenced by conditions. 
 
 Here one sees new types of play 
 Turning night time into day, 
 
 With alcohol and dance; 
 The night life with infections rife 
 Might undermine this fresh, young life, 
 
 Before it could advance. 
 
 Dementia praecox here we see — 
 More dead wood on society — 
 
 Then psychopathic traits; 
 But if their first five-section-start 
 Has been well guided, part by part, 
 
 They'll all have proper fates. 
 
 STAGE VII 
 
 From Twenty-one to Thirty-five 
 We work and fight to keep alive, 
 
 And choose ourselves a mate; 
 While, if we have well ordered been, 
 There's no mistake or act called sin 
 
 We're called to compensate. 
 
 But if our past its secrets hide, 
 So naught of noble thoughts abide 
 
 Within our tainted mind, 
 Appear our social maladjustments, 
 Psycho-neuroses, improper judgments, 
 
 Business failures we find. 
 
 Then conditions come on the gentler sex, 
 Bringing complications so complex 
 Neurologists they fool; 
 
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Hysteria, with its many forms, 
 Fears, obsessions causing storms 
 And bringing torture cruel. 
 
 STAGE VIII 
 
 If all's been well to Thirty-five, 
 Our next stage goes to Forty-five 
 
 In happiness supreme; 
 For proper reactions we find have lent 
 To community, home, and environment, 
 
 All that we wish them to mean. 
 
 But should the senile changes show, 
 Or physical infirmities grow, 
 
 It's then we come to be 
 Invalids — alcoholics we find, 
 Or paresis breaking up the mind — 
 
 Youth, wake up and see. 
 
 STAGE IX 
 
 Forty-five to Sixty the menopause, 
 With the physical changes it will cause, 
 
 Mocks at puberty's feat; 
 While youthful acts seem out of range, 
 With the gradual retrogressive change, 
 
 As the bugle sounds retreat. 
 
 stage x 
 Old age — twilight — you have come, 
 But many moons you yet may run, 
 
 No one can set your end ; 
 For, if you had your proper start 
 And through nine acts have played your part, 
 
 Nature will be your friend. 
 
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Then like the worthy sages of old, 
 Who youths of nations have controlled, 
 
 Now do you ours invoke ; 
 Do not think you've served your end, 
 But counsel headstrong youth, as friend; 
 
 May God keep our old folk. 
 
 THE END 
 
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