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diff --git a/66385-0.txt b/66385-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e6167fc --- /dev/null +++ b/66385-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4333 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of “Horse Sense” in Verses Tense, by Walt Mason
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: “Horse Sense” in Verses Tense
+
+Author: Walt Mason
+
+Release Date: September 26, 2021 [eBook #66385]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Richard Hulse, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online Distributed
+ Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
+ produced from images generously made available by The Internet
+ Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “HORSE SENSE” IN VERSES TENSE ***
+
+
+
+
+ “HORSE SENSE” in Verses Tense
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+[Illustration]
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+ CONCERNING WALT
+
+ ---------------------
+
+Walt Mason is the Aesop of our day, but his fables are of men, not
+animals.
+
+ —Collier’s Weekly.
+
+
+Much of Walt Mason’s poetry is of universal interest.
+
+ —London Citizen.
+
+
+Walt Mason’s poetry is in a class by itself.
+
+ —William Jennings Bryan.
+
+
+Walt’s poems always have sound morals, and they are easy to take.
+
+ —Rev. Charles W. Gordon.
+ (Ralph Connor.)
+
+
+His satires come with stinging force to the American people.
+
+ —Sunday School Times.
+
+
+Why do people ever write any other kind of books, unless because no one
+else can write Walt Mason’s kind?
+
+ —William Dean Howells.
+
+
+His is an extraordinary faculty, surely God-given. Many a world-weary
+one, refreshed at the fount where his poetry plays, says deep down in
+his heart, “God bless Walt Mason!”
+
+ —Seumas MacManus.
+
+
+Walt Mason’s contributions to the Chronicle have attracted the attention
+of English readers by their originality and expressiveness, and have
+brought him letters from Mr. John Masefield and many others. Sir Arthur
+Conan Doyle regards him as one of the quaintest and most original
+humorists America has ever produced.
+
+ —London Chronicle.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+[Illustration:
+
+ The author as “Zim” sees him
+]
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ “HORSE SENSE”
+
+ IN VERSES TENSE
+
+ ──────
+
+ by Walt Mason
+
+ ──────
+
+
+ Walt Mason is the High Priest of Horse Sense.
+ —George Ade
+
+
+
+
+ Chicago
+ _A·C·M^cCLURG & CO·_
+ 1915
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ Copyright
+ A. C. McClurg & Co.
+ 1915
+
+
+ ─────
+ Published September, 1915
+ ─────
+
+
+ Copyrighted in Great Britain
+
+
+
+For permission to use copyright poems in this book thanks are extended
+to George Matthew Adams, and to the editors and publishers of _Judge_,
+_Collier’s Weekly_, _System_, the _Magazine of Business_, _Domestic
+Engineering_, the _Butler Way_, and _Curtis Service_.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ _To_
+ SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ CHRISTMAS GIFT
+
+ The gift itself is not so much—
+ Perhaps you’ve had a dozen such;
+ Its value, when reduced to gold,
+ May seem too trifling to be told;
+ But someone, loving, kind, and true,
+ Selected it—and thought of You.
+ The gift may have a hollow ring—
+ The love behind it is the thing!
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ FROM SIR HUBERT
+
+
+I read Walt Mason with great delight. His poems have wonderful fun and
+kindliness, and I have enjoyed them the more for their having so
+strongly all the qualities I liked so much in my American friends when I
+was living in the United States.
+
+I don’t know any book which has struck me as so genuine a voice of the
+American nature.
+
+I am glad that his work is gaining a wider and wider recognition.
+
+ John Masefield
+
+ _13 Well Walk, Hampstead,
+ London_
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ GUIDE TO CONTENTS
+
+
+ A
+
+At the Finish, 19. At the End, 53. After Us, 67. Ambitions, 77. Approach
+ of Spring, 167. After Storm, 188.
+
+
+ B
+
+Backbone, 28. Beautiful Things, 43. Bard in the Woods, The, 101. Be
+ Joyful, 134. Brown October Ale, 136. Bystander, The, 154. Bleak
+ Days, 180.
+
+
+ C
+
+Clucking Hen, The, 1. Christmas Recipe, 11. Coming Day, The, 21. Clouds,
+ 42. Cotter’s Saturday Night, 50. “Charge It,” 61. Croaker, The, 63.
+ Choosing a Bride, 66. Christmas Musings, 79. Crooks, The, 115.
+
+
+ D
+
+Doing Things Right, 32. Down and Out, 60. Difference, The, 94. Dolorous
+ Way,
+
+ The, 119. Dreamers and Workers, 127. Deliver Us, 137. Doing One’s
+ Best, 138. Doughnuts, 165. Discontent, 173.
+
+
+ F
+
+Fatigue, 4. Fortune Teller, The, 73. Fletcherism, 158. Father Time, 159.
+ Field Perils, 160. Friend Bullsnake, 164.
+
+
+ G
+
+Grandmother, 14. Great Game, The, 17. Generosity, 27. Garden of Dreams,
+ 41. Gold Bricks, 74. Good and Evil, 135. Going to School, 146. Girl
+ Graduate, The, 153. Good Die Young, The, 172. Givers, The, 181. Good
+ Old Days, 182.
+
+
+ H
+
+Home, Sweet Home, 8. Homeless, 47. Happy Home, The, 48. Harvest Hand,
+ The, 70. Hospitality, 88. Hon. Croesus Explains, 89.
+
+
+ I
+
+Iron Men, The, 34. In Old Age, 46. Immortal Santa, 96. In the Spring,
+ 132. Idlers, The, 141. Idle Rich, The, 144.
+
+ Ill Wind, The, 166. Into the Sunlight, 179. Industry, 186.
+
+
+ J
+
+Joy Cometh, 161.
+
+
+ L
+
+Looking Forward, 120. Little While, A, 139. Literature, 142. Living Too
+ Long, 162.
+
+
+ M
+
+Milkman, The, 2. Man Wanted, The, 55. Mad World, A, 57. Mañana, 91. Men
+ Behind, The, 98. Mr. Chucklehead, 130. Misrepresentation, 148. Man
+ of Grief, 149. Melancholy Days, 150. Might Be Worse, 151. Moderately
+ Good, 152. Medicine Hat, 156. Moving On, 176.
+
+
+ N
+
+Night is Coming, 31. Nursing Grief, 143. Not Worth While, 147.
+
+
+ O
+
+Old Maids, 10. Old Man, The, 12. Old Album, The, 109. On the Bridge,
+ 129. Old Prayer, The, 178.
+
+
+ P
+
+Poor Work, 9. Poorhouse, The, 30. Procrastination, 36. Punctuality, 58.
+ Prodigal Son, The, 87. Polite Man, The, 122. Planting a Tree, 126.
+ Passing the Hat, 145.
+
+
+ R
+
+Rural Mail, The, 7. Right Side Up, 33. Regular Hours, 125. Rain, The,
+ 184.
+
+
+ S
+
+Spring Remedies, 5. Salting Them Down, 22. Success in Life, 24. Shut-In,
+ The, 45. Some of the Poor, 69. Shoveling Coal, 93. Sticking to It,
+ 105. Seeing the World, 121. Spring Sickness, 128. Studying Books,
+ 169. Stranger than Fiction, 171. Silver Threads, 174. Something to
+ Do, 185.
+
+
+ T
+
+Tornado, The, 16. True Happiness, 26. Timbertoes, 37. Thankless Job, 38.
+ Travelers, 44. Two Salesmen, The, 85. “Thanks,” 107. Tramp, The,
+ 117.
+
+
+ U
+
+Undertaker, The, 39. Unhappy Home, The, 49. Unconquered, 123.
+
+
+ V
+
+Vagabond, The, 20. Values, 103.
+
+
+ W
+
+Winter Night, 13. What’s the Use? 54. What I’d Do, 71. Way of a Man,
+ The, 82. War and Peace, 112. Wet Weather, 187.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE CLUCKING HEN
+
+THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and round the yard she claws and
+picks, and toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden fence, and
+watch that hen of little sense, whose intellect is wrong. She is the
+most important hen that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort
+made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the whole blamed universe
+would spoil, its institutions fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task;
+she might as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year; one incubator
+from the store would bring forth better chicks and more than fifty hens
+could rear. She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down to tacks and
+lay some eggs, which bring the valued bucks; but, in her vain perverted
+way, she says, “I’m derned if I will lay,” and hands out foolish clucks.
+And many men are just the same; they play some idle, trifling game, and
+think they’re sawing wood; they hate the work that’s in demand, the jobs
+that count they cannot stand, and all their toil’s no good.
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE MILKMAN
+
+THE milkman goes his weary way before the rising of the sun; he earns a
+hundred bones a day, and often takes in less than one. While lucky
+people snore and drowse, and bask in dreams of rare delight, he takes a
+stool and milks his cows, about the middle of the night. If you have
+milked an old red cow, humped o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her
+swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll know the
+milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay
+in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city
+streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up
+from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger
+through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the
+rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. Through storm and
+flood and sun and rain, the milkman goes upon the jump, and all his
+customers complain, and make allusions to his pump. Because one milkman
+milks the creek, instead of milking spotted cows, against the whole
+brave tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet patiently they go
+their way, distributing their healthful juice, and what they do not get
+in pay, they have to take out in abuse.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ FATIGUE
+
+FROM day to day we sell our whey, our nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft
+we sigh, as hours drag by, “This sort of life is rotten! The dreary game
+is e’er the same, no respite or diversion; oh, how we long to join the
+throng on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet, along the street, more
+lucky folks are hiking, while we must stay and sell our hay—it’s little
+to our liking!” Those going by perhaps will sigh, “This work we do is
+brutal; all day we hike along the pike, and all our work is futile. It
+would be sweet to leave the street and own a nice trade palace, and sell
+rolled oats to human goats, it would, so help me Alice!” All o’er this
+sphere the briny tear is shed by people weary, who’d like to quit their
+jobs and flit to other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who wear their
+yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we swear and sweat and fume and fret,
+and oft forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely fraught with
+happiness and glory; if you are sore the man next door can tell as sad a
+story.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SPRING REMEDIES
+
+“THIS is the time,” the doctors say, “when people need our bitters; the
+sunny, languid, vernal day is hard on human critters. They’re always
+feeling tired and stale, their blood is thick and sluggish, and so they
+ought to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish.” And, being
+told we’re in a plight, we swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys
+acting right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down tea of sassafras,
+as ordered by the sawbones, and chewing predigested grass, we exercise
+our jawbones. We swallow pints of purple pills, and fool with costly
+drenches, to drive away imagined ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches.
+And if we’d only take the spade, and dig the fertile gumbo, the ghost of
+sickness would be laid, and we’d be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect health,
+that precious boon, we’d have refreshing glimpses, if we would toil each
+afternoon out where the jimpson jimpses. There’s medicine in azure
+skies, and sunshine is a wonder; more cures are wrought by exercise than
+by all bottled thunder. So let’s forsake the closed up room, and hoe
+weeds cockle-burrish, where elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries
+flourish.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE RURAL MAIL
+
+A FIERCE and bitter storm’s abroad, it is a bleak midwinter day, and
+slowly o’er the frozen sod the postman’s pony picks its way. The postman
+and his horse are cold, but fearlessly they face the gale; though storms
+increase a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their mail. The hours
+drag on, the lonely road grows rougher with each mile that’s past, the
+weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the shrieking blast. But man
+and horse strive on the more; they never learned such word as fail;
+though tempests beat and torrents pour, the farmer folk must have their
+mail. At night the pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted
+frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied postman does the same.
+Tomorrow brings the same old round, the same exhausting, thankless
+grind—the journey over frozen ground, the facing of the bitter wind. The
+postman does a hero’s stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of all the
+storms he bears the brunt—the farmer folk must have their mail!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ HOME, SWEET HOME
+
+OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was, in olden days, before the people
+learned to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances and such
+things, to skating on a floor; and now the youthful laughter rings
+within the Home no more. You will recall, old men and dames, the homes
+of long ago, and you’ll recall the fireside games the children used to
+know. The neighbors’ kids would come along with your own kids to play,
+and merry as a bridal song the evening passed away. An evening spent
+away from home in olden days was rare; the children hadn’t learned to
+roam for pleasure everywhere. But now your house is but a shell where
+children sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very well—their home is
+on the street. Their home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime
+music flows; their noon’s the middle of the night, their friends
+are—Lord, who knows? The windows of your home are dark, and silence
+broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save the mark! ’Tis but a sty or
+stall!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ POOR WORK
+
+YOU can’t afford to do poor work, so, therefore, always shun it; for no
+excuse or quip or quirk will square you when you’ve done it. I hired a
+man to paint my cow from horntips to the udder, and she’s all blotched
+and spotted now, and people view and shudder. “Who did the job?” they
+always ask; and when I say, “Jim Yellow,” they cry, “When we have such a
+task we’ll hire some other fellow.” And so Jim idly stands and swows bad
+luck has made him nervous, for when the people paint their cows they do
+not ask his service. And thus one’s reputation flows, a-skiting, here
+and yonder; and wheresoe’er the workman goes, his bum renown will
+wander. ’Twill face him like an evil ghost when he his best is doing,
+and jolt him where it hurts the most, and still keep on pursuing. A good
+renown will travel, too, from Gotham to Empory, and make you friends in
+places new, and bring you cash and glory. So always do your best, old
+hunks; let nothing be neglected, and you will gather in the plunks, and
+live and die respected.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ OLD MAIDS
+
+ALL girls should marry when they can. There’s naught more useful than a
+man. A husband has some faults, no doubt, and yet he’s good to have
+about; and she who doesn’t get a mate will wish she had one, soon or
+late. That girl is off her base, I fear, who plans to have a high
+career, who sidesteps vows and wedding rings to follow after abstract
+things. I know so many ancient maids who in professions, arts or trades
+have tried to cut a manlike swath, and old age finds them in the broth.
+A loneliness, as of the tomb, enshrouds the spinsters in its gloom; the
+jim crow honors they have won they’d sell at seven cents a ton. Their
+sun is sinking in the West, and they, unloved and uncaressed, must envy,
+as they bleakly roam, the girl with husband, hearth, and home. Get
+married, then, Jemima dear; don’t fiddle with a cheap career. Select a
+man who’s true and good, whose head is not composed of wood, a man who’s
+sound in wind and limb, then round him up and marry him. Oh, rush him to
+the altar rail, nor heed his protest or his wail. “This is,” you’ll say,
+when he’s been won, “the best day’s work I’ve ever done.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ CHRISTMAS RECIPE
+
+MAKE somebody happy today! Each morning that motto repeat, and life,
+that was gloomy and gray, at once becomes pleasant and sweet. No odds
+what direction you go, whatever the pathway you wend, there’s somebody
+weary of woe, there’s somebody sick for a friend; there’s somebody
+needing a guide, some pilgrim who’s wandered astray; oh, don’t let your
+help be denied—make somebody happy today! There’s somebody tired of the
+strife, the wearisome struggle for bread, borne down by the burden of
+life, and envying those who are dead; a little encouragement now may
+drive his dark visions away, and smooth out a seam from his brow—make
+somebody happy today! There’s somebody sick over there, where sunlight
+is shut from the room; there’s somebody deep in despair, beholding no
+light in the gloom; there’s somebody needing your aid, your solace,
+wherever you stray; then let not your help be delayed—make somebody
+happy today. Make somebody happy today, some comfort and sympathy give,
+and Christmas shall ne’er go away, but always and ever shall live.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE OLD MAN
+
+BE kind to your daddy, O gamboling youth; his feet are now sluggish and
+cold; intent on your pleasures, you don’t see the truth, which is that
+your dad’s growing old. Ah, once he could whip forty bushels of snakes,
+but now he is spavined and lame; his joints are all rusty and tortured
+with aches, and weary and worn is his frame. He toiled and he slaved
+like a government mule to see that his kids had a chance; he fed them
+and clothed them and sent them to school, rejoiced when he marked their
+advance. The landscape is moist with the billows of sweat he cheerfully
+shed as he toiled, to bring up his children and keep out of debt, and
+see that the home kettle boiled. He dressed in old duds that his Mary
+and Jake might bloom like the roses in June, and oft when you swallowed
+your porterhouse steak, your daddy was chewing a prune. And now that
+he’s worn by his burden of care, just show you are worth all he did;
+look out for his comfort, and hand him his chair, and hang up his
+slicker and lid.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ WINTER NIGHT
+
+HAIL, Winter and wild weather, when we are all together, about the
+glowing fire! Let frost be e’er so stinging, it can’t disturb our
+singing, nor can the Storm King’s ire. The winds may madly mosey, they
+only make more cozy the home where we abide; the snow may drift in
+billows, but we have downy pillows, and good warm beds inside. The night
+indeed has terrors for lonely, lost wayfarers who for assistance call;
+who pray for lights to guide them—the lights that are denied them—may
+God protect them all! And to the poor who grovel in wretched hut and
+hovel, and feel its icy breath, who mark the long hours dragging their
+footsteps slow and lagging, the night seems kin to Death. For cheery
+homes be grateful, when Winter, fierce and fateful, comes shrieking in
+the night; for books and easy rockers, for larders filled and lockers,
+and all the warmth and light.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GRANDMOTHER
+
+OLD granny sits serene and knits and talks of bygone ages, when she was
+young; and from her tongue there comes the truth of sages. “In vanished
+years,” she says, “my dears, the girls were nice and modest, and they
+were shy, and didn’t try to see whose wit was broadest. In cushioned
+nooks they read their books, and loved the poets’ lilting; with eager
+paws they helped their mas at cooking and at quilting. The maidens then
+would shy at men and keep them at a distance, and each new sport who
+came to court was sure to meet resistance. The girls were flowers that
+bloomed in bowers remote from worldly clamor, and when I view the modern
+crew they give me katzenjammer. The girls were sweet and trim and neat,
+as fair as hothouse lilies, and when I scan the modern clan I surely
+have the willies. Refinement fades when modern maids come forth in all
+their glory; their hats are freaks, their costume shrieks, their nerve
+is hunkydory. They waste the night and in daylight they’re doctoring and
+drugging; when they don’t go to picture show, they’re busy
+bunny-hugging.” Then granny takes her pipe and breaks some plug tobacco
+in it, and smokes and smokes till mother chokes and runs out doors a
+minute.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE TORNADO
+
+WE people infesting this excellent planet emotions of pride in our
+victories feel; we put up our buildings of brick and of granite, equip
+them with trusses and bastions of steel. Regarding the fruit of our
+earnest endeavor, we cheerily boast as we weave through the town: “A
+building like that one will stand there forever, for fire can’t destroy
+it nor wind blow it down.” Behold, as we’re boasting there falls a dun
+shadow; the harvester Death is abroad for his sheaves, and, tumbled and
+tossed by the roaring tornado, the man and his building are crumpled
+like leaves. And then there are dead men in windrows to shock us, and
+scattered and gone are the homes where they died; a pathway of ruin and
+wreckage to mock us, and show us how futile and vain is our pride. We’re
+apt to, when planning and building and striving, forget we are mortals
+and think we are gods; and then when the lord of the tempest is driving,
+his wheels break us up with the rest of the clods. Like ants we are
+busy, all proud and defiant, constructing a home on the face of the
+lawn; and now comes the step of a wandering giant; it crushes our
+anthill, and then it is gone.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE GREAT GAME
+
+THE pitcher is pitching, the batsman is itching to punish the ball in
+the old-fashioned way; the umpire is umping, the fielders are
+humping—we’re playing baseball in our village today! Two thousand mad
+creatures are perched on the bleachers, the grand stand is full and the
+fences the same, the old and the youthful, the false and the truthful,
+the plain and the lovely are watching the game. The groaning taxpayers
+are watching the players, forgetting a while all their burdens and
+wrongs, and landlord and tenant are saying the pennant will come to this
+town where it surely belongs. The lounger and toiler, the spoiled and
+the spoiler, are whooping together like boys at the fair; and foes of
+long standing as one are demanding the blood of the umpire, his hide and
+his hair. The game is progressing, now punk and distressing—our boys are
+all rattled, the audience groans! But see how they rally—O, scorer, keep
+tally! We’ll win at the finish, I’ll bet seven bones! The long game is
+ended, we fans have all wended back, back to our labors, our cares and
+our joys, once more grave and steady—and yet ever ready to stake a few
+plunks on our own bunch of boys!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AT THE FINISH
+
+OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and is it worth our while? We
+seek it till we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile; we seek a gem
+among the hay, for wheat among the chaff; and in the end some heartless
+jay will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will relate, and little
+else beside: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date he died.”
+The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall ever know of men who
+struggled passing well for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent
+schemes and lived to see them fail; they had their dreams, as you have
+dreams, and all of no avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate, the
+upshot of their pride: “This man was born on such a date, on such a date
+he died.” The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel on each brow,
+the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where are those giants now? Their names
+are written in the books which no one ever reads; and on the
+scroll—where no one looks—the record of their deeds. The idler by the
+churchyard gate this legend hath espied: “This man was born on such a
+date, on such a date he died.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE VAGABOND
+
+HE’S idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give
+him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore
+happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow,
+his roof is the heavens, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping
+breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to
+toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer
+to boss him around; his joys do not wither, he goes yon and hither, till
+dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no
+sane man can need ’em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife,
+till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow
+the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of
+idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t
+find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will
+chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in
+the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweat-spangled moiler, who raises
+ten kids on a dollar a day?
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE COMING DAY
+
+THERE’LL come a day when we must make full payment for all the foolish
+things we do today; and sackcloth then perchance will be our raiment,
+and we’ll regret the hours we threw away. We loaf today, and we shall
+loaf tomorrow, hard by the pump or in the corner store; there’ll come a
+day when we’ll look back with sorrow on wasted hours, the hours that
+come no more. We say harsh things to friends who look for kindness, and
+bring the tears to loving, patient eyes; we scold and quarrel in our
+fretful blindness, instead of smiles, we call up mournful sighs. Our
+friends will tread the path that leads us only to rest and silence in
+the grass-grown grave; there’ll come a day when weary, sad and lonely,
+we’ll think of them and of the wounds we gave. In marts of trade we’re
+prone to overreaching, to swell our roll we cheat and deal in lies,
+forgetful oft of early moral teaching, and all the counsel of the good
+and wise. It is, alas, an evil road we travel, that leads at last to
+bitterness and woe; there’ll come a day when gold will seem as gravel,
+and we shall mourn the sins of long ago.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SALTING THEM DOWN
+
+THERE’S trouble in store for the gent who never salts down a red cent,
+who looks upon cash as the veriest trash, for foolish extravagance
+meant. Since money comes easy today, he thinks ’twill be always that
+way, and he burns up the scads with the rollicking lads and warbles a
+madrigal gay. His dollars are drawn when they’re due; and rather than
+salt down a few, he throws them, with jests, at the robin red breasts,
+with riotous hullabaloo. I look down the scurrying years—for I’m the
+descendant of seers—and the spendthrift descry when his youth is gone
+by, an object of pity and tears. I see him parading the street, on weary
+and ring-boney feet, a-begging for dimes, for the sake of old times, to
+buy him some sauerkraut to eat. I see him abandoned and sick, his pillow
+a dornick or brick; and the peeler comes by with a vulcanized eye and
+swats him for luck with a stick. I see him when dying; he groans, but
+his anguish for nothing atones! And they cart him away in the dawn cold
+and gray, to the place where they bury cheap bones. Don’t burn up your
+money, my friend; don’t squander or foolishly lend; though you say it is
+dross and regret not its loss, it’s a comfort and staff in the end.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SUCCESS IN LIFE
+
+IT’S easy to be a success, as thousands of winners confess; no man’s so
+obscure or unlucky or poor that he can’t be a winner, I guess. And
+success, Mr. Man, doesn’t mean a roll that would stagger a queen, or
+some gems of your own, or a palace of stone, or a wagon that burns
+gasoline. A man’s a success, though renown doesn’t place on his forehead
+a crown, if he pays as he goes, if it’s true that he owes not a red in
+the dod-gasted town. A man’s a success if his wife finds comfort and
+pleasure in life; if she’s glad and content that she married a gent
+reluctant to organize strife. A man’s a success if his kids are joyous
+as Katy H. Dids; if they’re handsome and neat, with good shoes on their
+feet, and roses and things on their lids. A man’s a success if he tries
+to be honest and kindly and wise; if he’s slow to repeat all the lies he
+may meet, if he swats both the scandals and flies. I know when old
+Gaffer Pete Gray one morning was taken away, by Death, lantern-jowled,
+the whole village howled, and mourned him for many a day. Yet he was so
+poor that he had but seldom the half of a scad; he tried to do good in
+such ways as he could—he was a successful old lad!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ TRUE HAPPINESS
+
+WHEN torrents are pouring or tempests are roaring how pleasant and
+cheerful is home! To sit by the winder all drier than tinder and watch
+the unfortunates roam! With glad eyes to follow the fellows who wallow
+around in the rain or the sleet, to watch them a-slipping and sliding
+and tripping, and falling all over the street! There’s nothing so
+soothing, so apt to be smoothing the furrows of grief from your brow, as
+sitting and gazing at folks who are raising out there in the mud such a
+row! To watch a mad neighbor through hurricane labor, while you are all
+snug by the fire, to see him cavorting and pawing and snorting—what more
+could a mortal desire? I love storm and blizzard from A clear to Izzard,
+I’m fond of the sleet and the rain; let winter get busy and whoop till
+he’s dizzy, and I’ll be the last to complain. For there is a casement
+just over the basement where I in all comfort may sit, and watch people
+wading through mud or parading through snow till they fall in a fit.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GENEROSITY
+
+OLD Kink’s always willing to preach, and hand out wise counsel and
+teach; but ask him for aid when you’re hungry and frayed, and he’ll
+stick to his wad like a leech. He’s handy with proverb and text to
+comfort the needy and vexed; but when there’s a plan to feed indigent
+man, old Kink never seems to get next. He’ll help out the widow with
+psalms, and pray for her fatherless lambs; but he never would try to
+bring joy to her eye with codfish and sauerkraut and hams. On Sunday he
+joins in the hymn, and makes the responses with vim; when they pass
+round the box for the worshipers’ rocks, his gift is exceedingly slim.
+He thinks he is fooling the Lord and is sure of a princely reward when
+to heaven he goes at this life’s journey’s close—with which view I am
+not in accord. For the Lord, he is wise to gold bricks, and the humbug
+who crosses the Styx will have to be sharp if he captures a harp; St.
+Peter will say to him, “Nix!” They size up a man nearly right when he
+comes to the portals of light; and no stingy old fraud ever hornswoggled
+God or put on a robe snowy white.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ BACKBONE
+
+FROM Yuba Dam to Yonkers the man of backbone conquers, where spineless
+critters fail; all obstacles o’ercoming, he goes along a-humming, and
+gathers fame and kale. No ghosts of failure haunt him, no grisly bogies
+daunt him or make his spirits low; you’ll find him scratching gravel
+wherever you may travel, from Butte to Broken Bow. From Winnipeg to
+Wooster you’ll see this cheerful rooster, this model to all men;
+undaunted by reverses he wastes no time in curses, but digs right in
+again. His face is always shining though others be repining; you cannot
+keep him down; his trail is always smoking while cheaper men are
+croaking about the old dead town. From Humboldt to Hoboken he leaves his
+sign and token in buildings high and grand; in factories that flourish,
+in industries that nourish a tired, anaemic land. He brings the work to
+toilers and fills with bread and broilers their trusty dinner pails; he
+keeps the ripsaw ripping, the big triphammer tripping, the workman
+driving nails. All honor to his noblets! We drink to him in goblets of
+grapejuice rich and red—the man of spine and gizzard who hustles like a
+blizzard and simply won’t be dead!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE POORHOUSE
+
+THE poorhouse, naked, grim, and bare, stands in a valley low; and most
+of us are headed there as fast as we can go. The paupers sit behind the
+gate, a solemn thing to see, and there all patiently they wait, they
+wait for you and me. We come, we come, O sad-eyed wrecks, we’re coming
+with a will! We’re all in debt up to our necks, and going deeper still!
+We’re buying things we can’t afford, and mock the old-time way of
+salting down a little hoard against the rainy day! No more afoot the
+poor man roams; in gorgeous car he scoots; we’ve mortgages upon our
+homes, our furniture, our boots. We’ve banished all the ancient cares,
+we paint the country red, we live like drunken millionaires, and never
+look ahead. The paupers, on the poorhouse lawn, are waiting in a group;
+they know we’ll all be there anon, to share their cabbage soup; they see
+us in our costly garb, and say: “Their course is brief; we see the
+harbingers that harb of bankruptcy and grief.” Be patient, paupers, for
+a span, ye friendless men and dames! We’re coming, blithely as we can,
+to join you in your games!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ NIGHT IS COMING
+
+WHILE the blessed daylight lingers, let us work with might and main,
+with our busy feet and fingers, also with the busy brain; let the
+setting sun behold us tired, but filled with honest pride; for the night
+will soon enfold us, when we lay our tools aside. When we’re in the
+churchyard lonely, where the weeping willows lean, there’s one thing and
+one thing only that will keep our memory green. If we did the tasks
+appointed as we lived our speeding years, then our graves will be
+anointed with a mourning legion’s tears. All our good intentions perish
+when is closed the coffin lid, and the world will only cherish and
+remember what we did. Nothing granite, monumental, can preserve your
+little fame; epitaphs are incidental, and will not embalm your name.
+Nothing counts when you are sleeping, but the goodly work you’ve done;
+that will last till gods are weeping round the ruins of the sun. Let no
+obstacles confound us, let us work till day is o’er; soon the night will
+gather round us, when we’ll sleep to work no more.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DOING THINGS RIGHT
+
+TO do things right, with all your might—that is a goodly motto; I’ve
+pasted that inside my hat, and if you don’t you’d ought to. To do things
+right, as leads your light, with faith and hope abiding; to do your best
+and let the rest to Jericho go sliding! With such an aim you’ll win the
+game and see your fortune founded; and goodly deed beats any creed that
+ever man expounded. To do things right, to bravely fight, when fate cuts
+up unfairly, to pay your way from day to day, and treat your neighbor
+squarely! That doctrine fills all wants and stills the doubter’s qualms
+and terrors, and guides him straight at goodly gait through all the
+field of errors. To do your best, within your breast a cheerful heart
+undaunted—that is the plan that brings a man all things he ever wanted.
+At finding snares and nests of mares I am not very handy; but when it
+comes to finding plums folks say I am a dandy; and my receipt is short
+and sweet, an easy one to follow; just do things right, with all your
+might—it beats all others hollow!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ RIGHT SIDE UP
+
+THOUGH now and then our feet descend to byways of despair, we nearly
+always in the end land right side up with care. I’ve seen a thousand
+frenzied guys declare that all was lost, there was no hope beneath the
+skies, this life was but a frost. And then next year I’d see them scoot
+around in motor cars, each one a-holding in his snoot the richest of
+cigars. I’ve seen men at the wailing place declare they were undone; no
+more the cold world could they face, their course, they said, was run.
+Again I’d see them prance along, all burbling with delight; whatever in
+their lives was wrong, became at last all right. And so it’s
+foolishness, my friend, to weep or tear your hair; we nearly always, in
+the end, land right side up with care. Some call it luck, some
+providence, and some declare it fate; but there’s a kind, o’erruling
+sense that makes our tangles straight; and there are watchful eyes that
+mark our movements as we roam; a hand extended in the dark to guide us
+safely home. In what direction do you wend? You’ll find the helper
+there; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE IRON MEN
+
+WHEN the north wind roars at your cottage doors and batters the window
+panes, and the cold’s so fierce that it seems to pierce right into your
+bones and veins, then it’s sweet to sit by the fire and knit, and think,
+while the needles clank, of the iron men, of the shining yen, you have
+in the village bank! When you’ve lost your job and misfortunes rob your
+face of its wonted grin, when the money goes for your grub and clothes,
+though there’s nothing coming in; when the fates are rough and they kick
+and cuff and give you a frequent spank, how sweet to think of the bunch
+of chink you have in the village bank! When you’re gray and old and your
+feet are cold, and the night is drawing on; when you’re tired and weak
+and your joints all creak, and the strength of youth is gone; when you
+watch and wait at the sunset gate for the boatman grim and lank, oh,
+it’s nice to know there’s a roll of dough all safe in the village bank!
+The worst, my friend, that the fates can send, is softened for you and
+yours if you have the price, have the coin on ice—the best of all
+earthly cures; oh, a healthy wad is your staff and rod when the luck
+seems tough and rank; your consolers then are the iron men you have in
+the village bank!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ PROCRASTINATION
+
+YOU are merely storing sorrow for the future, sages say, if you put off
+till tomorrow things which should be done today. When there is a job
+unpleasant that it’s up to me to do, I attack it in the present, give a
+whoop and push it through; then my mind is free from troubles, and I sit
+before the fire popping corn or blowing bubbles, or a-whanging at my
+lyre. If I said: “There is no hurry—that old job will do next week,”
+there would be a constant worry making my old brain-pan creak. For a man
+knows no enjoyment resting at the close of day, if he knows that some
+employment is neglected in that way. There is nothing more consoling at
+the setting of the sun, when the evening bells are tolling, than the
+sense of duty done. And that solace cometh never to the man of backbone
+weak who postpones all sane endeavor till the middle of next week. Let
+us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate, as the poet said,
+when shooing agents from his garden gate. Let us shake ourselves and
+borrow wisdom from the poet’s lay; leaving nothing for tomorrow, doing
+all our chores today!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ TIMBERTOES
+
+OLD GOMER, of a Kansas town, was never known to wear a frown, or for
+man’s pity beg, although he stumps along his way, and does his work from
+day to day, upon a wooden leg. And every time he goes out doors he meets
+some peevish guy who roars about his evil luck; some fretful gent with
+leg of flesh who, when vicissitudes enmesh, proceeds to run amuck.
+Strong men with legs of flesh and bone just stand around the streets and
+groan, while Gomer pegs along and puts up hay the long hours through,
+and sounds his joyous whoopsydo, and makes his life a song. Old Gomer
+never sits and broods or seeks the hermit’s solitudes to fill the air
+with sighs; there’s no despondency in him! He brags about that basswood
+limb as though it were a prize. Sometimes I’m full of woe and grief,
+convinced the world brings no relief until a man is dead; and as I wail
+that things are wrong I see old Gomer hop along and then I soak my head.
+I’ve noticed that the men who growl, the ones who storm around and howl
+o’er fate’s unwise decrees, are mostly Fortune’s special pets; and then
+the man who never frets is one with red elm knees.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE THANKLESS JOB
+
+THERE’S nothing but tears for the man who steers our ship o’er the
+troubled sea; there’s nothing but grief for the nation’s chief, whoever
+that chief may be. Whatever he does, he can hear the buzz of critics as
+thick as flies; and all of his aims are sins and shames, and nothing he
+does is wise. There’s nothing but kicks for the man who sticks four
+years to the White House chair; and his stout heart aches and his
+wishbone breaks and he loses most of his hair. There’s nothing but
+growls and the knockers’ howls, and the spiteful slings and slams; and
+the vile cartoons and the dish of prunes and a chorus of tinkers’ dams.
+Oh, we humble skates in our low estates, who fuss with our garden sass,
+should view the woes of the men who rose above and beyond the mass, and
+be glad today that we go our way mid quiet and peaceful scenes; should
+thankfully take the hoe and rake, and wrestle with spuds and greens!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE UNDERTAKER
+
+WHEN life is done—this life that galls and frets us, this life so full
+of tears and doubts and dreads—the undertaker comes along and gets us,
+and tucks us neatly in our little beds. When we are done with toiling,
+hoarding, giving, when we are done with drawing checks and breath, he
+comes to show us that the cost of living cuts little ice beside the cost
+of death. I meet him daily in the street or alley, a cheerful man, he
+dances and he sings; and we exchange the buoyant jest and sally, and
+ne’er discourse of grim, unpleasant things. We talk of crops, the
+campaign and the weather, the I. and R., the trusts—this nation’s curse;
+no graveyard hints while we converse together, no reference to joyrides
+in a hearse. And yet I feel—perchance it is a blunder—that as I stand
+there, rugged, hale and strong, he’d like to ask me: “Comrade, why in
+thunder and other things, do you hang on so long?” When I complain of
+how the asthma tightens upon my lungs, and makes me feel a wreck, it
+seems to me his face with rapture lightens, smiles stretch his lips and
+wind around his neck. And when I say I’m feeling like a heifer turned
+out to grass, or like a hummingbird, he heaves a sigh as gentle as a
+zephyr, yet fraught with pain and grief and hope deferred.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GARDEN OF DREAMS
+
+IN the garden of dreams let me rest, far, far from the laboring throng,
+from the moans of the tired and distressed, from the strains of the
+conqueror’s song. As a native of Bagdad, or Turk, I’d live in Arabian
+nights, away from the regions of work, from troubles and hollow
+delights. In the garden of dreams I would stray, and bother my fat head
+no more, a-wondering how I shall pay for groceries bought at the store.
+Ah, there in that garden I’d sit, communing in peace with my soul, and
+never again have a fit when handed the bill for the coal. In the garden
+of dreams I’d recline and soar on the wings of romance, forgetting this
+old hat of mine, the patches all over my pants, the clamor of children
+for shoes, the hausfrau’s demands for a gown, the lodge’s exorbitant
+dues, the polltax to work in the town. Alas! It is as I supposed—there
+is no escaping my fate, for the garden of dreams has been closed, a
+padlock is fixed on the gate. The young, who are buoyant and glad, may
+enter that garden, it seems; but the old, who are weary and sad, are
+warned from the garden of dreams!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ CLOUDS
+
+IF every day was sunny, with ne’er a cloud in view, we’d soon be
+spending money to buy a cloud or two. It always makes me weary when
+people say: “Old boy, may all your days be cheery and bright and full of
+joy!” If all my days were sunny, existence would seem flat; if I were
+fed on honey I’d soon get sick of that. I like a slice of sorrow to hold
+me down today, for that will make tomorrow seem fifty times as gay. A
+little dose of sickness won’t make me whine or yell; ’twill emphasize
+the slickness of life when I am well. A little siege of trouble won’t
+put my hopes in pawn, for I’ll be trotting double with joy when it is
+gone. Down there in tropic regions where sunshine gleams all day, the
+fat and lazy legions just sleep their lives away; there every idle
+bumpkin who in the sunshine lies, lives like a yellow pumpkin, and like
+a squash he dies. I want my share of changes, my share of ups and downs;
+I want a life that ranges from crosses up to crowns.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ BEAUTIFUL THINGS
+
+THE beautiful things are the things we do; they are not the things we
+wear, as we shall find when the journey’s through, and the roll call’s
+read up there. We’re illustrating the latest styles, with raiment that
+beats the band; but the beautiful things are the kindly smiles that go
+with the helping hand. We burden ourselves with gleaming gems, that
+neighbors may stop and stare; but the beautiful things are the diadems
+of stars that the righteous wear. There are beautiful things in the poor
+man’s cot, though empty the hearth and cold, if love and service are in
+each thought that husband and wife may hold. There are beautiful things
+in the lowest slum where wandering outcasts grope, when down to its
+depths they see you come with message of help and hope. The beautiful
+things that we mortals buy and flash in the crowded street, will all be
+junk when we come to die, and march to the judgment seat. When
+everything’s weighed on that fateful day, the lightest thing will be
+gold. There are beautiful things within reach today, but they are not
+bought or sold.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ TRAVELERS
+
+DOWN this little world we travel, headed for the land of Dawn, sawing
+wood and scratching gravel, here today, tomorrow gone! Down our path of
+doubts and dangers, we are toddling, mile on mile, transient and
+inquiring strangers, dumped into this world a while. Let us make the
+journey pleasant for the little time we stay; all we have is just the
+Present—all we need is just Today. Let’s encourage one another as we
+push along the road, saying to a jaded brother: “Here, I’ll help you
+with your load!” Banish scorn and vain reviling, banish useless tears
+and woe; let us do the journey smiling, all our hearts with love aglow.
+Let us never search for sorrow, since the journey is so brief; here
+today and gone tomorrow, what have we to do with grief? Down this little
+world we wander, strangers from some unknown spheres, headed for the
+country yonder where they have no sighs or tears; let us therefore cease
+complaining, let us be no longer glum; let us all go into training for
+the joyful life to come!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE SHUT-IN
+
+I KNOW a crippled woman who lives through years of pain with patience
+superhuman—for ne’er does she complain. An endless torture rages
+throughout her stricken frame; an hour would seem like ages if I endured
+the same. Sometimes I call upon her to ask her how she stacks; it is her
+point of honor to utter no alacks; she hands out no alases, but says
+she’s feeling gay, and every hour that passes brings some new joy her
+way. “I’m all serene, old chappie,” she says, “as you can see; my heart
+is always happy, the Lord’s so good to me!” Thus chortles pain-racked
+Auntie, and says it with a smile; and when I leave her shanty I kick
+myself a while. For I am strong and scrappy; I’m sound in wind and limb;
+and yet I’m seldom happy; I wail a graveyard hymn; whene’er I meet
+reverses my howls are agonized; I say, with bitter curses, the gods are
+subsidized. When life seems like December, a thing of gloom and care, I
+wish I could remember old Auntie in her chair, forget my whinings
+hateful, and that wan shut-in see, who says that she is grateful, “the
+Lord’s so good to me!”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ IN OLD AGE
+
+WHEN I have reached three score and ten I hope I will not be like sundry
+sad and ancient men that every day I see. I hope I’ll never be so old,
+so broken down and gray, that I will lift my voice and scold when
+children round me play. I hope I’ll never be so sere, so close to
+muffled drums, that I can’t waltz around and cheer whene’er the circus
+comes. I hope I’ll never wither up or yet so foundered be, that I won’t
+gambol with a pup when it would play with me. I hope I’ll not, while yet
+alive, be so much like a corse, that I won’t seize a chance to drive a
+good high-stepping horse. Though I must hobble on a crutch to help my
+feeble shins, I’ll always yell to beat the Dutch whene’er the home team
+wins. Perhaps I’ll live a thousand years—I sometimes fear I will, for
+something whispers in my ears I am too tough to kill—I may outlast the
+modern thrones and all the kings thereon, but while I navigate my bones
+I’ll try, so help me John, to be as young in mind and heart as any
+springald near, and when for Jordan I depart, go like a gay roan steer.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ HOMELESS
+
+WHEN the wind blows shrill, with a deadly chill, and we sit by the
+cheerful blaze, do we ever think of the homeless gink, a-going his weary
+ways? The daylight’s gone and we sit and yawn, and comfort is all
+around; do we care a whoop for the dismal troop adrift on the frozen
+ground? You eat and drink and count your chink as you sit in your easy
+chair; and you’ve grown hog-fat, and beneath your hat there’s hardly a
+sign of care. Do you never pause, as you ply your jaws, devouring the
+oyster stew, to heave a sigh for the waifs who lie outdoors, all the
+long night through? It was good of Fate that she paid the freight, and
+planted you here at ease, while the other lads, who are shy of scads,
+must sit in the park and freeze. But she may repent ere your days are
+spent, and juggle things all around, and the bo may sleep on your
+mattress deep, and you on the frozen ground!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE HAPPY HOME
+
+“OH these pancakes are sublime,” brightly cries Josiah Jakes; “mother,
+in the olden time, thought that she could fashion cakes; she was always
+getting praise, and deserved it, I maintain; but she, in her palmy days,
+couldn’t touch you, Sarah Jane. Oh, the king upon his throne for such
+fodder surely aches; you are in a class alone, when it comes to griddle
+cakes.” Then upon his shining dome he adjusts his lid and goes, and his
+wife remains at home, making pies and things like those. She is stewing
+luscious prunes, in her eye a happy tear, and her heart is singing tunes
+such as angels like to hear. O’er and o’er she still repeats all the
+kindly words he said, as she fixes further treats, pumpkin pie and
+gingerbread. When the evening’s growing gray, following the set of sun,
+“This has been a perfect day,” murmurs she, her labors done. Perfect
+nearly all the days of our loved ones well might be, if with words of
+honest praise we were generous and free.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE UNHAPPY HOME
+
+TIRED father to his home returns, all jaded by the stress and fray, to
+have the rest for which he yearns throughout the long and toilsome day.
+His supper’s ready on the board, as good a meal as e’er was sprung, a
+meal no worker could afford in olden times, when we were young. He looks
+around with frowning brow, and sighs, “Ah, what a lot of junk! This
+butter never knew a cow, the coffee is extremely punk. You know I like
+potatoes boiled, and so, of course, you dish them fried; this poor old
+beefsteak has been broiled until it’s tough as walrus hide. It beats me,
+Susan, where you find such doughnuts, which resemble rock; these
+biscuits you no doubt designed to act as weights for yonder clock. You
+couldn’t fracture with a club the kind of sponge cake that you dish;
+alas, for dear old mother’s grub throughout my days I vainly wish.” Then
+Susan, burdened with her cares, worn out, discouraged, sad and weak,
+sits down beneath the cellar stairs, and weeps in German, French, and
+Greek. Alas, the poor, unhappy soul, whose maiden dreams are all a
+wreck! She ought to take a ten-foot pole and prod her husband in the
+neck.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT
+
+ NEW VERSION
+
+
+THE labor of the week is o’er, the stress and toil titanic, and to his
+humble cottage door returns the tired mechanic. He hangs his
+weather-beaten tile and coat upon a rafter; the housewife greets him
+with a smile, the bairns with joyous laughter. The supper is a merry
+meal, and when they’ve had their vittles, the mother plies her spinning
+wheel, while father smokes and whittles. But now the kids, a joyous
+crowd, must cease to romp and caper, for father starts to read aloud the
+helpful daily paper:
+
+“A cancer on the neck or knees once meant complete disaster; but Dr.
+Chowder guarantees to cure it with a plaster. He doesn’t use an ax or
+spade, or blast it out with powder; don’t let your coming be
+delayed—rely on Dr. Chowder!”
+
+Outdoors there is a rising gale, a fitful rain is falling; they hear the
+east winds sadly wail like lonely phantoms calling. But all is peace and
+joy within, and eyes with gladness glisten, and father, with a happy
+grin, reads on, and bids them listen:
+
+“If you have pimples on your nose or bunions on your shoulder, if you
+have ringbones on your toes—ere you’re a minute older call up the
+druggist on the phone and have him send a basket of Faker’s pills, for
+they alone will save you from a casket.”
+
+The clock ticks on the cottage wall, and marks the minutes’ speeding;
+the firelight dances in the hall, on dad, where he sits reading. Oh,
+quiet, homely scene of bliss, the nation’s pride and glory! And in a
+million homes like this, dad reads the precious story:
+
+“Oh, countless are the grievous ills, afflicting human critters, but we
+have always Bunkum’s Pills, and Skookum’s Hogwash Bitters. Have you the
+symptoms of the gout along your muscles playing? And are your whiskers
+falling out, and are your teeth decaying? Have you no appetite for
+greens, and do you balk at fritters? We’ll tell you, reader, what it
+means—you need some Hogwash Bitters!”
+
+The children nod their drowsy heads, their toys around them lying. “I’ll
+take them to their little beds,” says mother, softly sighing. “It’s time
+they were away from here—the evening is advancing; but ere they go, O
+husband dear, read one more tale entrancing.” And father seeks that
+inside page where “Household Hints” are printed, where, for the good of
+youth and age, this “Household Hint” is hinted:
+
+“If you have maladies so rank they are too fierce to mention, just call
+on good old Dr. Crank; you’ll find it his intention to cure you up where
+others fail, though t’others number twenty; but don’t forget to bring
+the kale, and see that you have plenty.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AT THE END
+
+WE do our little stunt on earth, and when it’s time to die, “The ice we
+cut has little worth—we wasted time,” we sigh. When one has snow above
+his ears, and age has chilled his veins, he looks back on the vanished
+years, his spirit racked with pains. However well he may have done, it
+all seems trifling then; alas, if he could only run his little course
+again! He would not then so greatly prize the sordid silver plunk; for
+when a man grows old and wise, he knows that coin is junk. One kindly
+action of the past, if such you can recall, will soothe you greatly at
+the last when memory is All. If you have helped some pilgrim climb from
+darkness and despair, that action, in your twilight time, will ease your
+weight of care. The triumphs of your business day, by stealth or
+sharpness gained, will seem, when you are tired and gray, to leave your
+record stained. Ah, comrade, in the dusk of life, when you have ceased
+your grind, when all your strategy and strife are left for aye behind,
+when you await the curtain’s fall, the setting of the sun, how you will
+struggle to recall the good that you have done!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ WHAT’S THE USE?
+
+MAN toils at his appointed task till hair is gray and teeth are loose,
+and pauses now and then to ask, in tones despondent, “What’s the use?”
+We have distempers of the mind when we are tired and sorely tried; we’d
+like to quit the beastly grind, and let the tail go with the hide. The
+money goes for shoes and pie, for hats and pork and dairy juice; to get
+ahead we strive and try, and still are broke, so what’s the use? Then,
+gazing round us, we behold the down-and-outers in the street; they
+shiver in the biting cold, they trudge along on weary feet. They have no
+home, they have no bed, no shelter neath the wintry sky; they’ll have no
+peace till they are dead, and planted where the paupers lie. No comfort
+theirs till in the cell that has a clammy earthen lid; yet some of them
+deserve as well of Fortune as we ever did. And, having seen the hungry
+throng, if we’re good sports we cease to sigh; we go to work with cheery
+song, and make the fur and feathers fly.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE MAN WANTED
+
+NEVER was there such a clamor for the man who knows his trade! Whether
+with a pen or hammer, whether with a brush or spade he’s equipped, the
+world demands him, calls upon him for his skill, and on pay day gladly
+hands him rolls of roubles from its till. Little boots it what his trade
+is, building bridges, shoeing mules—men will come from Cork and Cadiz to
+engage him and his tools. All the world is busy hunting for the workman
+who’s supreme, whether he is best at punting or at flavoring ice cream.
+
+Up and down the land are treading men who find this world a frost,
+toiling on for board and bedding, in an age of hustling lost. “We have
+never had fair chances, Fortune ever used us sore,” they complain, as
+age advances, and the poorhouse lies before. “Handy men are we,” they
+mutter, “masters of a dozen trades, yet we can’t earn bread and butter,
+much less jams and marmalades. When we ask a situation, stern employers
+cry again: ‘Chase yourselves! This weary nation crowded is with handy
+men! Learn one thing and learn it fully, learn in something to excel,
+then you’ll find this old world bully—it will please you passing well!’
+Thus reply the stern employers when for work we sadly plead, saying we
+are farmers, sawyers, tinkers, tailors gone to seed. So we sing our
+doleful chorus as adown the world we wind, for the poorhouse lies before
+us, and the free lunch lies behind.”
+
+While this tragedy’s unfolding in each corner of the land, men of skill
+are still beholding chances rise on every hand; men who learned one
+thing and learned it up and down and to and fro, got reward because they
+earned it—men who study, men who Know. If you’re raising sweet potatoes,
+see that they’re the best on earth; if you’re rearing alligators, see
+that they’re of special worth; if you’re shoeing dromedaries, shoe the
+brutes with all your might; if you’re peddling trained canaries, let
+your birds be out of sight. Whatsoever you are doing, do it well and
+with a will, and you’ll find the world pursuing, offering to buy your
+skill.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ A MAD WORLD
+
+WHILE seated in my warm abode I see John Doe pass up the road, that man
+of many woes; he wears one rubber and one shoe, the wintry blast is
+blowing through his whiskers and his clothes. He has no place to sleep
+or eat, his only refuge is the street, his shelter heaven’s vault; I see
+him in the storm abroad, and say, “But for the grace of God, there goes
+your Uncle Walt.” John Doe with gifts was richly blest; he might have
+distanced all the rest, had Fortune kindly been; but Fortune put the
+kibosh on the efforts of the luckless John, and never wore a grin. I
+wonder why an Edgar Poe found life a wilderness of woe, and starved in
+garrets bare, while bards who cannot sing for prunes eat costly grub
+from golden spoons, and purple raiment wear. I wonder why a Robert Burns
+must try all kinds of shifts and turns to gain his daily bread, the
+while a Southey basked at ease and stuffed himself with jam and cheese,
+a wreath upon his head. Such things have never been explained; I know
+not why it is ordained that I find life a snap; and gazing from my door
+I see John Doe, in speechless misery, a homeless, hungry chap.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ PUNCTUALITY
+
+THE punctual man is a bird; he always is true to his word; he knows that
+the skate who is ten minutes late is trifling and vain and absurd. He
+says, “I’ll be with you at four”; though torrents may ruthlessly pour,
+you know when the clock strikes the hour he will knock with his punctual
+fist at your door. And you say, “He is surely a trump! I haven’t much
+use for the chump who is evermore late, making other men wait—the place
+for that gent is the dump.” The punctual man is a peach; he sticks to
+his dates like a leech; it’s a pity, alas, that he hasn’t a class of
+boneheaded sluggards to teach. He’s welcome wherever he wends; the
+country is full of his friends; he goes by the watch and he ne’er makes
+a botch of his time, so he never offends. If he says he’ll get married
+at nine, you can bet he’ll be standing in line, with his beautiful
+bride, and the knot will be tied ere the clock is done making the sign.
+If he says he’ll have cashed in at five, at that hour he will not be
+alive; you can order his shroud and assemble a crowd, clear out to the
+boneyard to drive. The punctual man is a jo! The biggest success that I
+know! He is grand and sublime, he is always on time, not late by ten
+minutes or so.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DOWN AND OUT
+
+MISFORTUNE punched you in the neck, and knocked you down and tramped you
+under; will you survey the gloomy wreck, and stand around and weep, I
+wonder? Your hold upon success has slipped, and still you ought to bob
+up grinning; for when a man admits he’s whipped, he throws away his
+chance of winning. I like to think of John Paul Jones, whose ship was
+split from truck to fender; the British asked, in blawsted tones, if he
+was ready to surrender. The Yankee mariner replied, “Our ship is sinking
+at this writing, but don’t begin to put on side—for we have just begun
+our fighting!” There is a motto, luckless lad, that you should paste
+inside your bonnet; when this old world seems stern and sad, with
+nothing but some Jonahs on it, don’t murmur in a futile way, about
+misfortune, bleak and biting, but gird your well known loins and say,
+“Great Scott! I’ve just begun my fighting!” The man who won’t admit he’s
+licked is bound to win a triumph shining, and all the lemons will be
+picked by weak-kneed fellows, fond of whining.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ “CHARGE IT”
+
+“JUST chalk it down,” the poor man said, when he had bought some
+boneless bread, and many costly things, his wife and brood of bairns to
+feed—the most of which they didn’t need as much as you need wings. He
+buys the richest things in town, and always says, “Just chalk it down,
+I’ll pay you soon, you bet;” and payday evening finds him broke, his
+hard earned plunks gone up in smoke, and still he is in debt. The man
+who doesn’t buy for cash lays in all kinds of costly trash, that he
+could do without; he spends his coin before it’s earned, and roars about
+it when it’s burned—is that your way, old scout? When comes the day of
+evil luck the war bag doesn’t hold a buck to keep the wolf away; the
+“charge it” plan will work no more at any market, shop, or store—no
+goods unless you pay. The poor man for his money sweats, and he should
+pay for what he gets, just when he gets the same; then, when he goes his
+prunes to buy, and sees how fast the nickels fly, he’ll dodge the
+spendthrift game. If you begin to save your stamps, some day, with
+teardrops in your lamps, this writer you will thank; when man in grief
+and sickness groans there’s naught like having fifteen bones in some
+good savings bank.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE CROAKER
+
+THERE is a man—you know him well; in every village doth he dwell—who all
+the time and every day can dig up something sad to say. The good, the
+beautiful, the fine, the things that others think divine, remind him
+that all flesh is grass, that all things must decay and pass. He shakes
+his head and wags his ears and sheds all kinds of briny tears and cries,
+“Alack and wella-day! All flesh is grass, and grass is hay!”
+
+He gazes on the blooming bride, who, in her beauty and her pride, is
+fairer than the fairest flower that ever charmed a summer hour. Wise
+people watch her with delight, and hope her future may be bright; they
+whisper blessings and declare that she is radiant and rare, and better
+feel for having seen so charming and so sweet a queen.
+
+But Croaker notes her brave array and sighs, “Her bloom will pass away!
+A few short years, and she’ll be bent and wrinkled up, I’ll bet a cent!
+The hair that looks like gold just now will soon be graying on her brow.
+She’ll shrivel in this world of sin, and there’ll be whiskers on her
+chin; and she will seem all hide and bone, a withered and obnoxious
+crone! I’ve seen so many brides before, with orange wreaths and veils
+galore, and I have seen their glories pass—all flesh is grass, all flesh
+is grass!”
+
+The people hear his tale of woe and murmur, “What he says is so!” For
+that’s the way with evil words; they travel faster than the birds.
+
+I go to see the football game, and note the athlete, strong of frame,
+his giant arms, his mighty chest, and glory in his youthful zest. It
+fires my ancient soul to see exultant youth, so strong and free.
+
+But someone at my elbow sighs—and there sits Croaker—dern his eyes!
+
+“These youths,” he says, “so brave and strong, will all be crippled up
+ere long. If they’re not slaughtered in this game, they’ll all be bunged
+up, just the same. A few short years, and they will groan, with
+rheumatism in each bone; they’ll all be lame in feet and knees, they’ll
+have the hoof and mouth disease, the mumps, the glanders and the gout.
+Go on, ye springalds, laugh and shout and play the game as best ye may,
+for youth and strength will pass away! Like snow wreaths in the thaw
+they’ll pass—all flesh is grass, all flesh is grass!”
+
+I bust him once upon the nose, I tie his whiskers to his toes, and, with
+an ardent, eager hoof, I kick his person through the roof. But he has
+spoiled my happy day; the croaker drives all glee away.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ CHOOSING A BRIDE
+
+THE man who goes to choose a bride should cautious be, and falcon-eyed,
+or he will harvest woes; it is a most important chore—more so than going
+to the store to buy a suit of clothes. If you have dreams of pleasant
+nights around the fire, and home delights, sidestep the giddy maid whose
+thoughts are all of hats and gowns, and other female hand-me-downs, of
+show and dress parade. And always shun the festive skirt who’ll never
+miss a chance to flirt with men, at any cost; she may seem sweet and
+charming now, but, as your own and only frau, she’s sure to be a frost.
+And when you see a woman near, who hankers for a high career, and combs
+her hair back straight, who says she’s wedded to her art, whose brow is
+high, whose tongue is tart—oh, Clarence, pull your freight! Select a
+damsel safe and sane, who has no folly in her brain, who wants to build
+a home; if you can win that sort of bride, peace shall with you and
+yours abide, and crown your old bald dome.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AFTER US
+
+THE workman, in my new abode, now spreads the luscious plaster; he hums
+a blithe and cheerful ode, and labors fast and faster. I stand and watch
+him as he works, I stand and watch and ponder; I mark how skillfully he
+jerks the plaster here and yonder. “This plaster will be here,” he
+cries, “unbroken and unshredded, when you sing anthems in the skies—if
+that’s where you are headed.” How good to feel, as on we strive, in this
+bright world enchanted, that what we do will be alive when we are dead
+and planted! For this the poet racks his brain (and not for coin or
+rubies) until he finds he’s gone insane and has to join the boobies. For
+this the painter plies his brush and spreads his yellow ochre, to find,
+when comes life’s twilight hush, that Fame’s an artful joker. For this
+the singer sprains her throat, and burns the midnight candle, and tries
+to reach a higher note than Ellen Yaw could handle. For this the actor
+rants and barks, the poor old welkin stabbin’, and takes the part of
+Lawyer Marks in Uncle Tommy’s Cabin. Alas, my labors will not last! In
+vain my rhythmic rages! I cannot make my plaster plast so it will stick
+for ages!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SOME OF THE POOR
+
+So many have no roofs or doors, no sheets to cuddle under! You hire some
+men to do your chores, and then you cease to wonder. Alas, he is so hard
+to find—he takes so much pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind on
+what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw some sticks, to keep the fire
+a-going, and he discusses politics, in language smooth and flowing; the
+saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin shrinks and totters, as he,
+with swinging jaws and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters. When I go
+home, as dusk grows dense, I hear his windy rages, and kick him sadly
+through the fence, when I have paid his wages. I hire a man to paint the
+churn and hoe the morning glories, and when at evening I return he’s
+busy telling stories. “That toiler is no good, I fear,” remarks the
+hausfrau, Sally; I take him gently by the ear and lead him to the alley.
+I hire a man the stove to black, and fix the kitchen table, and when at
+evening I come back, he’s sleeping in the stable. And thus we suffer and
+endure the trifler’s vain endeavor; we do not wonder that the poor are
+with us here forever.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE HARVEST HAND
+
+Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I get three bones a day and board!
+That’s going some, eh, what?” And on he labored, brave and strong; the
+work was hard, the hours were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at
+ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals to me—and watched him as
+he toiled; the sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could see his
+garments steam, his face and hands were broiled. He chuckled as he
+toiled away, “They’re paying me three bones a day, with board and
+washing, too!” That was his dream of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the
+sun, for that, the long day through! And I, who earn three iron men with
+sundry scratches of a pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his
+stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm within me, blew away. For
+he was getting more than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health, and
+blessings such as those; and when the day of toil was through, no doubt
+the stalwart worker knew a weary child’s repose!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ WHAT I’D DO
+
+If I were Binks the baker, I’d tidy up my store; I would not have an
+acre of dust upon the floor. I’d be a skilled adjuster and make things
+please the eyes; I’d take a feather duster and clean the pumpkin pies.
+I’d keep the doorknob shining, and polish up the glass, and never sit
+repining, and never say, “Alas!”
+
+If I were Binks the baker, I’d have a cheerful heart, as always should
+the maker of bread and pie and tart; for looking sad and grewsome will
+never bring the trade of folks who want to chew some doughnuts and
+marmalade. When I go blowing money I always seek the store whose boss is
+gay and sunny, with gladness bubbling o’er; and when I chance to enter a
+bakery whose chief is roaring like a stentor about his woe and grief,
+his bellowings confound me, I do not spend a yen; I merely glance around
+me, and hustle out again.
+
+If I were Binks the baker, and had a grouch on hand, I’d surely try to
+shake her, and smile to beat the band. For no one wants to harken to
+tales of woe and strife, to hear of clouds that darken a merchant’s
+weary life. For customers, have troubles, like you, through all their
+years; and when they spend their rubles they are not buying tears.
+They’ll like you all the better, you and your cakes and jam, if you are
+not a fretter, a kicker and a clam.
+
+If I were Bakes, the binker—my wires are crossed, I swow—I’d sell the
+pie and sinker with calm, unclouded brow. No grumblings wild and woolly
+would from my larynx slide; I’d swear that things were bully, and seven
+meters wide. Then folks would all admire me, and seek me in my den, and
+load me till they’d tire me, with kopecks, taels, and yen.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE FORTUNE TELLER
+
+A gypsy maiden, strangely wise, with dusky hair and midnight eyes, my
+future life unveiled; she said she’d read the lines of fate for many
+another trusting skate, and never yet had failed. She was a maid of
+savage charms; great brazen rings were on her arms, and she had strings
+of beads; with trinkets she was loaded down; the noisy colors of her
+gown recalled no widow’s weeds. She told me I would live to be as rich
+as Andy or John D., my dreams would all come true; I’d have a palace on
+a hill, and vassals near to do my will, a yacht to sail the blue. And as
+she told what blessings fine, what great rewards and gifts were mine, in
+low and dulcet tones, her nimble fingers, ne’er at rest, got closer to
+my checkered vest, and lifted seven bones. She touched me for my meager
+roll, that poor misguided, heathen soul, but still her victim smiles;
+she gave me dreams for half a day and took me with her to Cathay and the
+enchanted isles. Her glamour caused me to forget a little while, the
+strife and sweat, the city’s bricks and stones; she took my toilworn
+soul abroad, and she is welcome to my wad—I still have seven bones.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GOLD BRICKS
+
+Young Jack goes forth to call on Rose, attired in gorgeous raiment (and
+for that gaudy suit of clothes the tailor seeks his payment); his teeth
+are scoured, his shoes are shined, the barber man’s been active—in
+sooth, it’s hard to call to mind a fellow more attractive.
+
+And Rose is waiting at the gate, as blithely Jack advances; she has her
+angel smile on straight, and charming are her glances. She’s spent at
+least a half a day (to temper’s sore abrasion) to get herself in brave
+array, in shape for this occasion. All afternoon, with patient care, she
+tried on heaps of dresses; her gentle mother heard her swear while
+combing out her tresses. But now, as lovely as the day, with trouble
+unacquainted, she looks as though she grew that way and never puffed or
+painted.
+
+And so they both, on dress parade, sit down within the arbor, she well
+upholstered by her maid, he scented by his barber. They talk of
+painters, Spanish, Dutch; they talk of Keats and Dante—for whom they do
+not care as much as does your maiden auntie. Now Jack is down upon his
+knees! By jings! he is proposing! His vows, a-floating on the breeze,
+his ardor are disclosing! And Rose! Her bliss is now begun—she’s made
+her little capture. Oh, chee! two hearts that beat as one, and all that
+sort of rapture!
+
+And there is none to say to Rose, “Don’t rush into a marriage! You’re
+getting but a suit of clothes, some gall, a princely carriage! This man
+upon whose breast you lean too often has a jag on; he couldn’t buy the
+raw benzine to run your chug-chug wagon! Of tawdry thoughts he is the
+fount; his heart is cold and stony. He’s ornery and no account; his
+stately front is phony! He owes for all the duds he wears, for all the
+grub he’s swallowed, and at his heels, on streets and stairs, the
+bailiffs long have followed!”
+
+And there is none to say to Jack, “Don’t wed that dazzling maiden! You
+think that down a starry track she slid to you from Aidenn; but she is
+selfishness boiled down—as mother oft discovers—and in the house she
+wears a frown; she keeps her smiles for lovers. She never did a useful
+thing or had a thought uplifting, and ere she gets you on her string,
+look out where you are drifting!”
+
+There’s none who dares to tell the truth or point the proper courses, so
+foolish maid weds foolish youth, and then we have divorces!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AMBITIONS
+
+Ah, once, in sooth, in days of youth, I longed to be a pirate; the
+corsair’s fame for deeds of shame—all boys did once desire it. At night
+when gleamed the stars I dreamed of sacking Spanish vessels, of clanging
+swords and dripping boards, and bloody scraps and wrestles. Then
+“One-Eyed Lief” the pirate chief my hero was and model; in dreams I’d
+hold his stolen gold till I could scarcely waddle. But father took his
+shepherd’s crook and lammed me like tarnation, till I forgot that sort
+of rot for milder aspiration.
+
+And still I dreamed; and now I seemed to be a baseball pitcher, adored
+by all, both great and small, in wealth grown rich and richer. My
+dreaming eyes saw crowds arise and bless me from the bleachers, when I
+struck out some pinch hit lout and beat those Mudville creatures. I
+seemed to stand, sublime and grand, the idol of all fandom; men thought
+me swell, and treasured well the words I spoke at random. Ah, boyhood
+schemes, and empty dreams of glory, fame and riches! My mother came and
+tanned my frame with sundry birchen switches, and brought me back to
+duty’s track, and made me hoe the onions, dig garden sass and mow the
+grass until my hands had bunions.
+
+In later days I used to raise my eyes to summits splendid. “I’ll hold,”
+I’d swear, “the White House chair, before my life is ended.” The years
+rolled on and dreams are gone, with all their gorgeous sallies, and in
+my town I’m holding down a job inspecting alleys.
+
+Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from heights to depths abysmal; the
+dream of hope is golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many dreams,
+so many schemes, upon the hard-rock shiver! We think we’ll eat some
+sirloin meat, and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine on duck and
+wine, with garlands hanging o’er us, but when some dub calls us to grub,
+stewed prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends, though dreaming
+ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow, build airy schemes! Without your
+dreams, this life would be all sorrow.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ CHRISTMAS MUSINGS
+
+One winter night—how long ago it seems!—I lay me down to bask in
+pleasant dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the quilting frame, where
+Santa Claus must see it when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good
+and wise, that he would come when I had closed my eyes; along the roofs
+he’d drive his team and sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty way.
+And much I wondered, as I drowsy grew, how he would pass the elbows in
+the flue.
+
+The morning came, the Christmas bells rang loud, I heard the singing of
+a joyous crowd, and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift that made
+my head whirl round and round. A pair of skates, whose runners shone
+like glass, whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass! A pair of
+skates that would the gods suffice, if ever gods go scooting o’er the
+ice! All through the day I held them in my arms and nursed them close,
+nor wearied of their charms. I did not envy then the king his crown, the
+knight his charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the heights of
+rapture and delight—I had new skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!
+
+’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then are in their graves, the wise
+old dames and men. Since that far day when rang the morning chimes, the
+Christmas bells have rung full forty times; the winter snow is on my
+heart and hair, and old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more I
+wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily I drift into a dream. Age has
+no myths, no legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are mostly
+griefs.
+
+I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly store, since that bright
+morning in the time of yore. My home is filled with rare and costly
+things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and
+also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at
+the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the
+floor.
+
+The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale, but I am old, and life is
+flat and stale. I’d give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such as I
+knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went and showed my youthful mates
+my Christmas gift—a pair of shining skates! For those cheap skates I’d
+give my motor cars, my works of art, my Cuba-made cigars, my stocks and
+bonds, my hunters and my hounds, my stately mansion and my terraced
+grounds, if, having them, I once again might know the joy I knew so
+long, so long ago!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE WAY OF A MAN
+
+
+ BEFORE MARRIAGE
+
+He carried flowers and diamond rings to please that dazzling belle, and
+caramels and other things that damsels love so well. He’d sit for hours
+upon a chair and hold her on his knees; he blew his money here and
+there, as though it grew on trees. “If I had half what you are worth,”
+he used to say, “my sweet, I’d put a shawlstrap round the earth and lay
+it at your feet.”
+
+He had no other thought, it seemed, than just to cheer her heart; and
+everything of which she dreamed, he purchased in the mart.
+
+“When we are spliced,” he used to say, “you’ll have all you desire—a
+gold mine or a load of hay, a dachshund or a lyre. My one great aim will
+be to make your life a thing of joy, so haste and to the altar take your
+little Clarence boy.”
+
+And so she thought she drew a peach when they were wed in June. Alas!
+how oft for plums we reach, and only get a prune!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AFTER MARRIAGE
+
+“And so you want another hat?” he thundered to his frau. “Just tell me
+what is wrong with that—the one you’re wearing now! No wonder that I
+have the blues, the way the money goes; last week you blew yourself for
+shoes, next week you’ll want new clothes!
+
+“I wish you were like other wives and would like them behave; it is the
+object of their lives to help their husbands save. All day I’m in the
+business fight and strain my heart and soul, and when I journey home at
+night, you touch me for my roll. You want a twenty-dollar hat, to hold
+your topknot down, or else a new Angora cat, a lapdog, or a gown. You
+lie awake at night and think of things you’d like to buy, and when I
+draw a little chink, you surely make it fly.
+
+“With such a wife as you, I say, a husband has no chance; you pull his
+starboard limb by day, by night you rob his pants.
+
+“My sainted mother, when she dwelt in this sad vale of tears, had one
+old lid of cloth or felt, she wore for thirty years. She helped my
+father all the time, she pickled every bone, and if she had to blow a
+dime, it made her weep and moan.
+
+“The hat you wear is good as new; ’twill do another year. So don’t stand
+round, the rag to chew—I’m busy now, my dear.”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE TWO SALESMEN
+
+Two salesmen went to work for Jones, who deals in basswood trunks; each
+drew per week eleven bones, eleven big round plunks. “It isn’t much,”
+said Jones, “but then, do well, and you’ll get more; I’d like to have
+some high-priced men around this blamed old store. You’ll find I’m
+always glad to pay as much as you are worth, so let your curves from day
+to day astonish all the earth.”
+
+Then Salesman Number One got down and buckled to his work; and people
+soon, throughout the town, were talking of that clerk. He was so full of
+snap and vim, so cheerful and serene, that people liked to deal with
+him, and hand him good long green. In busy times he’d stay at night to
+straighten things around, and never show a sign of spite, or raise a
+doleful sound. He never feared that he would work a half an hour too
+long, but he those basswood trunks would jerk with cheerful smile and
+song.
+
+And ever and anon Brer Jones would say: “You’re good as wheat! I raise
+your stipend seven bones, and soon I will repeat!” And now that Salesman
+Number One is manager they say; each week he draws a bunch of mon big as
+a load of hay.
+
+But Salesman Number Two was sore because his pay was small; he sighed,
+“The owner of this store has seven kinds of gall. He ought to pay me
+eighteen bucks, and more as I advance. He ought to treat me white—but
+shucks! I see my name is Pance.”
+
+Determined to do just enough to earn his meager pay, he watched the
+clock, and cut up rough if late he had to stay. He saw that other
+salesman climb, the man of smiles and songs; but still he fooled away
+his time, and brooded o’er his wrongs.
+
+He’s still employed at Jones’ store, but not, alas! as clerk; he cleans
+the windows, sweeps the floor, and does the greasy work. He sees young
+fellows make their start and prosper and advance, and sadly sighs, with
+breaking heart, I never had a chance!
+
+And thousands raise that same old wail throughout this busy land; you
+hear that gurgle, false and stale, wherever failures stand. The men who
+never had a chance are scarce as chickens’ teeth, and chaps who simply
+won’t advance must wear the goose-egg wreath.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE PRODIGAL SON
+
+“At last I’m wise, I will arise, and seek my father’s shack;” thus
+muttered low the ancient bo, and then he hit the track. From dwellings
+rude he’d oft been shooed, been chased by farmers’ dogs; this poor old
+scout, all down and out, had herded with the hogs. His heart was wrong;
+it took him long to recognize the truth, that there’s a glad and smiling
+dad for each repentant youth. “I will arise, doggone my eyes,” the
+prodigal observed, “and try to strike the old straight pike from which I
+idly swerved.” The father saw, while baling straw, the truant, sore and
+lamed; he whooped with joy; “my swaybacked boy, you’re welcome!” he
+exclaimed. Midst glee and mirth two dollars’ worth of fireworks then
+were burned; “we’ll kill a cow,” cried father, “now that Reuben has
+returned!” His sisters sang, the farmhouse rang with glee till rafters
+split, his mother sighed with hope and pride, his granny had a fit. And
+it’s today the same old way, the lamp doth nightly burn, to guide you
+home, O, boys who roam, if you will but return.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ HOSPITALITY
+
+I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he makes me carry too big a load. He
+keeps close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign that I’d like to
+quit. “You do not eat as a host could wish—pray, try some more of the
+deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your greens, and take some more of
+the boneless beans, and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s a
+chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our cooking has failed to please,
+if you don’t eat more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash and the
+graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp, with their large round holes. You
+are no good with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of our home grown
+prunes!” I eat and eat, at my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from
+my creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is o’er, and nightmares
+come when I sleep and snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails, as
+though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be wise, be kind to the cherished
+guest, and let him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make him eat
+through the bill of fare, when you see he’s full of a dumb despair!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ HON. CROESUS EXPLAINS
+
+Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little children toil; but why this
+foolish how-de-do, this uproar and turmoil? You say these children are
+but slaves, who, through the age-long day, must work in dark and noisome
+caves to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to public scorn as one
+who’s steeped in sin; and yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living
+in.
+
+_But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven plunks to build a
+Home for Human Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks._
+
+In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand men? I’m tired of that
+old chestnut; please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot answer for
+the fate of those by Trade unmade; for men who cannot hit the gait must
+drop from the parade. If scores of people got the worst of deals I had
+in line, if by the losers I am cursed, that is no fault of mine. And
+you, who come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use my money doing
+good, as much as any man.
+
+_I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my conduct moans; for a
+Retreat for Maiden Aunts I just gave twenty bones._
+
+I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry in tones intense; I’m making
+widows of their wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy a fire
+escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so the orphan’s wearing crape
+upon his Sunday tile. I know just what my trade will stand before it
+bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand with costly folderols.
+There is no sentiment in trade, let that be understood; but when my work
+aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.
+
+_Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies of the Grail, who wish to
+furnish roasted ducks to suffragists in jail._
+
+You say I violate all laws and laugh the courts to scorn, and war on
+every worthy cause as soon as it is born? You can’t admit my moral
+health—you wouldn’t if you could; I spend my days in gaining wealth, my
+nights in doing good.
+
+_And while the hostile critic roars, I’m giving every day; I’m sending
+nice pink pinafores to heathen in Cathay._
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MAÑANA
+
+THE weeds in the garden are growing, while I’m sitting here in the
+shade; I know that I ought to be hoeing and doing some things with a
+spade. I know that I shouldn’t be shirking in pleasant, arboreal nooks;
+I know that I ought to be working like good little boys in the books.
+They tell me that idling brings sorrow, and doubtless they tell me the
+truth; I’ll tackle that garden tomorrow—today I’ve a yarn by Old Sleuth!
+
+The fence, so my mother reminds me, needs fixing the worst kind of way!
+So it does; but, alas! how it grinds me to wrestle with fence boards
+today! I ought to do stunts with a hammer, and cut a wide swath with a
+saw, and raise an industrial clamor out there at the fence by the draw.
+The punishing fires of Gomorrah on idlers, ma says, will rain down; I’ll
+fix up that blamed fence tomorrow—today there’s a circus in town!
+
+I ought to be whacking up kindling, says ma, as she fools with the
+churn; the pile in the woodshed is dwindling, and soon there’ll be
+nothing to burn. There’s Laura, my sister, as busy as any old bee that
+you know, while all my employments are dizzy, productive of nothing but
+woe. I’ll show I’m as eager as Laura to make in the sunshine my hay!
+I’ll split up some kindling tomorrow—I planned to go fishing today!
+
+I’ve made up my mind to quit fooling and do all the chores round the
+shack. Just wait till you see me a-tooling the cow to the pasture and
+back! I’ll show that I’m willing and able! I’ll weed out the cucumber
+vines, I’ll gather the eggs ’neath the stable, and curry the horse till
+he shines! A leaf from ma’s book I shall borrow and labor away till I
+fall! I’ll surely get busy tomorrow—today there’s a game of baseball!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SHOVELING COAL
+
+SHOVELING coal, shoveling coal, into the furnace’s crater-like hole!
+Thus goes the coin we so wearily earn, into the furnace to sizzle and
+burn; thus it’s converted to ashes and smoke, and we keep shoveling,
+weeping, and broke. Oh, it’s a labor that tortures the soul, shoveling
+coal, shoveling coal! “The house,” says the wife, “is as cold as a
+barn,” so I must emigrate, muttering “darn,” down to the furnace, the
+which I must feed; it is a glutton, a demon of greed! Into its cavern I
+throw a large load—there goes the money I got for an ode! There goes the
+check that I got for a pome, boosting the joys of an evening at home!
+There goes the price of full many a scroll, shoveling coal, shoveling
+coal! Things that I need I’m not able to buy, I have shut down on the
+cake and the pie; most of my jewels are lying in soak, gone is the money
+for ashes and smoke; all I can earn, all the long winter through, goes
+in the furnace and then up the flue. Still says the frau, “It’s as cold
+as a floe, up in the Arctic where polar bears grow.” So all my song is
+of sorrow and dole, shoveling coal, shoveling coal!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE DIFFERENCE
+
+WHEN I was as poor as Job, and monkeyed around the globe in indolent
+vagrant style, my life was a joyous thing, devoid of a smart or sting,
+and everything seemed to smile. I hadn’t a bundle then; I herded with
+homeless men, and padded the highway dust; and care was a thing unknown,
+as scarce as the silver bone, in days of the wanderlust. But now I am
+settled down, a prop to this growing town, respectable till it hurts;
+and I have a bundle fat, and I have a stovepipe hat, and all kinds of
+scrambled shirts. I puff at a rich cigar, and ride in a motor car, and I
+have a spacious lawn; and diamonds upon me shine; my credit is simply
+fine, the newspapers call me Hon. But Worry is always near, a-whispering
+in my ear—I’m tired of her morbid talks: “Suppose that the bank should
+bust in which you have placed your dust, how then would you feel, Old
+Sox? Suppose that the cyclones swat the farms you have lately bought and
+blow them clear off the map? Suppose that your mills should fail, and
+you were locked up in jail, how then would you feel, old chap?” Dame
+Worry is always there; she’s whitened my scanty hair, she’s cankered my
+weary breast; she never goes far away; she tortures me all the day and
+ruins my nightly rest. And often at night I sigh for a couch ’neath the
+open sky and the long white road again; for the march through the
+sifting dust, and the lure of the wanderlust and the camp of the
+homeless men.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ IMMORTAL SANTA
+
+I MET a little maid who cried, as though her heart would break; I asked
+her why, and she replied, “Oh, Santa is a fake! My teacher says there
+never was a being by that name, and here I mourn for Santa Claus, and
+all the Christmas game.”
+
+“Cheer up, my little girl,” I said, “for weeping is a crime; I’ll go and
+punch that teacher’s head as soon as I have time. Old Santa lives, the
+good old boy, his race is not yet run; and he will bring the children
+joy, as he has always done. The pedagogues have grown too smart, and
+must take in their sails, if they would break a maiden’s heart by
+telling phony tales.”
+
+The young one, anxious to believe that Santa’s still on earth, looked up
+and smiled and ceased to grieve, and chortled in her mirth. I have no
+use for folks so wise that legend makes them sad, who say those stories
+are but lies which make the children glad. For Santa lives, and that’s
+the truth; and he will always live, while there is such a thing as Youth
+to bless the hands that give.
+
+You may not hear his reindeer’s hoofs go tinkling o’er the snow; you may
+not see him climbing roofs to reach the socks below; and down the sooty
+chimney-hole you may not see him slide—for that would grieve the kindest
+soul, and scar the toughest hide—but still he goes his rounds and tries
+to make the children gay, and there is laughter in his eyes, on every
+Christmas Day.
+
+You’re Santa Claus, and so am I, and so is every dad, who says at
+Christmas time, “I’ll try to make the young hearts glad!” All other men
+may lay them down and go to rest some day; the homes they builded, and
+their town may crumble in decay; and governments may rise and fall, and
+dynasties may lapse, and still, triumphant over all, that jolliest of
+chaps will journey through the snow and storm, beneath the midnight sky;
+while souls are true and hearts are warm, old Santa shall not die.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE MEN BEHIND
+
+THE firm of Jingleson & Jams, which manufactured wooden hams, has closed
+its doors, and in the mill, the wheels and shafting all stand still.
+
+This mighty business was upbuilt by Humper, Hooperman & Hilt, who kept
+the factory on the go and made all kinds of fancy dough. Their products
+went to every mart, and cheered the retail merchant’s heart, and made
+consumers warble psalms, and ask for more of those elm hams. These
+owners hired the ablest men that could be got for love or yen;
+throughout the mill fine workmen wrought; their every motion hit the
+spot; and expert foremen snooped around, and if some shabby work they
+found, the riot act they’d promptly speak, in Latin, Choctaw, Dutch and
+Greek.
+
+The finest salesmen in the land were selling hams to beat the band. Old
+Humper said, “No ten-cent skate can earn enough to pay the freight;
+cheap men are evermore a frost—they’re dear, no matter what they cost.
+We want the ablest men that grow—no other kind will have a show.” And so
+these owners gathered kale until the game seemed old and stale, then
+sold their mill and stock of hams to Messrs. Jingleson & Jams.
+
+These were a pair of cautious gents, who had a reverence for cents. They
+looked around, with eager eyes, for chances to economize. They had the
+willies when they gazed upon the payroll—they were dazed! “Great
+whiskers!” Jingleson exclaimed, “this wilful waste makes me ashamed!
+This salesman, Jasper Jimpson Jones, draws, every month, two hundred
+bones! Why I can hire F. Flimson Flatt, who’ll work I know, for half of
+that!”
+
+“And by old Pharaoh’s sacred rams,” remarked his partner, Peter Jams,
+“it’s that way all along the list; old Humper must be crazed, I wist!
+We’ll cut these salaries in two—that is the first thing we must do!”
+
+And so the high-priced expert men were told to go, nor come again; and
+soon the shop began to fill with chaps who’d neither brains nor skill.
+The payroll slumped—which made Jams glad; but so did trade—which made
+him mad. The product lost its high renown, and merchants turned the
+salesmen down, and they sent frantic telegrams to weary Jingleson &
+Jams.
+
+When things begin down hill to slide, they rush, and will not be denied,
+and so there came slump after slump until the business reached the dump,
+and poor old Jingleson & Jams are mournful as a pair of clams.
+
+Economy’s the one best bet—but some kinds cost like blitzen, yet!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE BARD IN THE WOODS
+
+ALONG the forest’s virgin aisles I walk in rapture, miles on miles; at
+every turn delights unfold, and wondrous vistas I behold. What noble
+scenes on every hand! I feel my ardent soul expand; I turn my face
+toward the sky, and to the firmament I cry:
+
+“_The derned mosquitoes—how they bite! The woods would be a pure
+delight, would lure all men back to the soil, if these blamed brutes
+were boiled in oil! They come forth buzzing from their dens, and they’re
+as big as Leghorn hens, and when they bite they raise a lump that makes
+the victim yell and jump._”
+
+What wondrous voices have the trees when they are rocked by morning
+breeze! The voices of a thousand lyres, the music of a thousand choirs,
+the chorus of a thousand spheres are in the noble song one hears! The
+same sad music Adam heard when through the Eden groves he stirred; and
+ever since the primal birth, through all the ages of the earth, the
+trees have whispered, chanted, sung, in their soft, untranslated tongue.
+And, moved to tears, I cry aloud, far from the sordid madding crowd:
+
+“_Doggone these measly, red-backed ants! They will keep climbing up my
+pants! The woods will soon be shy of guests unless the ants and kindred
+pests abolished are by force of law; they’ve chewed me up till I am
+raw._”
+
+Here in these sylvan solitudes, unfettered Nature sweetly broods; she’d
+clasp her offspring to her breast, and give her weary children rest, and
+say to them, “No longer weep, but on your mother’s bosom sleep.” Here
+mighty thoughts disturb my brain—I try to set them down in vain; with
+noble songs my soul’s afire—I cannot fit them to my lyre, Elysian views
+awhile I’ve seen—I cannot tell you what they mean; adown the forest
+aisles I stray, and face the glowing East, and say:
+
+“_It must have been a bee, by heck! that stung me that time on the neck!
+It’s time I trotted back to town, and got those swellings doctored down!
+With bees and ants and wasps and snakes these bosky groves and tangled
+brakes are most too fierce for urban bard—I rather long for my back
+yard!_”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ VALUES
+
+OLD Hiram Hucksmith makes and sells green wagons with red wheels; and
+merry as a string of bells in his old age he feels. For over all the
+countryside his wagons have their fame, and Hiram sees with wholesome
+pride, the prestige of his name.
+
+He always tells his men: “By jings, my output must be good! Don’t ever
+use dishonest things—no wormy steel or wood; use nothing but the
+choicest oak, use silver mounted tacks, and every hub and every spoke
+must be as sound as wax. I want the men who buy my carts to advertise
+them well; I do not wish to break the hearts of folks to whom I sell.”
+
+The farmers bought those wagons green, with wheels of sparkling red, and
+worked them up and down, I ween, and of them often said: “You cannot
+bust or wear them out, and if you’d break their holt, you’d have to have
+a waterspout or full-sized thunderbolt. The way they hang together’s
+strange, they ought to break but won’t, most earthly things decay or
+change, but these blamed wagons don’t.”
+
+Old Hiram’s heart with rapture thrilled, to hear that sort of stuff; he
+worked and worked but couldn’t build his wagons fast enough. And now he
+lives on Easy Street, most honored of all men who toddle down our
+village street, and then back up again.
+
+Old Jabez Jenkins long has made blue wagons with pink spokes, and once
+he had a goodly trade among the farmer folks. With pride his bosom did
+not swell, he knew not to aspire, to get up wagons that would sell—that
+was his one desire. And so he made his wheels of pine, where rosewood
+should have been, and counted on the painting fine, to hide the faults
+within.
+
+And often when this sad old top was toiling in his shed, a customer
+would seek his shop and deftly punch his head. Wherever Jenkins’ wagons
+went, disaster with them flew; the tires came off, the axles bent, the
+kingbolts broke in two. You’d see the farmers standing guard above their
+ruined loads, and springing language by the yard that fairly scorched
+the roads.
+
+This Jenkins now is old and worn, his business is decayed; and he can
+only sit and mourn o’er dizzy breaks he made. Old Hiram’s plan should
+suit all men who climb Trade’s rugged hill: Give value for the shining
+yen you put into your till.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ STICKING TO IT
+
+I USED to run a beeswax store at Punktown-in-the-Hole, and people asked
+me o’er and o’er, “Why don’t you deal in coal? The beeswax trade will
+never pay—you know that it’s a sell; if you take in ten bones a day, you
+think you’re doing well.”
+
+Thus spake these thoughtful friends of mine; I heard their rigmarole,
+and straightway quit the beeswax line, and started selling coal. I built
+up quite a trade in slate, delivered by the pound, and just when I could
+pay the freight, my friends again came round. “Great Scott!” they cried,
+“you ought to quit this dark and dirty trade! To clean your face of
+grime and grit we’d need a hoe and spade! Quit dealing in such dusty
+wares, and make yourself look slick; lay in a stock of Belgian hares,
+and you’ll make money quick.”
+
+I bought a thousand Belgian brutes, and watched them beige around, and
+said: “I’ll fatten these galoots and sell them by the pound, and then
+I’ll have all kinds of kale, to pleasure to devote; around this blamed
+old world I’ll sail in my own motor boat.” But when the hares were
+getting fat, my friends began to hiss: “Great Caesar! Would you look at
+that! What foolishness is this? Why wear out leg and back and arm
+pursuing idle fads? You ought to have a ginseng farm, and then you’d
+nail the scads.”
+
+The scheme to me seemed good and grand; I sold the Belgian brutes, and
+then I bought a strip of land and planted ginseng roots. I hoped to see
+them come up strong, and tilled them years and years, until the sheriff
+came along and took me by the ears. And as he pushed me off to jail, I
+passed that beeswax store; the owner, loaded down with kale, was
+standing in the door. “If you had stayed right here,” he said, “you’d
+now be doing well; you would not by the ears be led toward a loathsome
+cell. But always to disaster wends the man who has no spine, who always
+listens to his friends, and thinks their counsel fine.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ “THANKS”
+
+THE lumber man wrapped up some planks, for which I paid a yen, and as I
+left he murmured, “Thanks! I hope you’ll call again!”
+
+Such little courtesies as this make business worth the while; they fill
+a customer with bliss and give his mug a smile. Politeness never fails
+to win, and bring the trade your way; when I have cash I blow it in with
+dealers blithe and gay.
+
+Of course, in every merchant’s joint, there are a thousand cares, which
+file his temper to a point, and give his brow gray hairs. And he should
+have a goat, no doubt, on which to vent his spite; a sawdust dummy, good
+and stout, should do for that all right. And then, when burdened with
+his woe, he might a while withdraw, and to the basement gaily go, and
+smash that dummy’s jaw. And when he’d sprained the dummy’s back, and
+spoiled its starboard glim, he to his duties would retrack, refreshed
+and full of vim.
+
+Some outlet for his flowing bile—on this each man depends; but he should
+always have a smile and “Thank you” for his friends.
+
+When I am needing further planks, to make a chicken pen, I’ll seek the
+merchant who said, “Thanks! I hope you’ll come again!” I feel that I am
+welcome there, in that man’s scantling store, and I can use the office
+chair or sleep upon the floor. His cordial treatment makes me pant to
+patronize such gents; and I shall wed his maiden aunt and borrow fifty
+cents.
+
+I’d sing his praises day and night, if singing were allowed; the man
+consistently polite will always charm the crowd.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE OLD ALBUM
+
+I LIKE to take the album old, with covers made of plush and gold—or
+maybe it is brass—and see the pictures of the jays who long have gone
+their divers ways and come no more, alas!
+
+This picture is of Uncle James, who quit these futile worldly games full
+twenty years ago; up yonder by the village church, where in his pew he
+used to perch, he now is lying low. Unheard by him the church bell
+chimes; the grass has grown a score of times above his sleeping form.
+For him there is no wage or price, with him the weather cuts no ice, the
+sunshine or the storm.
+
+Yet here he sits as big as life, as dolled up by his loving wife, “to
+have his picture took.” Though dead to all the world of men, yea, doubly
+dead, and dead again, he lives in this old book. His long side whiskers,
+north and south, stand forth, like mudguards for his mouth, his treasure
+and his pride. With joy he saw those whiskers sprout, with glee he saw
+them broaden out his face, already wide. In those sweet days of Auld
+Lang Syne the men considered whiskers fine and raised them by the peck;
+a man grew whiskers every place that they would grow upon his face, and
+more upon his neck. He made his face a garden spot, and he was sad that
+he could not grow whiskers on his brow; he prized his whiskers more than
+mon and raised his spinach by the ton—where are those whiskers now?
+
+Oh, ask the ghost of Uncle James, whose whiskers grew on latticed
+frames—at least, they look that way, as in this picture they appear,
+this photograph of yesteryear, so faded, dim and gray.
+
+My Uncle James looks sad and worn; he wears a smile, but it’s forlorn, a
+grin that seems to freeze. And one can hear the artist say—that artist
+dead and gone his way—“Now, then, look pleasant, please!” My uncle’s
+eyes seem full of tears. What wonder when, beneath his ears, two prongs
+are pressing sore? They’re there to hold his head in place, while he
+presents a smiling face for half an hour or more. The minutes drag—if
+they’d but rush! The artist stands and whispers, “Hush! Don’t breathe or
+wink your eyes! Don’t let your smile evaporate, but keep it rigid, firm
+and straight—in it all virtue lies!”
+
+It is a scene of long ago, when art was long and time was slow, brought
+back by this old book; there were no anesthetics then, and horror filled
+the souls of men who “had their pictures took.” Strange thoughts all
+soulful people hold, when poring o’er an album old, the book of vanished
+years. The dead ones seem to come again, the queer, old-fashioned dames
+and men, with prongs beneath their ears!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ WAR AND PEACE
+
+THE bugles sound, the prancing chargers neigh, and dauntless men have
+journeyed forth to slay. Mild farmer lads will wade around in gore and
+shoot up gents they never saw before. Pale dry goods clerks, amid war’s
+wild alarms, pursue the foe and hew off legs and arms. The long-haired
+bards forget their metred sins and walk through carnage clear up to
+their chins.
+
+“My country calls!” the loyal grocer cries, then stops a bullet with his
+form and dies. “’Tis glory beckons!” cry the ardent clerks; a bursting
+shell then hits them in the works. And dark-winged vultures float along
+the air, and dead are piled like cordwood everywhere. A regiment goes
+forth with banners gay; a mine explodes, and it is blown away. There is
+a shower of patriotic blood; some bones are swimming in the crimson mud.
+Strong, brave young men, who might be shucking corn, thus uselessly are
+mangled, rent and torn. They call it glory when a fellow falls, his
+midriff split by whizzing cannon balls; but there’s more glory in a
+field of hay, where brave men work for fifteen bits a day.
+
+The bugles blow, the soldiers ride away, to gather glory in the mighty
+fray; their heads thrown back, their martial shoulders squared—what
+sight with this can ever be compared? And they have dreams of honors to
+be won, of wreaths of laurel when the war is done. The women watch the
+soldiers ride away, and to their homes repair to weep and pray.
+
+No bugles sound when back the soldiers come; there is no marching to the
+beat of drum. There are no chargers, speckled with their foam; but one
+by one the soldiers straggle home. With empty sleeves, with wooden legs
+they drill, along the highway, up the village hill. Their heads are
+gray, but not with weight of years, and all the sorrow of all worlds and
+spheres is in their eyes; for they have walked with Doom, have seen
+their country changed into a tomb. And one comes back where twenty went
+away, and nineteen widows kneel alone and pray.
+
+They call it glory—oh, let glory cease, and give the world once more the
+boon of peace! I’d rather watch the farmer go afield than see the
+soldier buckle on his shield! I’d rather hear the reaper’s raucous roar
+than hear a colonel clamoring for gore! I’d rather watch a hired man
+milk a cow, and hear him cussing when she kicks his brow, than see a
+major grind his snickersnee to split a skull and make his country free!
+I’d rather watch the grocer sell his cheese, his boneless prunes and
+early winter peas, and feed the people at a modest price, than see a
+captain whack an ample slice, with sword or claymore, from a warlike
+foe—for peace is weal, and war is merely woe.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE CROOKS
+
+THE people who beat you, hornswoggle and cheat you, don’t profit for
+long from the kale; for folks who are tricky find Nemesis sticky—it
+never abandons their trail. I’ve often been cheated; the trick’s been
+repeated so often I cannot keep tab; but ne’er has the duffer who thus
+made me suffer been much better off for his grab. It pays not to
+swindle; dishonest rolls dwindle like snow when exposed to the sun; like
+feathers in Tophet is burned up the profit of cheating, the crooked
+man’s mon. The people who sting me unknowingly bring me philosophy
+fresh, by the crate; I don’t get excited—my wrongs will be righted, by
+Nemesis, Fortune, or Fate. I know that the stingers—they think they are
+dingers, and gloat o’er the coin they don’t earn—I know they’ll be
+busted and sick and disgusted, while I still have rubles to burn. I’d
+rather be hollow with hunger than follow the course that the tricksters
+pursue; I’d rather be “easy” than do as the breezy and conscienceless
+gentlemen do. Far better the shilling you’ve earned by the tilling of
+soil that is harder than bricks, than any old dollar you manage to
+collar by crooked and devious tricks.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE TRAMP
+
+HIS hair is long, his breath is strong, his hat is old and battered, his
+knees are sprung, his nerves unstrung, his clothes are badly tattered,
+his shoes are worn, his hide’s been torn by bow-wows fierce and
+snarling; and yet, by heck! this tough old wreck was once some daddy’s
+darling!
+
+He still must hit the ties and grit. A dismal fate is his’n; for if he
+stops, the village cops will slam him into prison. Some hayseed judge
+would make him trudge out where the rock pile’s lying, to labor there,
+in his despair, till next year’s snows are flying. The women shy when he
+goes by; with righteous wrath they con him. Men give him kicks and hand
+him bricks and train their shotguns on him. His legs are sprained, his
+fetlocks strained, from climbing highways hilly; it’s hard to think this
+seedy gink was someone’s little Willie!
+
+And yet ’tis so. Once, long ago, some dad of him was bragging, and
+matrons mild surveyed the child and set their tongues a-wagging. “What
+lovely eyes!” one woman cries. “They look like strips of heaven!” “And
+note his hairs!” a dame declares. “I’ve counted six or seven!” “His
+temper’s sweet,” they all repeat; “he makes no fuss or bother. He has a
+smile that’s free from guile—he looks just like his father!” Thus women
+talked as he was rocked to slumber in his cradle; they filled with
+praise his infant days, poured taffy with a ladle.
+
+And ma and dad, with bosoms glad, planned futures for the creature.
+“I’ll have my way,” the wife would say; “the child must be a preacher!
+His tastes are pure, of that I’m sure,” she says, with optimism; “for
+when he strays around and plays, he grabs the catechism!”
+
+“Ah, well,” says dad, “the lovely lad will reach great heights—I know
+it. I have the dope that he’ll beat Pope or Byron as a poet.”
+
+To give him toys and bring him joys, the savings bank was burgled; folks
+cried, “Gee whiz! How cute he is!” whenever baby gurgled.
+
+His feet are bare, his matted hair could not be combed with harrows; his
+garb is weird, and in his beard are bobolinks and sparrows. You’d never
+think, to see the gink, that ever he had parents! Can it be so that long
+ago he was somebody’s Clarence?
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE DOLOROUS WAY
+
+AS a mortal man grows older he has pains in hoof or shoulder, by a
+thousand aches and wrenches all his weary frame is torn; he has headache
+and hay fever till he is a stout believer in the theory of the poet that
+the race was made to mourn. He has gout or rheumatism and he’s prone to
+pessimism, and he takes a thousand balsams, and the bottles strew the
+yard; he has grip and influenzy till his soul is in a frenzy, and he
+longs to end the journey, for this life is beastly hard. And his
+system’s revolution is Dame Nature’s retribution for the folly of his
+conduct in the days of long ago; in his anguish nearly fainting he is
+paying for the painting, for the wassail and the ruffling that his
+evenings used to know. We may dance and have our inning in our manhood’s
+bright beginning, but we all must pay the fiddler, pay him soon or pay
+him late, and a million men are paying for the dancing and the playing,
+who are charging up their troubles to misfortune or to fate.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ LOOKING FORWARD
+
+I OFTEN wonder how this globe will struggle on when I cash in, when I
+put on my long white robe and sleep with cold but peaceful grin. I find
+it hard to realize that sun and moon and stars will shine, that clouds
+will drift along the skies, when everlasting sleep is mine. What is the
+use of keeping up the long procession of the spheres, when I’m beneath
+the butter-cup, with gumbo in my eyes and ears? What is the use of dusk
+or dawn, of starless dark or glaring light, when I from all these scenes
+am gone, down to a million years of night? Young men will vow the same
+sweet vows, and maids with beating hearts will hear, beneath the
+churchyard maple’s boughs, and reck not that I’m resting near. And to
+the altar, up the aisle, the blooming brides of June will go, and bells
+will ring and damsels smile, and I’ll be too blamed dead to know. Ah,
+well, I’ve had my share of fun, I’ve lived and loved and shut the door;
+and when this little journey’s done, I’ll go to rest without a roar.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SEEING THE WORLD
+
+HE jogged around from town to town, “to see the world,” was his excuse;
+he’d get a job and hold it down a little while, then turn it loose. “Oh,
+stay,” employers use to say; “your moving is a foolish trick; you’ll
+soon be earning bigger pay, for we’ll promote you pretty quick.” “This
+town is punk,” he would reply, “and every street is surnamed Queer; I’d
+see the world before I die—I do not wish to stagnate here.” Then he was
+young and quick and strong, and jobs were thick, as he jogged by, till
+people passed the word along that on him no one could rely. Then, when
+he landed in a town, and wished to earn a humble scad, the stern
+employers turned him down—“we want you not, your record’s bad.” He’s
+homeless in these wintry days, he has no bed, no place to sup; he “saw
+the world” in every phase; the world saw him—and passed him up. It’s
+good to “see the world,” no doubt, but one should make his bundle first,
+or age will find him down and out, panhandling for the wienerwurst.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE POLITE MAN
+
+WHEN Wigglewax is on the street, a charming smile adorns his face; to
+every dame he haps to meet, he bows with courtly, old world grace. His
+seat, when riding in a car, to any girl he’ll sweetly yield; and women
+praise him near and far, and say he is a Chesterfield. Throughout the
+town, from west to east, the man for chivalry is famed. “The Bayards are
+not all deceased,” the women say, when he is named. At home this Bayard
+isn’t thus; his eye is fierce, his face is sour; he looks around for
+things to cuss, and jaws the women by the hour. His daughters tremble at
+his frown, and wonder why he’s such a bear; his wife would like to jump
+the town, and hide herself most anywhere. But if a visitor drops in, his
+manner changes with a jerk, he wears his false and shallow grin, and
+bows like some jimtwisted Turk. Then for his daughters and his wife he
+wears his smile serene and fat, and callers say, “No sordid strife can
+enter such a home as that!” A million frauds like Wigglewax are smirking
+on the streets today, and when at eve they seek their shacks, they’ll
+beef and grouch, the old stale way.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ UNCONQUERED
+
+LET tribulation’s waters roll, and drench me as I don’t deserve! I am
+the captain of my soul, I am the colonel of my nerve. Don’t say my
+boasting’s out of place, don’t greet me with a jeer or scoff; I’ve met
+misfortune face to face, and pulled its blooming whiskers off. For I
+have sounded all the deeps of poverty and ill and woe, and that old
+smile I wear for keeps still pushed my features to and fro. Oh, I have
+walked the wintry streets all night because I had no bed; and I have
+hungered for the eats, and no one handed me the bread. And I have herded
+with the swine like that old prodigal of yore, and this elastic smile of
+mine upon my countenance I wore. For I believed and still believe that
+nothing ill is here to stay; the woozy woe, that makes us grieve,
+tomorrow will be blown away. My old-time griefs went up in smoke, and I
+remain a giggling bard; I look on trouble as a joke, and chortle when it
+hits me hard. It’s all your attitude of mind that makes you gay or sad,
+my boy, that makes your work a beastly grind, or makes it seem a round
+of joy. The mind within me governs all, and brings me gladness or
+disgust; I am the captain of my gall, I am the major of my crust.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ REGULAR HOURS
+
+I HIT the hay at ten o’clock, and then I sleep around the block, till
+half past five; I hear the early robin’s voice, and see the sunrise, and
+rejoice that I’m alive. From pain and katzenjammer free, my breakfast
+tastes as good to me as any meal; I throw in luscious buckwheat cakes,
+and scrambled eggs and sirloin steaks, and breaded veal. And as downtown
+I gaily wend, I often overtake a friend who’s gone to waste; “I stayed
+up late last night,” he sighs, “and now I have two bloodshot eyes, and
+dark brown taste; I’d give a picayune to die, for I’m so full of grief
+that I can hardly walk; I’ll have to brace the drugstore clerks and
+throw some bromo to my works, or they will balk.” But yesterday I saw a
+man to whom had been attached the can by angry boss, he wassailed all
+the night away, and then showed up for work by day a total loss. Don’t
+turn the night time into day, or loaf along the Great White Way—that
+habit grows; if to the front you hope to keep, you must devote your
+nights to sleep—I tell you those.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ PLANTING A TREE
+
+TO be in line with worthy folk, you soon must plant an elm or oak, a
+beech or maple fair to see, a single or a double tree. When winter’s
+storms no longer roll, go, get a spade and dig a hole, and bring a
+sapling from the woods, and show your neighbors you’re the goods. What
+though with years you’re bowed and bent, and feel your life is nearly
+spent? The tree you plant will rear its limbs, and there the birds will
+sing their hymns, and in its cool and grateful shade the girls will sip
+their lemonade; and lovers there on moonlight nights will get Dan Cupid
+dead to rights; and fervid oaths and tender vows will go a-zipping
+through its boughs. And folks will say, with gentle sigh, “Long years
+ago an ancient guy, whose whiskers brushed against his knee, inserted in
+the ground this tree. ’Twas but a little sapling then; and he, the
+kindest of old men, was well aware that he’d be dead, long ere its
+branches grew and spread, but still he stuck it in the mould, and never
+did his feet grow cold. Oh, he was wise and kind and brave—let’s place a
+nosegay on his grave!”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DREAMERS AND WORKERS
+
+THE dreamers sit and ponder on distant things and dim, across the
+skyline yonder, where unknown planets swim; they roam the starry
+reaches—at least, they think they do—with patches on their breeches and
+holes in either shoe. The workers still are steaming around at useful
+chores; they always save their dreaming for night, to mix with snores.
+They’re toiling on their places, they’re raising roastin’ ears, they are
+not keeping cases on far, uncharted spheres. They’re growing beans and
+carrots, and hay that can’t be beat, while dreamers in their garrets
+have not enough to eat. Oh, now and then a dreamer is most unduly smart,
+and shows he is a screamer in letters or in art; but where one is a
+winner, ten thousand dreamers weep because they lack a dinner, and have
+no place to sleep. There is a streak of yellow in dreamers, as a class;
+the worker is the fellow who makes things come to pass; he keeps the
+forges burning, the dinner pail he fills, he keeps the pulleys turning
+in forty thousand mills. The man with dreams a-plenty, who lives on
+musty prunes, beside him looks like twenty or eighteen picayunes.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SPRING SICKNESS
+
+THIS is the season when the blood, according to the learned physician,
+is thick and flows as slow as mud, which puts a man in bad condition.
+Spring sickness is a fell disease, according to our time-worn notions,
+and, having it, the victim flees, to blow himself for dopes and potions.
+“I have to thin the sluggish stream,” he says, “which through my system
+passes; it’s thicker now than cheap ice cream, and flows like New
+Orleans molasses.” From all spring ills he’d have release, if he would
+tramp his potions under, and get a jar of Elbow Grease, the medicine
+that’s cheap as thunder. To get out doors where breezes blow, and tinker
+’round to beat the dickens, would make a lot of ailments go, and thin
+the blood that winter thickens. Instead of taking pale pink pills which
+are designed for purple parties, go, plant the spuds in shallow hills,
+and you’ll be feeling fine, my hearties! We are too fond of taking dope,
+while in our easy chairs reclining, when we should shed our coats and
+slope out yonder where the sun is shining.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ ON THE BRIDGE
+
+I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, and looked at the sizzling town,
+where the pleasure seeking people were holding the sidewalks down. The
+moon rose over the city and shone on the dames and gents, but the glare
+of the lights electric made it look like twenty cents. The windows of
+homes were darkened, for no one was staying there; the children, as
+well, as grownups, were all in the Great White Glare. Deserted were all
+the firesides, abandoned the old-time game; alas, that the old home
+circle is naught but an empty name! The father is out chug-chugging, the
+mother is at her club, the kids see the moving pictures, and go to
+hotels for grub. How often, oh, how often, in the days that seemed good
+to me, have I looked at the children playing at home, where they ought
+to be! How often, oh, how often, in those days of the proper stamp, have
+I gazed on the parents reading, at home, by the evening lamp! But the
+world has gone to thunder, forgotten that elder day; and I took up the
+bridge and broke it, and threw all the chunks away.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MR. CHUCKLEHEAD
+
+HE shuts the windows, and shuts the doors, and then he lies in his bed
+and snores, and breathes old air that is stale and flat—the kind of air
+that would kill a cat. He says next day: “I am feeling tough; I’ll have
+to visit old Dr. Guff, and buy a pint of his pale pink pills, or I shall
+harbor some fatal ills.”
+
+He fills his system with steaks and pies, and never indulges in
+exercise. He eats and drinks of the market’s best, until the buttons fly
+off his vest; he’s grown so mighty of breadth and girth that when he
+gambols he shakes the earth. “I’ll see Doc Faker,” he says; “that’s
+flat; I’ll get his dope for reducing fat. Doc Faker says he can make me
+gaunt, and let me eat all the stuff I want.”
+
+He sits and mopes in his study chair, while others toil in the open air.
+He quaffs iced drinks through the sultry day, electric fans on his
+person play. “I feel despondent,” he murmurs low; “I lack the vim that I
+used to know; my liver’s loose and my kidneys balk, and my knee joints
+creak when I try to walk. I’ll call Doc Clinker and have him bring his
+Compound Juice of the Flowers of Spring.”
+
+His head is bald where the tresses grew in the long gone days when his
+scalp was new. He won’t believe that the hair won’t grow where it lost
+its grip in the long ago. He tries all manner of dope and drug; he buys
+Hair Balm by the gallon jug; he reads the papers and almanacs for news
+concerning the Mystic Wax which surely maketh the wool appear on heads
+gone bare in the yesteryear.
+
+The more he uses of patent dopes, the more he worries, the more he
+mopes. And all he needs to be blithe and gay is just to throw his old
+jugs away, to do some work, as his fathers toiled, to let in air that
+has not been spoiled, to rest his stomach and work his thews, quit
+pressing coat tails and shake his shoes. If Chucklehead and his tribe
+did this, they’d soon find health, which is short for bliss; and old Doc
+Faker and all his gang would close their offices and go hang.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ IN THE SPRING
+
+IN the spring the joyous husband hangs the carpet on the line, and
+assaults it with a horsewhip till its colors fairly shine; and the dust
+that rises from it fills the alley and the court, and he murmurs, ’twixt
+his sneezes: “This is surely splendid sport!”
+
+In the spring the well-trained husband wrestles with the heating stove,
+while the flippant-minded neighbors go a-fishing in a drove. With the
+pipes and wire he tinkers, and his laughter fills the place, when the
+wholesome soot and ashes gather on his hands and face; and he says: “I’d
+like to labor at this task from sun to sun; this is what I call
+diversion—this is pure and perfect fun!”
+
+In the spring the model husband carries furniture outdoors, and he gaily
+helps the women when they want to paint the floors; and he blithely eats
+his supper sitting on the cellar stairs, for he knows his wife has
+varnished all the tables and the chairs. Oh, he carries pails of water,
+and he carries beds and ticks, and he props up the veranda with a
+wagonload of bricks, and he deftly spades the garden, and he paints the
+barn and fence, and he rakes and burns the rubbish with an energy
+intense, saying ever as he labors, in the house or out of doors: “How I
+wish my wife and daughters could suggest some other chores!”
+
+In the spring this sort of husband may be found—there’s one in Spain,
+there is one in South Dakota and another one in Maine.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ BE JOYFUL
+
+YOU’D better be joking than kicking or croaking, you’d better be saying
+that life is a joy, then folks will caress you and praise you and bless
+you, and say you’re a peach and a broth of a boy. You’d better be
+cheery, not drooling and dreary, from the time you get up till you go to
+your couch; or people will hate you and roast and berate you—they don’t
+like the man with a hangover grouch. You’d better be leaving the
+groaning and grieving to men who have woes of the genuine kind; you know
+that your troubles are fragile as bubbles, they are but the growth of a
+colicky mind. You’d better be grinning while you have your inning, or
+when a real trouble is racking your soul, your friends will be growling,
+“He always is howling—he wouldn’t touch joy with a twenty-foot pole.”
+You’d better be pleasant; if sorrow is present, there’s no use in
+chaining it fast to your door; far better to shoo it, and hoot and
+pursue it, and then it may go and come back never more.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GOOD AND EVIL
+
+THE poet got his facts awry, concerning what lives after death; the good
+men do lives on for aye, the evil passes like a breath. A noble thought,
+by thinker thunk, will live and flourish through the years; a thought
+ignoble goes kerplunk, to perish in a pool of tears. Man dies, and folks
+around his bed behold his tranquil, outworn clay; “We’ll speak no evil
+of the dead, but recollect the good,” they say. Then one recalls some
+noble trait which figured in the ice-cold gent. “He fixed the Widow
+Johnsing’s gate, and wouldn’t charge a doggone cent.” “Oh, he was grand
+when folks were ill; he’d stay and nurse them night and day, hand them
+the bolus and the pill, and never hint around for pay.” “He ran three
+blocks to catch my wig when April weather was at large.” “He butchered
+Mrs. Jagway’s pig, and smoked the hams, and didn’t charge.” Thus men
+conspire, to place on file and make a record of the good, and they’d
+forget the mean or vile for which, perhaps, in life you stood. The
+shining heroes we admire had faults and vices just like you; when they
+concluded to expire, their failings kicked the bucket, too.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ BROWN OCTOBER ALE
+
+HOW many ringing songs there are that celebrate the wine, and other
+goods behind the bar, as being wondrous fine! How many choruses exalt
+the brown October ale, which puts a fellow’s wits at fault, and lands
+him in the jail! A hundred poets wasted ink, and ruined good quill pens,
+describing all the joys of drink in gilded boozing kens. But all those
+joys are hollow fakes which wisdom can’t indorse; they’re soon converted
+into aches and sorrow and remorse. The man who drains the brimming glass
+in haunts of light and song, next morning knows that he’s an ass, with
+ears twelve inches long. An aching head, a pile of debts, a taste that’s
+green and stale, that’s what the merry fellow gets from brown October
+ale. Untimely graves and weeping wives and orphans shedding brine; this
+sort of thing the world derives from bright and sparkling wine. The
+prison cell, the scaffold near; such features may be blamed on wholesome
+keg and bottled beer, which made one city famed. Oh, sing of mud or axle
+grease, but chant no fairy tale, of that disturber of the peace, the
+brown October ale!
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DELIVER US
+
+FROM all the woe and sorrow that bloody warfare brings, when monarchs
+start to borrow some grief from other kings, from dreadful scenes of
+slaughter, and dead men by the cord, from blood that flows like water,
+deliver us, O Lord! From fear and melancholy that every death list
+gives, from all the pompous folly in which an army lives, from all the
+strife stupendous, that brings no sane reward, but only loss tremendous,
+deliver us, O Lord! From seeing friend and neighbor in tools of death
+arrayed, deserting useful labor to wield the thirsty blade; from seeing
+plowshares lying all rusty on the sward, where men and boys are dying,
+deliver us, O Lord! From seeing foreign legions invade our peaceful
+shore, and turn these smiling regions to scenes of death and gore, from
+all the desolation the gods of war accord to every fighting nation,
+deliver us, O Lord!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DOING ONE’S BEST
+
+ONE sweetly solemn thought comes to me every night; I at my task have
+wrought, and tried to do it right. No doubt my work is punk, my efforts
+are a jest; however poor my junk, it represents my best. If you, at
+close of day, when sounds the quitting bell, that truthfully can say,
+you’re doing pretty well. Some beat you galley west, and bear away the
+prize, but you have done your best—in that the honor lies. And, having
+done your best, your conscience doesn’t hurt; serene you go to rest, in
+your long muslin shirt. And at the close of life, when you have said
+good-bye to cousin, aunt and wife, and all the children nigh, you’ll
+face the river cold that flows to islands blest, with courage high and
+bold, if you have done your best. No craven fears you’ll know, no
+terrors fierce and sharp, but like a prince you’ll go, to draw your
+crown and harp. So, then, whate’er the field in which you do your stunt,
+whatever tool you wield to earn your share of blunt, toil on with eager
+zest, nor falter in that plan; the one who does his best is God’s
+blue-ribbon man.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ A LITTLE WHILE
+
+A FEW more years, or a few more days, and we’ll all be gone from the
+rugged ways wherein we are jogging now; a few more seasons of stress and
+toil, then we’ll all turn in to enrich the soil, for some future
+farmer’s plow. A few more years and the grass will grow where you and
+the push are lying low, your arduous labors o’er; and those surviving
+will toil and strain, their bosoms full of the same old pain you knew in
+the days of yore. Oh, what’s the use of the carking care, or the load of
+grief that we always bear, in such a brief life as this? A few more
+years and we will not know a side of beef from a woozy woe, an ache from
+a bridal kiss. “I fear the future,” you trembling say, and nurse your
+fear in a dotard way, and moisten it with a tear; the future day is a
+day unborn, and you’ll be dead on its natal morn, so live while the
+present’s here. A few more years and you cannot tell a quart of tears
+from a wedding bell, a wreath from a beggar’s rags; you’ll take a ride
+to the place of tombs in a jaunty hearse with its nodding plumes, and a
+pair of milk-black nags. So while you stay on the old gray earth, cut up
+and dance with exceeding mirth, have nothing to do with woe; a few more
+years and you cannot weep, you’ll be so quiet and sound asleep, where
+the johnnie-jumpups grow.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE IDLERS
+
+MEN labor against the hames, and sweat till they’re old and gray,
+supporting the stall-fed dames who idle their years away. We’ve bred up
+a futile race of women who have no care, except for enameled face, or a
+sea-green shade of hair, who always are richly gowned and wearing
+imported lids, who carry their poodles ’round, preferring the pups to
+kids. And husbands exhaust their frames, and strain till their journey’s
+done, supporting the stall-fed dames, who never have toiled or spun.
+We’re placed in this world to work, to harvest our crop of prunes;
+Jehovah abhors the shirk, in gown or in trouserloons. The loafers in
+gems and silk are bad as the fragrant vags, who pilfer and beg and bilk,
+and die in their rancid rags. The loafers at bridge-whist games, the
+loafers at purple teas, the hand-painted stall-fed dames, are chains on
+the workers’ knees. The women who cook and sew, the women who manage
+homes, who have no desire to grow green hair on enameled domes, how
+noble and good they seem, how wholesome and sane their aim, compared
+with that human scream, the brass-mounted, stall-fed dame!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ LITERATURE
+
+I LIKE a rattling story of whiskered buccaneers, whose ships are black
+and gory, who cut off people’s ears. A yarn of Henry Morgan warms up my
+jaded heart, and makes that ancient organ feel young and brave and
+smart. I like detective fiction, it always hits the spot, however poor
+in diction, however punk in plot; I like the sleuth who follows a clue
+o’er hill and vale, until the victim swallows his medicine in jail. I
+like all stories ripping, in which some folks are killed, in which the
+guns go zipping, and everyone is thrilled. But when I have some callers,
+I hide those books away, those good old soul enthrallers which make my
+evenings gay. I blush for them, by jingo, and all their harmless games;
+I talk the highbrow lingo, and swear by Henry James. When sitting in my
+shanty, to “have my picture took,” I hold a work by Dante, or other
+heavy book. But when the artist’s vanished, I drop those dippy pomes,
+old Dante’s stuff is banished—I reach for Sherlock Holmes.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ NURSING GRIEF
+
+I KNOW not what may be your woe, how deep the grief you nurse, but if
+you bid the blamed thing go, it’s likely to disperse. If you would say,
+“Cheap grief, depart!” you soon might dance and sing; instead, you fold
+it to your heart, or lead it with a string. Oh, every time I go
+outdoors, I meet some mournful men, who talk about their boils or sores,
+of felon or of wen. Why put your misery in words, and thus your woe
+prolong? ’Twere best to talk about the birds, which sing their ragtime
+song; or of the cheerful clucking hens, which guard their nests of eggs;
+that beats a tale of corns or wens, of mumps or spavined legs. We go
+a-groaning of our aches, of damaged feet or backs, and nearly all our
+pains are fakes, when we come down to tacks. We talk about financial
+ills when we have coin to burn—and if we wish for dollar bills, there’s
+lots of them to earn. We cherish every little grief, when we should
+blithely smile; and if a woe’s by nature brief, we string it out a mile.
+Oh, let us cease to magnify each trifling ill and pain, and wear a
+sunbeam in each eye, and show we’re safe and sane.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE IDLE RICH
+
+I’M fond of coin, but I don’t itch to be among the idle rich, who have
+long green to burn; their wealth I could not well employ, for I could
+never much enjoy the bone I did not earn. Oh, every coin of mine is wet
+with honest, rich, transparent sweat, until it has been dried; it
+represents no sire’s bequest, no buried miser’s treasure chest, no
+“multi’s” pomp and pride. I grind my anthem mill at home, and every time
+I make a pome, I take in fifty cents; I get more pleasure blowing in
+this hard-earned, sweat-stained slice of tin, than do the wealthy gents.
+Their coin comes easy as the rain, it represents no stress or strain, no
+toil in shop or den; they use their wealth to buy and sell, like taking
+water from a well; the hole fills up again. We do not value much the
+thing, which, like an everlasting spring, wells up, year after year; if
+you’d appreciate a bone, you have to earn it with a groan, and soak it
+with a tear. I’d rather have the rusty dime for which I labored
+overtime, and sprained a wing or slat, than have the large and shining
+buck that Fortune handed me, or Luck; get wise, rich lad, to that.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ PASSING THE HAT
+
+PASSING the hat, passing the hat! Some one forever gets busy at that!
+Oh, it seems useless to struggle and strain, all our endeavor is
+hopeless and vain; when we have gathered a small, slender roll, hoping
+to lay in some cordwood or coal, hoping to purchase some flour and some
+spuds, hoping to pay for the ready made duds, hoping to purchase a bone
+for the cat, some one comes cheerfully passing the hat! Passing the hat
+that the bums may be warm, passing the hat for some noble reform,
+passing the hat for the fellows who fail, passing the hat to remodel the
+jail, passing the bonnet for this or for that, some one forever is
+passing the hat! Dig up your bundle and hand out your roll, if you don’t
+do it you’re lacking a soul! What if the feet of your children are bare?
+What if your wife has no corset to wear? What if your granny is weeping
+for shoes? What if the grocer’s demanding his dues? Some one will laugh
+at such logic as that, some one who’s merrily passing the hat! Passing
+the hat for the pink lemonade, passing the hat for a moral crusade,
+passing the hat to extinguish the rat—some one forever is passing the
+hat!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GOING TO SCHOOL
+
+“I HATE to tool my feet to school,” we hear the boy confessin’; “I’d
+like to play the livelong day, and dodge the useful lesson. The rule of
+three gives pain to me, old Euclid makes me weary, the verbs of Greece
+disturb my peace, geography is dreary. I’ll go and fish; I do not wish
+to spend my lifetime schooling; I do not care to languish there, and
+hear the teacher drooling.” His books he hates, his maps and slates, and
+all the schoolhouse litter; he feels oppressed and longs for rest, his
+sorrows make him bitter. The years scoot on and soon are gone, for years
+are restless friskers; the schoolboy small is now grown tall, and has
+twelve kinds of whiskers. “Alas,” he sighs, “had I been wise, when I was
+young and sassy, I well might hold, now that I’m old, a situation
+classy. But all the day I thought of play, and fooled away my chances,
+and here I strain, with grief and pain, in rotten circumstances. I’m
+always strapped; I’m handicapped by lack of useful knowledge; through
+briny tears I view the years I loafed in school and college!”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ NOT WORTH WHILE
+
+THE night of death will soon descend; a few short years and then the
+end, and perfect rest is ours; forgotten by the busy throng, we’ll
+sleep, while seasons roll along, beneath the grass and flowers. Our
+sojourn in this world is brief, so why go hunting care and grief, why
+have a troubled mind? And what’s the use of getting mad, and making
+folks around us sad, by saying words unkind? Why not abjure the base and
+mean, why not be sunny and serene, from spite and envy free? Why not be
+happy while we may, and make our little earthly stay a joyous jamboree?
+We’re here for such a little while! And then we go and leave the pile
+for which we strive and strain; worn out and broken by the grind, we go,
+and leave our wads behind—such effort’s all in vain. We break our hearts
+and twist our souls acquiring large and useless rolls of coins and
+kindred things, and when we reach St. Peter’s Town, they will not buy a
+sheet-iron crown, or cast-off pair of wings.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MISREPRESENTATION
+
+I BOUGHT a pound of yellow cheese, the other day, from Grocer Wheeze.
+And as he wrapped it up he cried, “In this fine cheese I take much
+pride. It’s made from Jersey cream and milk, and you will find it fine
+as silk; it’s absolutely pure and clean, contains no dyes or gasoline,
+it’s rich and sweet, without a taint, doggone my buttons if it ain’t.
+Oh, it will chase away your woe, and make your hair and whiskers grow.”
+I took it home with eager feet, impatient to sit down and eat, for I am
+fond of high-class cheese, which with my inner works agrees. But that
+blamed stuff was rank and strong, for it had been on earth too long. My
+wife, a good and patient soul, remarked, “Bring me a ten-foot pole,
+before you do your other chores, and I will take that cheese out doors.
+Before it’s fit for human grub we’ll have to stun it with a club.” What
+does a sawed-off grocer gain by such a trick, unsafe, insane? And what
+does any merchant make by boosting some atrocious fake? Yet every day
+we’re buying junk which proves inferior and punk, although it’s praised
+to beat the band; such things are hard to understand.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MAN OF GRIEF
+
+I NOW am bent and old and gray, and I have come a doleful way. A son of
+sorrow I have been, since first I reached this world of sin. Year after
+year, and then repeat, all kinds of troubles dogged my feet; they nagged
+me when I wished to sleep and made me walk the floor and weep. I had all
+troubles man can find—and most of them were in my mind. When I would
+number all the cares which gave me worry and gray hairs, I can’t
+remember one so bad that it should bother any lad. And often, looking
+back, I say, “I wonder why I wasn’t gay, when I had youth and strength
+and health, and all I lacked on earth was wealth? I wonder why I didn’t
+yip with gladness ere I lost my grip? My whole life long I’ve wailed and
+whined of cares which lived but in my mind. The griefs that kept me
+going wrong were things that never came along. The cares that furrowed
+cheek and brow look much like hop-joint phantoms now. And now that it’s
+too late, almost, I see that trouble is a ghost, a scarecrow on a
+crooked stick, to scare the gents whose hearts are sick.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MELANCHOLY DAYS
+
+THE melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, when you,
+determined to be glum, produce the flowing tear, when you refuse to see
+the joys surrounding every gent, and thus discourage other boys, and
+stir up discontent. A grouch will travel far and long before its work is
+done; and it will queer the hopeful song, and spoil all kinds of fun.
+Men start downtown with buoyant tread, and things seem on the boom; then
+you come forth with blistered head, and fill them up with gloom. There’d
+be no melancholy days, our lives would all be fair, if it were not for
+sorehead jays who always preach despair. We’d shake off every kind of
+grief if Jonah didn’t come, the pessimist who holds a brief for all
+things on the bum. So, if you really cannot rise above the sob and wail,
+and see the azure in the skies, and hear the nightingale, let some dark
+cave be your abode, where men can’t hear your howl, and let your
+comrades be the toad, the raven, and the owl.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MIGHT BE WORSE
+
+THE window sash came hurtling down on Kickshaw’s shapely head and neck;
+it nearly spoiled his toilworn crown, and made his ears a hopeless
+wreck. Then Kickshaw sat and nursed his head, a man reduced to grievous
+pass; yet, with a cheerful smile, he said, “I’m glad it didn’t break the
+glass.” He might have ripped around and swore, till people heard him
+round a block, or kicked a panel from the door, or thrown the tomcat
+through the clock; he might have dealt in language weird, and made the
+housewife’s blood run cold, he might have raved and torn his beard, and
+wept as Rachel wept of old. But Kickshaw’s made of better stuff, no
+tears he sheds, no teeth he grinds; when dire misfortune makes a bluff,
+he looks for comfort, which he finds. And so he bears his throbbing
+ache, and puts a poultice on his brain, and says, “I’m glad it didn’t
+break that rich, imported window pane.” It never helps a man to beef,
+when trouble comes and knocks him lame; there’s solace back of every
+grief, if he will recognize the same.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MODERATELY GOOD
+
+A LOAD of virtue will never hurt you, if modestly it’s borne; the
+saintly relic who’s too angelic for week days, makes us mourn. The
+gloomy mortal who by a chortle or joke is deeply vexed, the turgid
+person who’s still disbursin’ the precept and the text, is dull and
+dreary, he makes us weary, we hate to see him come; oh, gent so pious,
+please don’t come nigh us—your creed is too blamed glum! The saint who
+mumbles, when some one stumbles, “That man’s forever lost,” is but a
+fellow with streak of yellow, his words are all a frost. Not what we’re
+saying, as we go straying adown this tinhorn globe, not words or
+phrases, though loud as blazes, will gain us harp and robe. It’s what
+we’re doing while we’re pursuing our course with other skates, that will
+be counted when we have mounted the ladder to the Gates. A drink of
+water to tramps who totter with weakness in the sun will help us better
+than text and letter of sermons by the ton. So let each action give
+satisfaction, let words be few and wise, and, after dying, we’ll all go
+flying and whooping through the skies.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE GIRL GRADUATE
+
+IN school, academy and college stands forth the modern cultured girl,
+her lovely head so stuffed with knowledge it fairly makes her tresses
+curl. We all lean back in admiration when she stands up to make her
+speech, the finest product of the nation, the one serene, unblemished
+peach. Behold her in her snowy garments, the pride, the honor of her
+class! A malediction on the varmints who say her learning cuts no grass!
+“She hasn’t learned to fry the mutton, she’s not equipped to be a wife;
+she couldn’t fasten on a button, to save her sweet angelic life! With
+all her mighty fund of learning, she’s ignorant of useful chores; she
+cannot keep an oil stove burning so it won’t smoke us out of doors. The
+man she weds will know disaster, his dreams of home and love will spoil;
+she cannot make a mustard plaster, or put a poultice on a boil.” Avaunt,
+ye croakers, skip and caper, or we’ll upset your apple-carts! The damsel
+rises with her paper on “Old Greek Gods and Modern Arts.” So pledge her
+in a grapejuice flagon! Who cares if she can sew or bake? She’s pretty
+as a new red wagon, and sweeter than an old plum cake.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE BYSTANDER
+
+I STAND by my window alone, and look at the people go by, pursuing the
+shimmering bone, which is so elusive and shy. Pursuing the beckoning
+plunk, and no one can make them believe that rubles and kopecks are
+junk, vain baubles got up to deceive. Their faces are haggard and sad,
+from weariness often they reel, pursuing the succulent scad, pursuing
+the wandering wheel. And many are there in the throng who have all the
+money they need, and still they go racking along, inspired by the demon
+of greed. “To put some more bucks in the chest,” they sigh, as they
+toil, “would be grand;” the beauty and blessing of rest is something
+they don’t understand. We struggle and strain all our years, and wear
+out our bodies and brains, and when we are stretched on our biers, what
+profit we then by our pains? The lawyers come down with a whoop, and
+rake in our bundle of scrip, and plaster a lien on the coop before our
+poor orphans can yip. I stand at my window again, and see the poor folks
+as they trail, pursuing the yammering yen, pursuing the conquering kale;
+and sorrow is filling my breast, regret that the people won’t know the
+infinite blessing of rest, that solace for heartache and woe.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MEDICINE HAT
+
+THE tempests that rattle and kill off the cattle and freeze up the combs
+of the roosters and hens, that worry the granger, whose stock is in
+danger—the mules in their stables, the pigs in their pens—the loud winds
+that frolic like sprites with the colic and carry despair to the
+workingman’s flat, the wild raging blizzard that chills a man’s gizzard,
+they all come a-whooping from Medicine Hat. When men get together and
+note that the weather is fixing for ructions, preparing a storm, they
+cry: “Julius Caesar! The square-headed geezer who’s running the climate
+should try to reform! The winter’s extensive and coal’s so expensive
+that none can keep warm but the blamed plutocrat! It’s time that the
+public should some weather dub lick! It’s time for a lynching at
+Medicine Hat!” And when the sun’s shining we still are repining. “This
+weather,” we murmur, “is too good to last; just when we’re haw-hawing
+because we are thawing there’ll come from the Arctic a stemwinding
+blast; just when we are dancing and singing and prancing, there’ll come
+down a wind that would freeze a stone cat; just when we are hoping that
+winter’s eloping, they’ll send us a package from Medicine Hat!”
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ FLETCHERISM
+
+I READ a screed by Brother Fletcher, on how we ought to chew our grub; I
+said, “It’s sensible, you betcher! I’ll emulate that thoughtful dub. No
+more like some old anaconda, I’ll swallow all my victuals whole; I’ll
+eat the sort of things I’m fond o’, but chew them up with heart and
+soul.” And now I’m always at the table, I have no time to do my chores;
+the horse is starving in the stable, the weeds are growing out o’ doors.
+My wife says, “Say, you should be doing some work around this slipshod
+place.” I answer her, “I’m busy chewing—canst see the motions of my
+face?” I have no time to hoe the taters, I have no time to mow the lawn;
+though chewing like ten alligators, I’m still behind, so help me, John!
+I chew the water I am drinking, I chew the biscuit and the bun; I’ll
+have to hire a boy, I’m thinking, to help me get my chewing done. Some
+day they’ll bear me on a stretcher out to the boneyard, where they
+plant, and send my teeth to Brother Fletcher, to make a necklace for his
+aunt.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ FATHER TIME
+
+TIME drills along, and, never stopping, winds up our spool of thread;
+the time to do our early shopping is looming just ahead. It simply beats
+old James H. Thunder how time goes scooting on; and now and then we
+pause and wonder where all the days have gone. When we are old a month
+seems shorter than did a week in youth; the years are smaller by a
+quarter, and still they shrink, forsooth. This busy world we throw our
+fits in will soon be ours no more; time hurries us, and that like
+blitzen, toward another shore. So do not make me lose a minute, as it
+goes speeding by; I want to catch each hour and skin it and hang it up
+to dry. A thousand tasks are set before me, important, every one, and if
+you stand around and bore me, I’ll die before they’re done. Oh, you may
+go and herd together, and waste the transient day, and talk about the
+crops and weather until the roosters lay, but I have work that long has
+beckoned, and any Jim or Joe who causes me to lose a second, I look on
+as a foe.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ FIELD PERILS
+
+THE farmer plants his field of corn—the kind that doesn’t pop—and hopes
+that on some autumn morn he’ll start to shuck his crop. And shuck his
+crop he often does, which is exceeding queer, for blights and perils
+fairly buzz around it through the year. I think it strange that farmers
+raise the goodly crops they do, for they are scrapping all their days
+against a deadly crew. To plant and till will not suffice; the men must
+strain their frames, to kill the bugs and worms and mice, and pests with
+Latin names. The cut worms cut, the chinchbugs chinch, the weevil weaves
+its ill, and other pests come up and pinch the corn and eat their fill.
+And then the rainworks go on strike, and gloom the world enshrouds, and
+up and down the burning pike the dust is blown in clouds. And if our
+prayers are of avail, and rain comes in the night, it often brings a
+grist of hail that riddles all in sight. And still the farmers raise
+their crops, and nail the shining plunk; none but the kicker stands and
+yawps, and what he says is bunk. If all men brooded o’er their woes, and
+looked ahead for grief, that gent would starve who gaily goes to thresh
+the golden sheaf.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ JOY COMETH
+
+I SAT and sighed, with downcast head, my heart consumed with sorrow, and
+then my Aunt Jemima said: “I’m going home tomorrow!” I’d feared that she
+would never leave, her stay would be eternal, and that’s what made me
+pine and grieve, and say, “The luck’s infernal!” I thought my dark and
+gloomy skies no sunshine e’er would borrow, then Aunt Jemima ups and
+cries, “I’m going home tomorrow!” Thus oft the kindly gods confound the
+kickist and the carkist, and joy comes cantering around just when things
+seem the darkest. We all have aunts who come and stay until their
+welcome’s shabby, who eat our vittles day by day, until the purse is
+flabby; and when we think they’ll never go, or let us know what peace
+is, they up and dissipate our woe by packing their valises. The darkest
+hour’s before the dawn, and when your grief’s intensest, it is a sign
+’twill soon be gone, not only hence, but hencest.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ LIVING TOO LONG
+
+I WOULD not care to live, my dears, much more than seven hundred years,
+if I should last that long; for I would tire of things in time, and life
+at last would seem a crime, and I a public wrong. Old Gaffer Goodworth,
+whom you know, was born a hundred years ago, and states the fact with
+mirth; he’s rather proud that he has hung around so long while old and
+young were falling off the earth. But when his boastful fit is gone, a
+sadness comes his face upon, that speaks of utter woe; he sits and
+broods and dreams again of vanished days, of long dead men, his friends
+of long ago. There is no loneliness so dread as that of one who mourns
+his dead in white and wintry age, who, when the lights extinguished are,
+the other players scattered far, still lingers on the stage. There is no
+solitude so deep as that of him whose friends, asleep, shall visit him
+no more; shall never ask, “How do you stack,” or slap him gaily on the
+back, as in the days of yore. I do not wish to draw my breath until the
+papers say that Death has passed me up for keeps; when I am tired I want
+to die and in my cosy casket lie as one who calmly sleeps. When I am
+tired of dross and gold, when I am tired of heat and cold, and happiness
+has waned, I want to show the neighbor folk how gracefully a man can
+croak when he’s correctly trained.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ FRIEND BULLSNAKE
+
+THESE sunny days bring forth the snakes from holes in quarries, cliffs
+and brakes. The gentle bullsnake, mild and meek, sets forth his proper
+prey to seek; of all good snakes he is the best, with high ambitions in
+his breast; he is the farmer’s truest friend, because he daily puts an
+end to mice and other beasts which prey upon that farmer’s crops and
+hay. He is most happy when he feasts on gophers and such measly beasts;
+and, being six or eight feet high, when stood on end, you can’t deny
+that forty bullsnakes on a farm are bound to do the vermin harm. The
+bullsnake never hurts a thing; he doesn’t bite, he doesn’t sting, or
+wrap you in his slimy folds, and squeeze you till he busts all holds. As
+harmless as a bale of hay, he does his useful work all day, and when at
+night he goes to rest, he’s killed off many a wretched pest. And yet the
+farmers always take a chance to kill this grand old snake. They’ll chase
+three miles or more to end the labors of their truest friend. They’ll
+hobble forth from beds of pain to hack a bullsnake’s form in twain, and
+leave him mangled, torn and raw—which shows there ought to be a law.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DOUGHNUTS
+
+I SEEK the high-class eating joint, when my old stomach gives a wrench,
+and there the waiters proudly point to bills of fare got up in French. I
+order this, and order that, in eagerness my face to feed, and oftentimes
+I break a slat pronouncing words I cannot read. And as I eat the costly
+greens, prepared by an imported cook, to other times and other scenes
+with reminiscent eyes I look. My mother never was in France, no foreign
+jargon did she speak, but how I used to sing and dance when she made
+doughnuts once a week! Oh, they were crisp and brown and sweet, and they
+were luscious and sublime, and I could stand around and eat a half a
+bushel at a time. The doughnuts that our mothers made! They were the
+goods, they were the stuff; we used to eat them with a spade and simply
+couldn’t get enough. And when I face imported grub, all loaded down with
+Choctaw names, I sigh and wish I had a tub of doughnuts, made by
+old-time dames. I do not care for fancy frills, but when the doughnut
+dish appears, I kick my hind feet o’er the thills, and whoop for joy,
+and wag my ears.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE ILL WIND
+
+THE cold wet rain kept sloshing down, and flooded yard and street. My
+uncle cried: “Don’t sigh and frown! It’s splendid for the wheat!” I
+slipped and fell upon the ice, and made my forehead bleed. “Gee whiz!”
+cried uncle, “this is nice! Just what the icemen need!” A windstorm blew
+my whiskers off while I was writing odes. My uncle said: “Don’t scowl
+and scoff—’twill dry the muddy roads!” If fire my dwelling should
+destroy, or waters wash it hence, my uncle would exclaim, with joy: “You
+still have got your fence!” When I was lying, sick to death, expecting
+every day that I must draw my final breath, I heard my uncle say, “Our
+undertaker is a jo, and if away you fade, it ought to cheer you up to
+know that you will help his trade.” And if we study uncle’s graft, we
+find it good and fair; how often, when we might have laughed, we wept
+and tore our hair! Such logic from this blooming land should drive away
+all woe; the thing that’s hard for you to stand, is good for Richard
+Roe.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ APPROACH OF SPRING
+
+THE spring will soon be here; the snow will disappear; the hens will
+cluck, the colts will buck, as will the joyous steer. How sweet an April
+morn! The whole world seems reborn; and ancient men waltz round again
+and laugh their years to scorn. And grave and sober dames forsake their
+quilting frames, and cut up rough, play blind man’s buff, and kindred
+cheerful games. The pastors hate to preach; the teachers hate to teach;
+they’d like to play baseball all day, or on the bleachers bleach. The
+lawyer tires of law; the windsmith rests his jaw; they’d fain forget the
+toil and sweat, and play among the straw. The spring’s the time for
+play; let’s put our work away, with joyous spiels kick up our heels,
+e’en though we’re old and gray. You see old Dobbin trot around the
+barnyard lot, with flashing eye and tail on high, his burdens all
+forgot. You see the muley cow that’s old and feeble now, turn
+somersaults and prance and waltz, and stand upon her brow. The rooster,
+old is he, and crippled as can be, yet on his toes he stands and crows
+“My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Shall we inspired galoots have less style
+than the brutes? Oh, let us rise and fill the skies with echoing
+toot-toots.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ STUDYING BOOKS
+
+WITH deep and ancient tomes to toil, and burn the midnight Standard oil
+may seem a job forbidding; but it’s the proper thing to do, whene’er you
+have the time, if you would have a mind non-skidding. If one in social
+spheres would shine, he ought to cut out pool and wine, and give some
+time to study; load up with wisdom to the guards and read the message of
+the bards from Homer down to Ruddy. How often conversation flags, how
+oft the weary evening drags, when people get together, when they have
+sprung their ancient yawps about the outlook of the crops, the groundhog
+and the weather. How blest the gent who entertains, who’s loaded up his
+active brains with lore that’s worth repeating, the man of knowledge,
+who can talk of other things than wheat and stock and politics and
+eating! Our lives are lustreless and gray because we sweat around all
+day and think of naught but lucre; and when we’re at our inglenooks we
+never open helpful books, but fool with bridge or euchre. Exhausted by
+the beastly grind we do not try to store the mind with matters worth the
+knowing; our lives are spent in hunting cash, and when we die we make no
+splash, and none regrets our going.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ STRANGER THAN FICTION
+
+IT’S strange that people live so long, remaining healthy, sound and
+strong, when all around us, everywhere, the germs and microbes fill the
+air. The more we read about the germs, in technical or easy terms, the
+stranger does it seem that we have so far dodged eternity. No wonder a
+poor mortal squirms; all things are full of deadly germs. The milk we
+drink, the pies we eat, the shoes we wear upon our feet, are haunts of
+vicious things which strive to make us cease to be alive. And yet we
+live on just the same, ignore the germs, and play our game. Well, that’s
+just it; we do not stew or fret o’er things we cannot view. If germs
+were big as hens or hawks, and flew around our heads in flocks, we’d
+just throw up our hands and cry: “It is no use—it’s time to die!” The
+evils that we cannot see don’t cut much ice with you and me. A bulldog
+by the garden hedge, with seven kinds of teeth on edge, will hand to me
+a bigger scare than all the microbes in the air. So let us live and have
+our fun, and woo and wed and blow our mon, and not acknowledge coward
+fright of anything that’s out of sight.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE GOOD DIE YOUNG
+
+BESIDE the road that leads to town the thistle thrives apace, and if you
+cut the blamed thing down, two more will take its place. The sunflowers
+flourish in the heat that kills the growing oats; the weeds keep living
+when the wheat and corn have lost their goats. The roses wither in the
+glare that keeps the prune alive, the orchards fail of peach and pear
+while cheap persimmons thrive. The good and useful men depart too soon
+on death’s dark trip; they just have fairly made a start when they must
+up and skip. A little cold, a little heat will quickly kill them off; a
+little wetting of their feet, a little hacking cough; they’re tender as
+the blushing rose of evanescent bloom; too quickly they turn up their
+toes and slumber in the tomb. And yet the world is full of scrubs who
+don’t know how to die, a lot of picayunish dubs, who couldn’t, if they’d
+try. Year after year, with idle chums, they hang around the place, until
+at last their age becomes a scandal and disgrace. And thus the men of
+useful deeds die off, while no-goods thrive; you can’t kill off the
+human weeds, nor keep the wheat alive.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ DISCONTENT
+
+THE man who’s discontented, whose temper’s always frayed, who keeps his
+shanty scented with words that are decayed, would do as much complaining
+if all the gods on high upon his head were raining ambrosia, gold, and
+pie. The man who busts his gallus because his house is cheap, would rant
+if in a palace he could high wassail keep. The vexed and vapid voter who
+throws a frequent fit because his neighbors motor while he must hit the
+grit, would have as many worries, his soul would wear its scars, if he
+had seven surreys and twenty motor cars. The man who earns his living by
+toiling in the ditch, whose heart is unforgiving toward the idle rich,
+who hates his lot so humble, his meal of bread and cheese, would go
+ahead and grumble on downy beds of ease. Contentment is a jewel that
+some wear in the breast, and life cannot be cruel so long as it’s
+possessed! This gem makes all things proper, the owner smiles and sings;
+it may adorn a pauper, and be denied to kings.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SILVER THREADS
+
+LIFE is fading fast away, silver threads are on my brow; will you love
+me when I’m gray, as you love me now, my frau? Will you love me when I’m
+old, and my temper’s on the blink, and I sit around and scold till I
+drive the folks to drink? When I have the rheumatiz, and lumbago, and
+repeat, and the cusswords fairly sizz as I nurse my swollen feet; when a
+crutch I have to use, since my trilbys are so lame that they will not
+fit my shoes, will you love me just the same? When the gout infests my
+toes, and all vanished are my charms, will you kiss me on the nose, will
+you clasp me in your arms? Silver threads are in the gold, life will
+soon have run its lease; I’d be glad if I were told that your love will
+still increase when my high ambition fails, and my hopes are all
+unstrung, and I tell my tiresome tales of the days when I was young;
+when I sit around the shack making loud and dismal moan, of the stitches
+in my back, and my aching collar bone; when the asthma racks my chest so
+I cannot speak a word, will you fold me to your breast, saying I’m your
+honeybird? When I’m palsied, stiff and sere, when I’m weary of the game,
+tell me, O Jemima dear, will you love me just the same?
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ MOVING ON
+
+WE foolish folk are discontented with things where’er we chance to
+dwell. “The air,” we say, “is sweeter scented in some far distant dale
+or dell.” And so we pull up stakes and travel to seek the fair and
+promised land, and find our Canaan is but gravel, a wilderness of rocks
+and sand. “Across the hills the fields are greener,” we murmur, “and the
+view more fair; the water of the brooks is cleaner, and fish grow larger
+over there.” And so we leave our pleasant valley, from all our loving
+friends we part, and o’er the stony hills we sally, to reach a land that
+breaks the heart. “There’s gold in plenty over yonder,” we say, “and we
+shall seek the mines.” Then from our cheerful homes we wander, far from
+our fig trees and our vines; a little while our dreams we cherish, and
+think that we can never fail; but, tired at last, we drop and perish,
+and leave our bones upon the trail. How happy is the man whose nature
+permits him to enjoy his home, who, till compelled by legislature,
+declines in paths afar to roam! There is no region better, fairer, than
+that home region that you know; there are no zephyrs sweeter, rarer,
+than those which through your galways blow.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE OLD PRAYER
+
+WHEN the evening shadows fall, oftentimes do I recall other evenings,
+far away, when, aweary of my play, I would climb on granny’s knee (long
+since gone to sleep has she), clasp my hands and bow my head, while the
+simple lines I said, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my
+soul to keep.” Journeyed long have I since then, in this sad, gray world
+of men; I have seen with aching heart, comrades to their rest depart;
+friends have left me, one by one, for the shores beyond the sun. Still
+the Youth enraptured sings, and the world with gladness rings, but the
+faces I have known all are gone, and I’m alone. All alone, amid the
+throng, I, who’ve lived and journeyed long. Loneliness and sighs and
+tears are the wages of the years. Who would dread the journey’s end,
+when he lives without a friend? Now the sun of life sinks low; in a
+little while I’ll go where my friends and comrades wait for me by the
+jasper gate. Though the way be cold and stark, I shall murmur, in the
+dark, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ INTO THE SUNLIGHT
+
+OH cut out the vain repining, cease thinking of dole and doom! Come out
+where the sun is shining, come out of the cave of gloom! Come out of
+your hole and borrow a package of joy from me, and say to your secret
+sorrow, “I’ve no longer use for thee!” For troubles, which are deluding,
+are timorous beasts, I say; they stick to the gent who’s brooding, and
+flee from the gent who’s gay. The gateways of Eldorados are open, all
+o’er the earth; come out of the House of Shadows, and dwell in the House
+of Mirth. From Boston to far Bobcaygeon the banners of gladness float;
+oh, grief is a rank contagion, and mirth is the antidote. And most of
+our woes would perish, or leave us, on sable wings, if only we didn’t
+cherish and coddle the blame fool things. Long since would your woes
+have scampered away to their native fogs, but they have been fed and
+pampered like poodles or hairless dogs. And all of these facts should
+teach you it’s wise to be bright and gay; come out where the breeze can
+reach you, and blow all your grief away.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ BLEAK DAYS
+
+THE clouds are gray and grim today, the winds are sadly sighing; it
+seems like fall, and over all a sheet of gloom is lying. The dreary rain
+beats on the pane, and sounds a note of sorrow; but what’s the odds? The
+genial gods will bring us joy tomorrow. We have the mumps, the doctor
+humps himself around to cure it; we’re on the blink and often think we
+simply can’t endure it; to all who list we groan, I wist, and tell a
+hard-luck story; but why be vexed? Week after next we’ll all be
+hunkydory. The neighbor folks are tiresome blokes, they bore us and
+annoy us; with such folks near it’s amply clear that no one can be
+joyous; things would improve if they would move—we really do not need
+them; but let’s be gay! They’ll move away, and worse ones will succeed
+them. The world seems sad, sometimes, my lad, and life is a disaster;
+but do not roar; for every sore tomorrow brings a plaster. The fool, he
+kicks against the pricks, all optimism scorning; the wise man goes his
+way—he knows joy cometh in the morning.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE GIVERS
+
+THE great, fine men are oft obscure; they have no wide, resounding fame,
+that experts warrant to endure until the finish of the game. Old
+Clinkenbeard is such a man, and though he has no store of yen, he’s
+always doing what he can to help along his fellowmen. He has no millions
+to disburse, but when he meets a hungry guy, he digs a quarter from his
+purse, which buys the sinkers and the pie. The gifts of bloated
+millionaires mean nothing of a sacrifice; they sit around in easy chairs
+and count the scads they have on ice; if Croesus gives ten thousand
+bucks to help some college off the rocks, he still can have his wine and
+ducks—he has ten million in his box. The widow’s mite, I do not doubt,
+in heaven made a bigger splash than shekels Pharisees shelled out from
+their large wads of ill-gained cash. And so the poor man, when he breaks
+the only William in his pants, to buy some widow tea and cakes, is
+making angels sing and dance. In fertile soil he’s sowing seeds, and he
+shall reap a rich reward; for he who gives the coin he needs, is surely
+lending to the Lord.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ GOOD OLD DAYS
+
+HOW I regret the good old days, and all the pleasant, happy ways now
+perished from the earth! No more the worn breadwinner sings, no more the
+cottage rooftree rings with sounds of hearty mirth. The good old days!
+The cheerful nights! We had then no electric lights, but oil lamps
+flared and smoked; and now and then they would explode and blow the
+shanty ’cross the road, and sometimes victims croaked. The windows had
+no window screens, there were no books or magazines to make our morals
+lame; we used to sit ’round in the dark while father talked of Noah’s
+ark until our bedtime came. No furnace or steam heating plant would make
+the cold air gallivant; a fireplace kept us warm; the house was full of
+flying soot and burning brands, and smoke to boot, whene’er there was a
+storm. No telephones then made men curse; if with a neighbor you’d
+converse, you hoofed it fourteen miles; the girl who wished to be a
+belle believed that she was doing well if she knew last year’s styles.
+There’ll never be such days as those, when people wore no underclothes,
+and beds were stuffed with hay, when paper collars were the rage—oh,
+dear, delightful bygone age, when we were young and gay!
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ THE RAIN
+
+THE clouds are banked up overhead, the thunder rips and roars; the
+lightning hits old Jimpson’s shed, and now the torrent pours. The crazy
+hens get wet and mad, the ducks rejoice and quack; the patient cow looks
+pretty sad, and humps her bony back; the hired man, driven from the
+field, for shelter swiftly hies; old Pluvius can surely wield the faucet
+when he tries. In half an hour the rain is done, the growling thunder
+stops, and once again the good old sun is warming up the crops. In half
+an hour more good is wrought to every human cause, than all our
+statesmen ever brought by passing helpful laws. Old Pluvius sends down
+the juice, when he’s blown off the foam, and once again high hangs the
+goose in every happy home. Not all the armies of the earth, nor fleets
+that sail the main, can bring us prizes which are worth a half-hour’s
+honest rain. No prophet with his tongue or pen, no poet with his lyre,
+can, like the rain, bring joy to men, or answer their desire. The
+sunflowers have new lease of life, the johnnie-jumpups jump. Now I must
+go and help my wife to prime the cistern pump.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ SOMETHING TO DO
+
+OH, ye who complain of the grind, remember these words (which are
+true!): The dreariest job one can find is looking for something to do!
+Sometimes, when my work seems a crime, and I’m sorely tempted to sob, I
+think of the long vanished time when I was out hunting a job. I walked
+eighty miles every day, and climbed forty thousand high stairs, and
+people would shoo me away, and pelt me with inkstands and chairs. And
+then, when the evening grew dark, I knew naught of comfort or ease; I
+made me a bed in the park, for supper chewed bark from the trees. I
+looked through the windows at men who tackled their oysters and squabs,
+and probably grumbled again because they were tired of their jobs. And I
+was out there in the rain, with nothing to eat but my shoe, and filled
+with a maddening pain because I had nothing to do. And now when I’m
+tempted to raise the grand hailing sign of distress, I think of those
+sorrowful days, and then I feel better, I guess. I go at my labors again
+with energy vital and new, and say, as I toil in my den, “Thank God, I
+have something to do!”
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ INDUSTRY
+
+HOW doth the busy little bee improve each shining hour! It honey takes
+from every tree, and keeps it till it’s sour. Ah, nothing hinders,
+nothing queers its labors here below; it does not always cock its ears,
+to hear the whistle blow. Wherever honey is on tap, you see the bumbler
+climb; for shorter hours it doesn’t scrap, nor charge for overtime. It’s
+on the wing the livelong day, from rise to set of sun, and when at eve
+it hits the hay, no chore is left undone. And when the bumblers are
+possessed of honey by the pound, bad boys come up and swat their nest,
+and knock it to the ground. The store they gathered day by day has
+vanished in a breath, and so the bees exclaim, “Foul play!” and sting
+themselves to death. There is no sense in making work a gospel and a
+creed, in thinking every hour will spoil that knows no useful deed. No
+use competing with the sun, and making life a strain; for bees—and
+boys—must have some fun if they’d be safe and sane.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ WET WEATHER
+
+ALL spring the rain came down amain, and rills grew into rivers; the
+bullfrogs croaked that they were soaked till mildewed were their livers.
+The fish were drowned, and in a swound reclined the muskrat’s daughter,
+and e’en the snakes, in swamps and brakes, hissed forth “There’s too
+much water!” And all my greens, the peas and beans, that I with toil had
+planted, a sickly host, gave up the ghost, the while I raved and ranted.
+The dew of doom hit spuds in bloom, and slew the tender onion; I viewed
+the wreck, and said, “By heck!” and other things from Bunyan. All greens
+of worth drooped to the earth, and died and went to thunder; but useless
+weeds all went to seeds—no rain could keep them under. When weather’s
+dry, and in the sky a red-hot sun is burning, it gets the goats of corn
+and oats, the wheat to wastage turning; the carrots shrink, and on the
+blink you see the parsnips lying, but weeds still thrive and keep alive,
+while useful things are dying. It’s strange and sad that critters bad,
+both veg’table and human, hang on so tight, while critters bright must
+perish when they’re bloomin’!
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+ AFTER STORM
+
+THE wind has blown the clouds away, and now we have a perfect day, the
+sun is sawing wood; we jog along ’neath smiling skies, the sounds of
+grief no more arise, and every gent feels good. Life seems a most
+delightful graft when nature once again has laughed, dismissing clouds
+and gloom; we find new charms in Mother Earth, our faces beam with
+seemly mirth, our whiskers are in bloom. That is the use of dreary days,
+on which we’re all inclined to raise a yell of bitter grief; they fill
+us up with woe and dread, so when the gloomy clouds are sped, we’ll feel
+a big relief. That is the use of every care that fills your system with
+despair, and rends your heart in twain; for when you see your sorrow
+waltz, you’ll turn three hundred somersaults, and say life’s safe and
+sane. If there was not a sign of woe in all this verdant vale below,
+life soon would lose its zest, and you would straightway roar and beef
+because you couldn’t find a grief to cuddle to your breast. So sunshine
+follows after storm, and snow succeeds the weather warm, and we have fog
+and sleet; all sorts of days are sliding past, and when we size things
+up at last, we see life can’t be beat.
+
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+ ● Transcriber’s Notes:
+ ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
+ ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
+ ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
+ when a predominant form was found in this book.
+ ○ Text that:
+ was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);.
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “HORSE SENSE” IN VERSES TENSE ***
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+ </head>
+ <body>
+
+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of “Horse Sense” in Verses Tense, by Walt Mason</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+
+<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: “Horse Sense” in Verses Tense</p>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Walt Mason</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 26, 2021 [eBook #66385]</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Richard Hulse, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div>
+
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “HORSE SENSE” IN VERSES TENSE ***</div>
+
+<div class='figcenter id001'>
+<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_I'>I</span>
+ <h1 class='c001'>“HORSE SENSE” in Verses Tense</h1>
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_II'>II</span>
+<img src='images/titlepage.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c003'>
+ <div><span class='c004'>CONCERNING WALT</span></div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<hr class='c005' />
+<p class='c006'>Walt Mason is the Aesop of our day, but his fables are of
+men, not animals.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>Collier’s Weekly.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>Much of Walt Mason’s poetry is of universal interest.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>London Citizen.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>Walt Mason’s poetry is in a class by itself.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>William Jennings Bryan.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>Walt’s poems always have sound morals, and they are easy
+to take.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>Rev. Charles W. Gordon.</i></div>
+<div class='c007'>(<i>Ralph Connor.</i>)</div>
+<p class='c008'>His satires come with stinging force to the American people.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>Sunday School Times.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>Why do people ever write any other kind of books, unless
+because no one else can write Walt Mason’s kind?</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>William Dean Howells.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>His is an extraordinary faculty, surely God-given. Many
+a world-weary one, refreshed at the fount where his poetry
+plays, says deep down in his heart, “God bless Walt Mason!”</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>Seumas MacManus.</i></div>
+<p class='c008'>Walt Mason’s contributions to the Chronicle have attracted
+the attention of English readers by their originality and expressiveness,
+and have brought him letters from Mr. John
+Masefield and many others. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle regards
+him as one of the quaintest and most original humorists
+America has ever produced.</p>
+<div class='c007'>—<i>London Chronicle.</i></div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='figcenter id001'>
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_IV'>IV</span>
+<img src='images/ia004.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+<div class='ic002'>
+<p>The author as “Zim” sees him</p>
+</div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_V'>V</span><span class='c010'>“<span class='sc'>Horse Sense</span>”</span></div>
+ <div class='c000'><span class='c011'>IN VERSES TENSE</span></div>
+ <div class='c000'>──────</div>
+ <div class='c000'><span class='c011'>by <i>Walt Mason</i></span></div>
+ <div class='c000'>──────</div>
+ <div class='c009'>Walt Mason is the High Priest of Horse Sense.</div>
+ <div>—George Ade</div>
+ <div class='c002'>Chicago</div>
+ <div><em class='gesperrt'>A·C·M<sup>c</sup>CLURG & CO·</em></div>
+ <div>1915</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_VI'>VI</span>Copyright</div>
+ <div>A. C. McClurg & Co.</div>
+ <div>1915</div>
+ <div class='c009'>─────</div>
+ <div>Published September, 1915</div>
+ <div>─────</div>
+ <div class='c009'>Copyrighted in Great Britain</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c012'>For permission to use copyright poems in this book thanks
+are extended to George Matthew Adams, and to the editors
+and publishers of <i>Judge</i>, <i>Collier’s Weekly</i>, <i>System</i>, the
+<i>Magazine of Business</i>, <i>Domestic Engineering</i>, the
+<i>Butler Way</i>, and <i>Curtis Service</i>.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_VII'>VII</span><span class='c011'><i>To</i></span></div>
+ <div><span class='c011'>SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE</span></div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_VIII'>VIII</span>CHRISTMAS GIFT</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='lg-container-b c013'>
+ <div class='linegroup'>
+ <div class='group'>
+ <div class='line'>The gift itself is not so much—</div>
+ <div class='line'>Perhaps you’ve had a dozen such;</div>
+ <div class='line'>Its value, when reduced to gold,</div>
+ <div class='line'>May seem too trifling to be told;</div>
+ <div class='line'>But someone, loving, kind, and true,</div>
+ <div class='line'>Selected it—and thought of You.</div>
+ <div class='line'>The gift may have a hollow ring—</div>
+ <div class='line'>The love behind it is the thing!</div>
+ </div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c002'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_IX'>IX</span>FROM SIR HUBERT</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c008'>I read Walt Mason with great delight. His
+poems have wonderful fun and kindliness, and I
+have enjoyed them the more for their having so
+strongly all the qualities I liked so much in my
+American friends when I was living in the United
+States.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I don’t know any book which has struck me as
+so genuine a voice of the American nature.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I am glad that his work is gaining a wider and
+wider recognition.</p>
+<div class='c007'>John Masefield</div>
+<div class='lg-container-l c014'>
+ <div class='linegroup'>
+ <div class='group'>
+ <div class='line'><i>13 Well Walk, Hampstead,</i></div>
+ <div class='line in6'><i>London</i></div>
+ </div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div class='chapter'>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_xi'>xi</span>
+ <h2 class='c015'>GUIDE TO CONTENTS</h2>
+</div>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>A</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>At the Finish, <a href='#Page_19'>19</a>. At the End, <a href='#Page_53'>53</a>. After
+Us, <a href='#Page_67'>67</a>. Ambitions, <a href='#Page_77'>77</a>. Approach of
+Spring, <a href='#Page_167'>167</a>. After Storm, <a href='#Page_188'>188</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>B</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Backbone, <a href='#Page_28'>28</a>. Beautiful Things, <a href='#Page_43'>43</a>. Bard in
+the Woods, The, <a href='#Page_101'>101</a>. Be Joyful, <a href='#Page_134'>134</a>.
+Brown October Ale, <a href='#Page_136'>136</a>. Bystander,
+The, <a href='#Page_154'>154</a>. Bleak Days, <a href='#Page_180'>180</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>C</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Clucking Hen, The, <a href='#Page_1'>1</a>. Christmas Recipe, <a href='#Page_11'>11</a>.
+Coming Day, The, <a href='#Page_21'>21</a>. Clouds, <a href='#Page_42'>42</a>. Cotter’s
+Saturday Night, <a href='#Page_50'>50</a>. “Charge It,”
+61. Croaker, The, <a href='#Page_63'>63</a>. Choosing a Bride,
+66. Christmas Musings, <a href='#Page_79'>79</a>. Crooks,
+The, <a href='#Page_115'>115</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>D</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Doing Things Right, <a href='#Page_32'>32</a>. Down and Out, <a href='#Page_60'>60</a>.
+Difference, The, <a href='#Page_94'>94</a>. Dolorous Way,</p>
+
+<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xii'>xii</span>The, <a href='#Page_119'>119</a>. Dreamers and Workers, <a href='#Page_127'>127</a>.
+Deliver Us, <a href='#Page_137'>137</a>. Doing One’s Best, <a href='#Page_138'>138</a>.
+Doughnuts, <a href='#Page_165'>165</a>. Discontent, <a href='#Page_173'>173</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>F</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Fatigue, <a href='#Page_4'>4</a>. Fortune Teller, The, <a href='#Page_73'>73</a>. Fletcherism,
+158. Father Time, <a href='#Page_159'>159</a>. Field Perils,
+160. Friend Bullsnake, <a href='#Page_164'>164</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>G</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Grandmother, <a href='#Page_14'>14</a>. Great Game, The, <a href='#Page_17'>17</a>. Generosity,
+27. Garden of Dreams, <a href='#Page_41'>41</a>. Gold
+Bricks, <a href='#Page_74'>74</a>. Good and Evil, <a href='#Page_135'>135</a>. Going
+to School, <a href='#Page_146'>146</a>. Girl Graduate, The, <a href='#Page_153'>153</a>.
+Good Die Young, The, <a href='#Page_172'>172</a>. Givers, The,
+181. Good Old Days, <a href='#Page_182'>182</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>H</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Home, Sweet Home, <a href='#Page_8'>8</a>. Homeless, <a href='#Page_47'>47</a>. Happy
+Home, The, <a href='#Page_48'>48</a>. Harvest Hand, The,
+70. Hospitality, <a href='#Page_88'>88</a>. Hon. Croesus Explains,
+89.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>I</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Iron Men, The, <a href='#Page_34'>34</a>. In Old Age, <a href='#Page_46'>46</a>. Immortal
+Santa, <a href='#Page_96'>96</a>. In the Spring, <a href='#Page_132'>132</a>.
+Idlers, The, <a href='#Page_141'>141</a>. Idle Rich, The, <a href='#Page_144'>144</a>.</p>
+
+<p class='c018'><span class='pageno' id='Page_xiii'>xiii</span>Ill Wind, The, <a href='#Page_166'>166</a>. Into the Sunlight,
+179. Industry, <a href='#Page_186'>186</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>J</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Joy Cometh, <a href='#Page_161'>161</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>L</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Looking Forward, <a href='#Page_120'>120</a>. Little While, A, <a href='#Page_139'>139</a>.
+Literature, <a href='#Page_142'>142</a>. Living Too Long, <a href='#Page_162'>162</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>M</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Milkman, The, <a href='#Page_2'>2</a>. Man Wanted, The, <a href='#Page_55'>55</a>.
+Mad World, A, <a href='#Page_57'>57</a>. Mañana, <a href='#Page_91'>91</a>. Men
+Behind, The, <a href='#Page_98'>98</a>. Mr. Chucklehead, <a href='#Page_130'>130</a>.
+Misrepresentation, <a href='#Page_148'>148</a>. Man of Grief,
+149. Melancholy Days, <a href='#Page_150'>150</a>. Might Be
+Worse, <a href='#Page_151'>151</a>. Moderately Good, <a href='#Page_152'>152</a>.
+Medicine Hat, <a href='#Page_156'>156</a>. Moving On, <a href='#Page_176'>176</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>N</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Night is Coming, <a href='#Page_31'>31</a>. Nursing Grief, <a href='#Page_143'>143</a>.
+Not Worth While, <a href='#Page_147'>147</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>O</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Old Maids, <a href='#Page_10'>10</a>. Old Man, The, <a href='#Page_12'>12</a>. Old
+Album, The, <a href='#Page_109'>109</a>. On the Bridge, <a href='#Page_129'>129</a>.
+Old Prayer, The, <a href='#Page_178'>178</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_xiv'>xiv</span>P</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Poor Work, <a href='#Page_9'>9</a>. Poorhouse, The, <a href='#Page_30'>30</a>. Procrastination,
+36. Punctuality, <a href='#Page_58'>58</a>. Prodigal
+Son, The, <a href='#Page_87'>87</a>. Polite Man, The, <a href='#Page_122'>122</a>.
+Planting a Tree, <a href='#Page_126'>126</a>. Passing the Hat,
+145.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>R</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Rural Mail, The, <a href='#Page_7'>7</a>. Right Side Up, <a href='#Page_33'>33</a>. Regular
+Hours, <a href='#Page_125'>125</a>. Rain, The, <a href='#Page_184'>184</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>S</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Spring Remedies, <a href='#Page_5'>5</a>. Salting Them Down, <a href='#Page_22'>22</a>.
+Success in Life, <a href='#Page_24'>24</a>. Shut-In, The, <a href='#Page_45'>45</a>.
+Some of the Poor, <a href='#Page_69'>69</a>. Shoveling Coal,
+93. Sticking to It, <a href='#Page_105'>105</a>. Seeing the
+World, <a href='#Page_121'>121</a>. Spring Sickness, <a href='#Page_128'>128</a>.
+Studying Books, <a href='#Page_169'>169</a>. Stranger than Fiction,
+171. Silver Threads, <a href='#Page_174'>174</a>. Something
+to Do, <a href='#Page_185'>185</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>T</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Tornado, The, <a href='#Page_16'>16</a>. True Happiness, <a href='#Page_26'>26</a>. Timbertoes,
+37. Thankless Job, <a href='#Page_38'>38</a>. Travelers,
+44. Two Salesmen, The, <a href='#Page_85'>85</a>. “Thanks,”
+107. Tramp, The, <a href='#Page_117'>117</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_xv'>xv</span>U</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Undertaker, The, <a href='#Page_39'>39</a>. Unhappy Home, The,
+49. Unconquered, <a href='#Page_123'>123</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>V</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Vagabond, The, <a href='#Page_20'>20</a>. Values, <a href='#Page_103'>103</a>.</p>
+
+<div class='nf-center-c0'>
+<div class='nf-center c016'>
+ <div>W</div>
+ </div>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c017'>Winter Night, <a href='#Page_13'>13</a>. What’s the Use? 54.
+What I’d Do, <a href='#Page_71'>71</a>. Way of a Man, The,
+82. War and Peace, <a href='#Page_112'>112</a>. Wet Weather,
+187.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE CLUCKING HEN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and
+round the yard she claws and picks, and
+toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden
+fence, and watch that hen of little sense, whose
+intellect is wrong. She is the most important hen
+that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort
+made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the
+whole blamed universe would spoil, its institutions
+fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task; she might
+as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year;
+one incubator from the store would bring forth
+better chicks and more than fifty hens could rear.
+She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down
+to tacks and lay some eggs, which bring the valued
+bucks; but, in her vain perverted way, she
+says, “I’m derned if I will lay,” and hands out
+foolish clucks. And many men are just the
+same; they play some idle, trifling game, and
+think they’re sawing wood; they hate the work
+that’s in demand, the jobs that count they cannot
+stand, and all their toil’s no good.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE MILKMAN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE milkman goes his weary way before
+the rising of the sun; he earns a hundred
+bones a day, and often takes in less than one.
+While lucky people snore and drowse, and bask
+in dreams of rare delight, he takes a stool and
+milks his cows, about the middle of the night.
+If you have milked an old red cow, humped
+o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her swat you
+on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll
+know the milkman ought to get a plunk for
+every pint he sells; he earns his pay in blood
+and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells.
+As through the city streets he goes, he has to
+sound his brazen gong, and people wake up
+from their doze, and curse him as he goes along.
+He has to stagger through the snow when others
+stay at home and snore; and through the rain
+he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door.
+Through storm and flood and sun and rain, the
+milkman goes upon the jump, and all his customers
+complain, and make allusions to his pump.
+Because one milkman milks the creek, instead of
+milking spotted cows, against the whole brave
+tribe we kick, and stir up everlasting rows. Yet
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>patiently they go their way, distributing their
+healthful juice, and what they do not get in
+pay, they have to take out in abuse.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>FATIGUE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>FROM day to day we sell our whey, our
+nutmegs, nails or cotton, and oft we sigh,
+as hours drag by, “This sort of life is rotten!
+The dreary game is e’er the same, no respite or
+diversion; oh, how we long to join the throng
+on some outdoor excursion! On eager feet,
+along the street, more lucky folks are hiking,
+while we must stay and sell our hay—it’s little
+to our liking!” Those going by perhaps will
+sigh, “This work we do is brutal; all day we
+hike along the pike, and all our work is futile.
+It would be sweet to leave the street and own
+a nice trade palace, and sell rolled oats to
+human goats, it would, so help me Alice!” All
+o’er this sphere the briny tear is shed by people
+weary, who’d like to quit their jobs and flit to
+other tasks more dreary. We envy folks who
+wear their yokes, and tote a bigger burden, we
+swear and sweat and fume and fret, and oft
+forget the guerdon. There is no lot entirely
+fraught with happiness and glory; if you are
+sore the man next door can tell as sad a story.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SPRING REMEDIES</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>“THIS is the time,” the doctors say, “when
+people need our bitters; the sunny, languid,
+vernal day is hard on human critters.
+They’re always feeling tired and stale, their
+blood is thick and sluggish, and so they ought
+to blow their kale for pills and potions druggish.”
+And, being told we’re in a plight, we
+swallow dope in rivers, to get our kidneys acting
+right, and jack up rusty livers. We pour down
+tea of sassafras, as ordered by the sawbones, and
+chewing predigested grass, we exercise our jawbones.
+We swallow pints of purple pills, and
+fool with costly drenches, to drive away imagined
+ills and pipe-dream aches and wrenches.
+And if we’d only take the spade, and dig the
+fertile gumbo, the ghost of sickness would be
+laid, and we’d be strong as Jumbo. Of perfect
+health, that precious boon, we’d have refreshing
+glimpses, if we would toil each afternoon
+out where the jimpson jimpses. There’s
+medicine in azure skies, and sunshine is a wonder;
+more cures are wrought by exercise than by
+all bottled thunder. So let’s forsake the closed
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>up room, and hoe weeds cockle-burrish, where
+elderberry bushes bloom, and juniorberries
+flourish.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE RURAL MAIL</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>A FIERCE and bitter storm’s abroad, it is
+a bleak midwinter day, and slowly o’er the
+frozen sod the postman’s pony picks its way.
+The postman and his horse are cold, but fearlessly
+they face the gale; though storms increase
+a hundredfold, the farmer folk must have their
+mail. The hours drag on, the lonely road
+grows rougher with each mile that’s past, the
+weary pony feels its load, and staggers in the
+shrieking blast. But man and horse strive on
+the more; they never learned such word as fail;
+though tempests beat and torrents pour, the
+farmer folk must have their mail. At night the
+pony, to its shed, drags on its cold, exhausted
+frame; and after supper, to his bed, the wearied
+postman does the same. Tomorrow brings the
+same old round, the same exhausting, thankless
+grind—the journey over frozen ground, the facing
+of the bitter wind. The postman does a
+hero’s stunt to earn his scanty roll of kale; of
+all the storms he bears the brunt—the farmer
+folk must have their mail!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>HOME, SWEET HOME</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was,
+in olden days, before the people learned
+to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances
+and such things, to skating on a floor; and now
+the youthful laughter rings within the Home no
+more. You will recall, old men and dames,
+the homes of long ago, and you’ll recall the
+fireside games the children used to know. The
+neighbors’ kids would come along with your own
+kids to play, and merry as a bridal song the
+evening passed away. An evening spent away
+from home in olden days was rare; the children
+hadn’t learned to roam for pleasure everywhere.
+But now your house is but a shell where children
+sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very
+well—their home is on the street. Their
+home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime
+music flows; their noon’s the middle of the
+night, their friends are—Lord, who knows?
+The windows of your home are dark, and silence
+broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save
+the mark! ’Tis but a sty or stall!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>POOR WORK</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>YOU can’t afford to do poor work, so,
+therefore, always shun it; for no excuse or
+quip or quirk will square you when you’ve done
+it. I hired a man to paint my cow from horntips
+to the udder, and she’s all blotched and spotted
+now, and people view and shudder. “Who
+did the job?” they always ask; and when I
+say, “Jim Yellow,” they cry, “When we have
+such a task we’ll hire some other fellow.” And
+so Jim idly stands and swows bad luck has
+made him nervous, for when the people paint
+their cows they do not ask his service. And
+thus one’s reputation flows, a-skiting, here and
+yonder; and wheresoe’er the workman goes, his
+bum renown will wander. ’Twill face him like
+an evil ghost when he his best is doing, and jolt
+him where it hurts the most, and still keep on
+pursuing. A good renown will travel, too, from
+Gotham to Empory, and make you friends in
+places new, and bring you cash and glory. So
+always do your best, old hunks; let nothing be
+neglected, and you will gather in the plunks,
+and live and die respected.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>OLD MAIDS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>ALL girls should marry when they can.
+There’s naught more useful than a man.
+A husband has some faults, no doubt, and yet
+he’s good to have about; and she who doesn’t
+get a mate will wish she had one, soon or late.
+That girl is off her base, I fear, who plans to
+have a high career, who sidesteps vows and
+wedding rings to follow after abstract things. I
+know so many ancient maids who in professions,
+arts or trades have tried to cut a manlike swath,
+and old age finds them in the broth. A loneliness,
+as of the tomb, enshrouds the spinsters in
+its gloom; the jim crow honors they have won
+they’d sell at seven cents a ton. Their sun is
+sinking in the West, and they, unloved and uncaressed,
+must envy, as they bleakly roam, the
+girl with husband, hearth, and home. Get married,
+then, Jemima dear; don’t fiddle with a
+cheap career. Select a man who’s true and
+good, whose head is not composed of wood, a
+man who’s sound in wind and limb, then round
+him up and marry him. Oh, rush him to the
+altar rail, nor heed his protest or his wail. “This
+is,” you’ll say, when he’s been won, “the best
+day’s work I’ve ever done.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>CHRISTMAS RECIPE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>MAKE somebody happy today! Each
+morning that motto repeat, and life, that
+was gloomy and gray, at once becomes pleasant
+and sweet. No odds what direction you go,
+whatever the pathway you wend, there’s somebody
+weary of woe, there’s somebody sick for
+a friend; there’s somebody needing a guide, some
+pilgrim who’s wandered astray; oh, don’t let
+your help be denied—make somebody happy
+today! There’s somebody tired of the strife,
+the wearisome struggle for bread, borne down
+by the burden of life, and envying those who
+are dead; a little encouragement now may drive
+his dark visions away, and smooth out a seam
+from his brow—make somebody happy today!
+There’s somebody sick over there, where sunlight
+is shut from the room; there’s somebody
+deep in despair, beholding no light in the gloom;
+there’s somebody needing your aid, your solace,
+wherever you stray; then let not your help be
+delayed—make somebody happy today. Make
+somebody happy today, some comfort and sympathy
+give, and Christmas shall ne’er go away,
+but always and ever shall live.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE OLD MAN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>BE kind to your daddy, O gamboling youth;
+his feet are now sluggish and cold; intent
+on your pleasures, you don’t see the truth, which
+is that your dad’s growing old. Ah, once he
+could whip forty bushels of snakes, but now he
+is spavined and lame; his joints are all rusty
+and tortured with aches, and weary and worn
+is his frame. He toiled and he slaved like a
+government mule to see that his kids had a
+chance; he fed them and clothed them and sent
+them to school, rejoiced when he marked their
+advance. The landscape is moist with the billows
+of sweat he cheerfully shed as he toiled,
+to bring up his children and keep out of debt,
+and see that the home kettle boiled. He dressed
+in old duds that his Mary and Jake might bloom
+like the roses in June, and oft when you swallowed
+your porterhouse steak, your daddy was
+chewing a prune. And now that he’s worn by
+his burden of care, just show you are worth all
+he did; look out for his comfort, and hand him
+his chair, and hang up his slicker and lid.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>WINTER NIGHT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HAIL, Winter and wild weather, when we
+are all together, about the glowing fire!
+Let frost be e’er so stinging, it can’t disturb our
+singing, nor can the Storm King’s ire. The
+winds may madly mosey, they only make more
+cozy the home where we abide; the snow may
+drift in billows, but we have downy pillows, and
+good warm beds inside. The night indeed has
+terrors for lonely, lost wayfarers who for assistance
+call; who pray for lights to guide them—the
+lights that are denied them—may God
+protect them all! And to the poor who grovel
+in wretched hut and hovel, and feel its icy
+breath, who mark the long hours dragging their
+footsteps slow and lagging, the night seems kin
+to Death. For cheery homes be grateful, when
+Winter, fierce and fateful, comes shrieking in
+the night; for books and easy rockers, for larders
+filled and lockers, and all the warmth and light.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GRANDMOTHER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OLD granny sits serene and knits and talks
+of bygone ages, when she was young; and
+from her tongue there comes the truth of sages.
+“In vanished years,” she says, “my dears, the
+girls were nice and modest, and they were shy,
+and didn’t try to see whose wit was broadest.
+In cushioned nooks they read their books, and
+loved the poets’ lilting; with eager paws they
+helped their mas at cooking and at quilting.
+The maidens then would shy at men and keep
+them at a distance, and each new sport who
+came to court was sure to meet resistance. The
+girls were flowers that bloomed in bowers remote
+from worldly clamor, and when I view the
+modern crew they give me katzenjammer. The
+girls were sweet and trim and neat, as fair as
+hothouse lilies, and when I scan the modern clan
+I surely have the willies. Refinement fades
+when modern maids come forth in all their glory;
+their hats are freaks, their costume shrieks, their
+nerve is hunkydory. They waste the night and
+in daylight they’re doctoring and drugging; when
+they don’t go to picture show, they’re busy
+bunny-hugging.” Then granny takes her pipe
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>and breaks some plug tobacco in it, and smokes
+and smokes till mother chokes and runs out
+doors a minute.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE TORNADO</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WE people infesting this excellent planet
+emotions of pride in our victories feel;
+we put up our buildings of brick and of granite,
+equip them with trusses and bastions of steel.
+Regarding the fruit of our earnest endeavor, we
+cheerily boast as we weave through the town:
+“A building like that one will stand there forever,
+for fire can’t destroy it nor wind blow it
+down.” Behold, as we’re boasting there falls
+a dun shadow; the harvester Death is abroad for
+his sheaves, and, tumbled and tossed by the
+roaring tornado, the man and his building are
+crumpled like leaves. And then there are dead
+men in windrows to shock us, and scattered and
+gone are the homes where they died; a pathway
+of ruin and wreckage to mock us, and show us
+how futile and vain is our pride. We’re apt to,
+when planning and building and striving, forget
+we are mortals and think we are gods; and then
+when the lord of the tempest is driving, his
+wheels break us up with the rest of the clods.
+Like ants we are busy, all proud and defiant,
+constructing a home on the face of the lawn;
+and now comes the step of a wandering giant;
+it crushes our anthill, and then it is gone.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE GREAT GAME</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE pitcher is pitching, the batsman is itching
+to punish the ball in the old-fashioned
+way; the umpire is umping, the fielders are
+humping—we’re playing baseball in our village
+today! Two thousand mad creatures are
+perched on the bleachers, the grand stand is full
+and the fences the same, the old and the youthful,
+the false and the truthful, the plain and
+the lovely are watching the game. The groaning
+taxpayers are watching the players, forgetting
+a while all their burdens and wrongs, and
+landlord and tenant are saying the pennant will
+come to this town where it surely belongs. The
+lounger and toiler, the spoiled and the spoiler,
+are whooping together like boys at the fair; and
+foes of long standing as one are demanding the
+blood of the umpire, his hide and his hair. The
+game is progressing, now punk and distressing—our
+boys are all rattled, the audience groans!
+But see how they rally—O, scorer, keep tally!
+We’ll win at the finish, I’ll bet seven bones!
+The long game is ended, we fans have all
+wended back, back to our labors, our cares and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>our joys, once more grave and steady—and
+yet ever ready to stake a few plunks on our own
+bunch of boys!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>AT THE FINISH</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OH say, what is this thing called Fame, and
+is it worth our while? We seek it till
+we’re old and lame, for weary mile on mile;
+we seek a gem among the hay, for wheat among
+the chaff; and in the end some heartless jay
+will write our epitaph. The naked facts it will
+relate, and little else beside: “This man was
+born on such a date, on such a date he died.”
+The gravestones in the boneyard tell all we shall
+ever know of men who struggled passing well
+for glory, long ago. They had their iridescent
+schemes and lived to see them fail; they had
+their dreams, as you have dreams, and all of no
+avail. The gravestones calmly tell their fate,
+the upshot of their pride: “This man was
+born on such a date, on such a date he died.”
+The great men of your fathers’ time, with laurel
+on each brow, the theme of every poet’s rhyme—where
+are those giants now? Their names
+are written in the books which no one ever reads;
+and on the scroll—where no one looks—the
+record of their deeds. The idler by the churchyard
+gate this legend hath espied: “This man
+was born on such a date, on such a date he
+died.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE VAGABOND</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HE’S idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready
+to throw him a dornick or give him a
+biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters;
+he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He
+carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his
+roof is the heavens, his couch is the soil; no sighing
+or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell
+in the morning shall call him to toil. As free
+as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude
+overseer to boss him around; his joys do not
+wither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a
+haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of
+such freedom—no sane man can need ’em!
+Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till
+muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than
+selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer
+toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and
+tramps of whatever degree; and though we all
+know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact
+as embalmed it should be. The poets will
+chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the
+highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings
+the toiler, the sweat-spangled moiler, who raises
+ten kids on a dollar a day?</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE COMING DAY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THERE’LL come a day when we must
+make full payment for all the foolish things
+we do today; and sackcloth then perchance will
+be our raiment, and we’ll regret the hours we
+threw away. We loaf today, and we shall loaf
+tomorrow, hard by the pump or in the corner
+store; there’ll come a day when we’ll look back
+with sorrow on wasted hours, the hours that
+come no more. We say harsh things to friends
+who look for kindness, and bring the tears to
+loving, patient eyes; we scold and quarrel in
+our fretful blindness, instead of smiles, we call
+up mournful sighs. Our friends will tread the
+path that leads us only to rest and silence in
+the grass-grown grave; there’ll come a day when
+weary, sad and lonely, we’ll think of them and
+of the wounds we gave. In marts of trade we’re
+prone to overreaching, to swell our roll we cheat
+and deal in lies, forgetful oft of early moral
+teaching, and all the counsel of the good and
+wise. It is, alas, an evil road we travel, that
+leads at last to bitterness and woe; there’ll come
+a day when gold will seem as gravel, and we
+shall mourn the sins of long ago.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SALTING THEM DOWN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THERE’S trouble in store for the gent who
+never salts down a red cent, who looks upon
+cash as the veriest trash, for foolish extravagance
+meant. Since money comes easy today, he thinks
+’twill be always that way, and he burns up the
+scads with the rollicking lads and warbles a
+madrigal gay. His dollars are drawn when
+they’re due; and rather than salt down a few,
+he throws them, with jests, at the robin red
+breasts, with riotous hullabaloo. I look down
+the scurrying years—for I’m the descendant of
+seers—and the spendthrift descry when his
+youth is gone by, an object of pity and tears. I
+see him parading the street, on weary and ring-boney
+feet, a-begging for dimes, for the sake of
+old times, to buy him some sauerkraut to eat.
+I see him abandoned and sick, his pillow a dornick
+or brick; and the peeler comes by with a
+vulcanized eye and swats him for luck with a
+stick. I see him when dying; he groans, but his
+anguish for nothing atones! And they cart him
+away in the dawn cold and gray, to the place
+where they bury cheap bones. Don’t burn up
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>your money, my friend; don’t squander or foolishly
+lend; though you say it is dross and regret
+not its loss, it’s a comfort and staff in the end.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SUCCESS IN LIFE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IT’S easy to be a success, as thousands of
+winners confess; no man’s so obscure or unlucky
+or poor that he can’t be a winner, I guess.
+And success, Mr. Man, doesn’t mean a roll
+that would stagger a queen, or some gems of
+your own, or a palace of stone, or a wagon that
+burns gasoline. A man’s a success, though renown
+doesn’t place on his forehead a crown,
+if he pays as he goes, if it’s true that he owes
+not a red in the dod-gasted town. A man’s a
+success if his wife finds comfort and pleasure in
+life; if she’s glad and content that she married
+a gent reluctant to organize strife. A man’s a
+success if his kids are joyous as Katy H. Dids;
+if they’re handsome and neat, with good shoes
+on their feet, and roses and things on their lids.
+A man’s a success if he tries to be honest and
+kindly and wise; if he’s slow to repeat all the
+lies he may meet, if he swats both the scandals
+and flies. I know when old Gaffer Pete Gray
+one morning was taken away, by Death, lantern-jowled,
+the whole village howled, and
+mourned him for many a day. Yet he was so
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>poor that he had but seldom the half of a scad;
+he tried to do good in such ways as he could—he
+was a successful old lad!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>TRUE HAPPINESS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN torrents are pouring or tempests
+are roaring how pleasant and cheerful is
+home! To sit by the winder all drier than tinder
+and watch the unfortunates roam! With
+glad eyes to follow the fellows who wallow
+around in the rain or the sleet, to watch them
+a-slipping and sliding and tripping, and falling
+all over the street! There’s nothing so soothing,
+so apt to be smoothing the furrows of grief from
+your brow, as sitting and gazing at folks who are
+raising out there in the mud such a row! To
+watch a mad neighbor through hurricane labor,
+while you are all snug by the fire, to see him
+cavorting and pawing and snorting—what
+more could a mortal desire? I love storm and
+blizzard from A clear to Izzard, I’m fond of
+the sleet and the rain; let winter get busy and
+whoop till he’s dizzy, and I’ll be the last to
+complain. For there is a casement just over the
+basement where I in all comfort may sit, and
+watch people wading through mud or parading
+through snow till they fall in a fit.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GENEROSITY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OLD Kink’s always willing to preach, and
+hand out wise counsel and teach; but ask
+him for aid when you’re hungry and frayed, and
+he’ll stick to his wad like a leech. He’s handy
+with proverb and text to comfort the needy and
+vexed; but when there’s a plan to feed indigent
+man, old Kink never seems to get next. He’ll
+help out the widow with psalms, and pray for
+her fatherless lambs; but he never would try to
+bring joy to her eye with codfish and sauerkraut
+and hams. On Sunday he joins in the hymn,
+and makes the responses with vim; when they
+pass round the box for the worshipers’ rocks, his
+gift is exceedingly slim. He thinks he is fooling
+the Lord and is sure of a princely reward when
+to heaven he goes at this life’s journey’s close—with
+which view I am not in accord. For the
+Lord, he is wise to gold bricks, and the humbug
+who crosses the Styx will have to be sharp
+if he captures a harp; St. Peter will say to him,
+“Nix!” They size up a man nearly right
+when he comes to the portals of light; and no
+stingy old fraud ever hornswoggled God or put
+on a robe snowy white.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>BACKBONE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>FROM Yuba Dam to Yonkers the man of
+backbone conquers, where spineless critters
+fail; all obstacles o’ercoming, he goes along
+a-humming, and gathers fame and kale. No
+ghosts of failure haunt him, no grisly bogies
+daunt him or make his spirits low; you’ll find him
+scratching gravel wherever you may travel, from
+Butte to Broken Bow. From Winnipeg to
+Wooster you’ll see this cheerful rooster, this
+model to all men; undaunted by reverses he
+wastes no time in curses, but digs right in again.
+His face is always shining though others be repining;
+you cannot keep him down; his trail is
+always smoking while cheaper men are croaking
+about the old dead town. From Humboldt to
+Hoboken he leaves his sign and token in buildings
+high and grand; in factories that flourish, in
+industries that nourish a tired, anaemic land. He
+brings the work to toilers and fills with bread
+and broilers their trusty dinner pails; he keeps
+the ripsaw ripping, the big triphammer tripping,
+the workman driving nails. All honor to his
+noblets! We drink to him in goblets of grapejuice
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>rich and red—the man of spine and gizzard
+who hustles like a blizzard and simply
+won’t be dead!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE POORHOUSE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE poorhouse, naked, grim, and bare,
+stands in a valley low; and most of us are
+headed there as fast as we can go. The paupers
+sit behind the gate, a solemn thing to see, and
+there all patiently they wait, they wait for you
+and me. We come, we come, O sad-eyed
+wrecks, we’re coming with a will! We’re all
+in debt up to our necks, and going deeper still!
+We’re buying things we can’t afford, and mock
+the old-time way of salting down a little hoard
+against the rainy day! No more afoot the poor
+man roams; in gorgeous car he scoots; we’ve
+mortgages upon our homes, our furniture, our
+boots. We’ve banished all the ancient cares, we
+paint the country red, we live like drunken millionaires,
+and never look ahead. The paupers,
+on the poorhouse lawn, are waiting in a group;
+they know we’ll all be there anon, to share their
+cabbage soup; they see us in our costly garb, and
+say: “Their course is brief; we see the harbingers
+that harb of bankruptcy and grief.” Be
+patient, paupers, for a span, ye friendless men
+and dames! We’re coming, blithely as we can,
+to join you in your games!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>NIGHT IS COMING</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHILE the blessed daylight lingers, let us
+work with might and main, with our
+busy feet and fingers, also with the busy brain;
+let the setting sun behold us tired, but filled with
+honest pride; for the night will soon enfold us,
+when we lay our tools aside. When we’re in the
+churchyard lonely, where the weeping willows
+lean, there’s one thing and one thing only that
+will keep our memory green. If we did the
+tasks appointed as we lived our speeding years,
+then our graves will be anointed with a mourning
+legion’s tears. All our good intentions perish
+when is closed the coffin lid, and the world will
+only cherish and remember what we did. Nothing
+granite, monumental, can preserve your little
+fame; epitaphs are incidental, and will not
+embalm your name. Nothing counts when you
+are sleeping, but the goodly work you’ve done;
+that will last till gods are weeping round the
+ruins of the sun. Let no obstacles confound us,
+let us work till day is o’er; soon the night will
+gather round us, when we’ll sleep to work no
+more.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DOING THINGS RIGHT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>TO do things right, with all your might—that
+is a goodly motto; I’ve pasted that
+inside my hat, and if you don’t you’d ought to.
+To do things right, as leads your light, with faith
+and hope abiding; to do your best and let the
+rest to Jericho go sliding! With such an aim
+you’ll win the game and see your fortune
+founded; and goodly deed beats any creed that
+ever man expounded. To do things right, to
+bravely fight, when fate cuts up unfairly, to pay
+your way from day to day, and treat your neighbor
+squarely! That doctrine fills all wants and
+stills the doubter’s qualms and terrors, and guides
+him straight at goodly gait through all the field
+of errors. To do your best, within your breast
+a cheerful heart undaunted—that is the plan
+that brings a man all things he ever wanted. At
+finding snares and nests of mares I am not very
+handy; but when it comes to finding plums folks
+say I am a dandy; and my receipt is short and
+sweet, an easy one to follow; just do things right,
+with all your might—it beats all others hollow!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>RIGHT SIDE UP</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THOUGH now and then our feet descend
+to byways of despair, we nearly always in
+the end land right side up with care. I’ve seen
+a thousand frenzied guys declare that all was
+lost, there was no hope beneath the skies, this
+life was but a frost. And then next year I’d
+see them scoot around in motor cars, each one a-holding
+in his snoot the richest of cigars. I’ve
+seen men at the wailing place declare they were
+undone; no more the cold world could they face,
+their course, they said, was run. Again I’d see
+them prance along, all burbling with delight;
+whatever in their lives was wrong, became at last
+all right. And so it’s foolishness, my friend, to
+weep or tear your hair; we nearly always, in the
+end, land right side up with care. Some call it
+luck, some providence, and some declare it fate;
+but there’s a kind, o’erruling sense that makes
+our tangles straight; and there are watchful eyes
+that mark our movements as we roam; a hand
+extended in the dark to guide us safely home. In
+what direction do you wend? You’ll find the
+helper there; we nearly always, in the end, land
+right side up with care.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE IRON MEN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN the north wind roars at your cottage
+doors and batters the window panes,
+and the cold’s so fierce that it seems to pierce
+right into your bones and veins, then it’s sweet to
+sit by the fire and knit, and think, while the
+needles clank, of the iron men, of the shining
+yen, you have in the village bank! When you’ve
+lost your job and misfortunes rob your face of
+its wonted grin, when the money goes for your
+grub and clothes, though there’s nothing coming
+in; when the fates are rough and they kick and
+cuff and give you a frequent spank, how sweet
+to think of the bunch of chink you have in the
+village bank! When you’re gray and old and
+your feet are cold, and the night is drawing on;
+when you’re tired and weak and your joints all
+creak, and the strength of youth is gone; when
+you watch and wait at the sunset gate for the
+boatman grim and lank, oh, it’s nice to know
+there’s a roll of dough all safe in the village
+bank! The worst, my friend, that the fates can
+send, is softened for you and yours if you have
+the price, have the coin on ice—the best of all
+earthly cures; oh, a healthy wad is your staff and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>rod when the luck seems tough and rank; your
+consolers then are the iron men you have in the
+village bank!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>PROCRASTINATION</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>YOU are merely storing sorrow for the
+future, sages say, if you put off till tomorrow
+things which should be done today. When
+there is a job unpleasant that it’s up to me to do,
+I attack it in the present, give a whoop and push
+it through; then my mind is free from troubles,
+and I sit before the fire popping corn or blowing
+bubbles, or a-whanging at my lyre. If I said:
+“There is no hurry—that old job will do next
+week,” there would be a constant worry making
+my old brain-pan creak. For a man knows no
+enjoyment resting at the close of day, if he knows
+that some employment is neglected in that way.
+There is nothing more consoling at the setting of
+the sun, when the evening bells are tolling, than
+the sense of duty done. And that solace cometh
+never to the man of backbone weak who postpones
+all sane endeavor till the middle of next
+week. Let us then be up and doing, with a heart
+for any fate, as the poet said, when shooing
+agents from his garden gate. Let us shake ourselves
+and borrow wisdom from the poet’s lay;
+leaving nothing for tomorrow, doing all our
+chores today!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>TIMBERTOES</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OLD GOMER, of a Kansas town, was
+never known to wear a frown, or for man’s
+pity beg, although he stumps along his way, and
+does his work from day to day, upon a wooden
+leg. And every time he goes out doors he meets
+some peevish guy who roars about his evil luck;
+some fretful gent with leg of flesh who, when
+vicissitudes enmesh, proceeds to run amuck.
+Strong men with legs of flesh and bone just stand
+around the streets and groan, while Gomer pegs
+along and puts up hay the long hours through,
+and sounds his joyous whoopsydo, and makes
+his life a song. Old Gomer never sits and broods
+or seeks the hermit’s solitudes to fill the air with
+sighs; there’s no despondency in him! He brags
+about that basswood limb as though it were a
+prize. Sometimes I’m full of woe and grief,
+convinced the world brings no relief until a man
+is dead; and as I wail that things are wrong I
+see old Gomer hop along and then I soak my
+head. I’ve noticed that the men who growl, the
+ones who storm around and howl o’er fate’s
+unwise decrees, are mostly Fortune’s special pets;
+and then the man who never frets is one with
+red elm knees.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE THANKLESS JOB</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THERE’S nothing but tears for the man
+who steers our ship o’er the troubled sea;
+there’s nothing but grief for the nation’s chief,
+whoever that chief may be. Whatever he does,
+he can hear the buzz of critics as thick as flies;
+and all of his aims are sins and shames, and
+nothing he does is wise. There’s nothing but
+kicks for the man who sticks four years to the
+White House chair; and his stout heart aches
+and his wishbone breaks and he loses most of his
+hair. There’s nothing but growls and the knockers’
+howls, and the spiteful slings and slams; and
+the vile cartoons and the dish of prunes and a
+chorus of tinkers’ dams. Oh, we humble skates
+in our low estates, who fuss with our garden sass,
+should view the woes of the men who rose above
+and beyond the mass, and be glad today that we
+go our way mid quiet and peaceful scenes;
+should thankfully take the hoe and rake, and
+wrestle with spuds and greens!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE UNDERTAKER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN life is done—this life that galls
+and frets us, this life so full of tears and
+doubts and dreads—the undertaker comes along
+and gets us, and tucks us neatly in our little beds.
+When we are done with toiling, hoarding, giving,
+when we are done with drawing checks and
+breath, he comes to show us that the cost of
+living cuts little ice beside the cost of death. I
+meet him daily in the street or alley, a cheerful
+man, he dances and he sings; and we exchange
+the buoyant jest and sally, and ne’er discourse
+of grim, unpleasant things. We talk of crops,
+the campaign and the weather, the I. and R.,
+the trusts—this nation’s curse; no graveyard
+hints while we converse together, no reference to
+joyrides in a hearse. And yet I feel—perchance
+it is a blunder—that as I stand there,
+rugged, hale and strong, he’d like to ask me:
+“Comrade, why in thunder and other things, do
+you hang on so long?” When I complain of
+how the asthma tightens upon my lungs, and
+makes me feel a wreck, it seems to me his face
+with rapture lightens, smiles stretch his lips and
+wind around his neck. And when I say I’m
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>feeling like a heifer turned out to grass, or like a
+hummingbird, he heaves a sigh as gentle as a
+zephyr, yet fraught with pain and grief and hope
+deferred.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GARDEN OF DREAMS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IN the garden of dreams let me rest, far, far
+from the laboring throng, from the moans of
+the tired and distressed, from the strains of the
+conqueror’s song. As a native of Bagdad, or
+Turk, I’d live in Arabian nights, away from the
+regions of work, from troubles and hollow delights.
+In the garden of dreams I would stray,
+and bother my fat head no more, a-wondering
+how I shall pay for groceries bought at the store.
+Ah, there in that garden I’d sit, communing in
+peace with my soul, and never again have a fit
+when handed the bill for the coal. In the garden
+of dreams I’d recline and soar on the wings
+of romance, forgetting this old hat of mine, the
+patches all over my pants, the clamor of children
+for shoes, the hausfrau’s demands for a gown,
+the lodge’s exorbitant dues, the polltax to work
+in the town. Alas! It is as I supposed—there
+is no escaping my fate, for the garden of
+dreams has been closed, a padlock is fixed on the
+gate. The young, who are buoyant and glad,
+may enter that garden, it seems; but the old, who
+are weary and sad, are warned from the garden
+of dreams!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>CLOUDS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IF every day was sunny, with ne’er a cloud
+in view, we’d soon be spending money to buy
+a cloud or two. It always makes me weary
+when people say: “Old boy, may all your days
+be cheery and bright and full of joy!” If all
+my days were sunny, existence would seem flat;
+if I were fed on honey I’d soon get sick of that.
+I like a slice of sorrow to hold me down today,
+for that will make tomorrow seem fifty times
+as gay. A little dose of sickness won’t make
+me whine or yell; ’twill emphasize the slickness
+of life when I am well. A little siege of trouble
+won’t put my hopes in pawn, for I’ll be trotting
+double with joy when it is gone. Down there in
+tropic regions where sunshine gleams all day, the
+fat and lazy legions just sleep their lives away;
+there every idle bumpkin who in the sunshine
+lies, lives like a yellow pumpkin, and like a
+squash he dies. I want my share of changes,
+my share of ups and downs; I want a life that
+ranges from crosses up to crowns.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>BEAUTIFUL THINGS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE beautiful things are the things we do;
+they are not the things we wear, as we
+shall find when the journey’s through, and the
+roll call’s read up there. We’re illustrating the
+latest styles, with raiment that beats the band;
+but the beautiful things are the kindly smiles that
+go with the helping hand. We burden ourselves
+with gleaming gems, that neighbors may
+stop and stare; but the beautiful things are the
+diadems of stars that the righteous wear. There
+are beautiful things in the poor man’s cot, though
+empty the hearth and cold, if love and service
+are in each thought that husband and wife may
+hold. There are beautiful things in the lowest
+slum where wandering outcasts grope, when
+down to its depths they see you come with message
+of help and hope. The beautiful things
+that we mortals buy and flash in the crowded
+street, will all be junk when we come to die, and
+march to the judgment seat. When everything’s
+weighed on that fateful day, the lightest thing
+will be gold. There are beautiful things within
+reach today, but they are not bought or sold.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>TRAVELERS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>DOWN this little world we travel, headed
+for the land of Dawn, sawing wood
+and scratching gravel, here today, tomorrow
+gone! Down our path of doubts and dangers,
+we are toddling, mile on mile, transient and
+inquiring strangers, dumped into this world a
+while. Let us make the journey pleasant for the
+little time we stay; all we have is just the Present—all
+we need is just Today. Let’s encourage
+one another as we push along the road, saying
+to a jaded brother: “Here, I’ll help you with
+your load!” Banish scorn and vain reviling,
+banish useless tears and woe; let us do the journey
+smiling, all our hearts with love aglow. Let
+us never search for sorrow, since the journey is
+so brief; here today and gone tomorrow, what
+have we to do with grief? Down this little
+world we wander, strangers from some unknown
+spheres, headed for the country yonder where
+they have no sighs or tears; let us therefore cease
+complaining, let us be no longer glum; let us all
+go into training for the joyful life to come!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE SHUT-IN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I KNOW a crippled woman who lives through
+years of pain with patience superhuman—for
+ne’er does she complain. An endless torture rages
+throughout her stricken frame; an hour would
+seem like ages if I endured the same. Sometimes
+I call upon her to ask her how she stacks;
+it is her point of honor to utter no alacks; she
+hands out no alases, but says she’s feeling gay,
+and every hour that passes brings some new joy
+her way. “I’m all serene, old chappie,” she
+says, “as you can see; my heart is always
+happy, the Lord’s so good to me!” Thus
+chortles pain-racked Auntie, and says it with a
+smile; and when I leave her shanty I kick myself
+a while. For I am strong and scrappy; I’m
+sound in wind and limb; and yet I’m seldom
+happy; I wail a graveyard hymn; whene’er I
+meet reverses my howls are agonized; I say, with
+bitter curses, the gods are subsidized. When
+life seems like December, a thing of gloom and
+care, I wish I could remember old Auntie in her
+chair, forget my whinings hateful, and that wan
+shut-in see, who says that she is grateful, “the
+Lord’s so good to me!”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>IN OLD AGE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN I have reached three score and ten
+I hope I will not be like sundry sad and
+ancient men that every day I see. I hope I’ll
+never be so old, so broken down and gray, that
+I will lift my voice and scold when children
+round me play. I hope I’ll never be so sere, so
+close to muffled drums, that I can’t waltz around
+and cheer whene’er the circus comes. I hope I’ll
+never wither up or yet so foundered be, that I
+won’t gambol with a pup when it would play
+with me. I hope I’ll not, while yet alive, be so
+much like a corse, that I won’t seize a chance
+to drive a good high-stepping horse. Though I
+must hobble on a crutch to help my feeble shins,
+I’ll always yell to beat the Dutch whene’er the
+home team wins. Perhaps I’ll live a thousand
+years—I sometimes fear I will, for something
+whispers in my ears I am too tough to kill—I
+may outlast the modern thrones and all the kings
+thereon, but while I navigate my bones I’ll try,
+so help me John, to be as young in mind and
+heart as any springald near, and when for Jordan
+I depart, go like a gay roan steer.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>HOMELESS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN the wind blows shrill, with a
+deadly chill, and we sit by the cheerful
+blaze, do we ever think of the homeless gink,
+a-going his weary ways? The daylight’s gone
+and we sit and yawn, and comfort is all around;
+do we care a whoop for the dismal troop adrift
+on the frozen ground? You eat and drink and
+count your chink as you sit in your easy chair;
+and you’ve grown hog-fat, and beneath your hat
+there’s hardly a sign of care. Do you never
+pause, as you ply your jaws, devouring the oyster
+stew, to heave a sigh for the waifs who lie
+outdoors, all the long night through? It was
+good of Fate that she paid the freight, and
+planted you here at ease, while the other lads,
+who are shy of scads, must sit in the park and
+freeze. But she may repent ere your days are
+spent, and juggle things all around, and the bo
+may sleep on your mattress deep, and you on
+the frozen ground!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE HAPPY HOME</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>“OH these pancakes are sublime,”
+brightly cries Josiah Jakes; “mother, in
+the olden time, thought that she could fashion
+cakes; she was always getting praise, and deserved
+it, I maintain; but she, in her palmy days,
+couldn’t touch you, Sarah Jane. Oh, the king
+upon his throne for such fodder surely aches;
+you are in a class alone, when it comes to griddle
+cakes.” Then upon his shining dome he adjusts
+his lid and goes, and his wife remains at home,
+making pies and things like those. She is stewing
+luscious prunes, in her eye a happy tear, and
+her heart is singing tunes such as angels like to
+hear. O’er and o’er she still repeats all the
+kindly words he said, as she fixes further treats,
+pumpkin pie and gingerbread. When the evening’s
+growing gray, following the set of sun,
+“This has been a perfect day,” murmurs she,
+her labors done. Perfect nearly all the days of
+our loved ones well might be, if with words of
+honest praise we were generous and free.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE UNHAPPY HOME</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>TIRED father to his home returns, all jaded
+by the stress and fray, to have the rest for
+which he yearns throughout the long and toilsome
+day. His supper’s ready on the board, as good
+a meal as e’er was sprung, a meal no worker
+could afford in olden times, when we were young.
+He looks around with frowning brow, and sighs,
+“Ah, what a lot of junk! This butter never
+knew a cow, the coffee is extremely punk. You
+know I like potatoes boiled, and so, of course,
+you dish them fried; this poor old beefsteak has
+been broiled until it’s tough as walrus hide. It
+beats me, Susan, where you find such doughnuts,
+which resemble rock; these biscuits you no doubt
+designed to act as weights for yonder clock. You
+couldn’t fracture with a club the kind of sponge
+cake that you dish; alas, for dear old mother’s
+grub throughout my days I vainly wish.” Then
+Susan, burdened with her cares, worn out, discouraged,
+sad and weak, sits down beneath the
+cellar stairs, and weeps in German, French, and
+Greek. Alas, the poor, unhappy soul, whose
+maiden dreams are all a wreck! She ought to
+take a ten-foot pole and prod her husband in the
+neck.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT</h3>
+</div>
+<h4 class='c021'>NEW VERSION</h4>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c022'>THE labor of the week is o’er, the stress and
+toil titanic, and to his humble cottage door
+returns the tired mechanic. He hangs his
+weather-beaten tile and coat upon a rafter; the
+housewife greets him with a smile, the bairns
+with joyous laughter. The supper is a merry
+meal, and when they’ve had their vittles, the
+mother plies her spinning wheel, while father
+smokes and whittles. But now the kids, a joyous
+crowd, must cease to romp and caper, for father
+starts to read aloud the helpful daily paper:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“A cancer on the neck or knees once meant
+complete disaster; but Dr. Chowder guarantees
+to cure it with a plaster. He doesn’t use an ax
+or spade, or blast it out with powder; don’t let
+your coming be delayed—rely on Dr. Chowder!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Outdoors there is a rising gale, a fitful rain is
+falling; they hear the east winds sadly wail like
+lonely phantoms calling. But all is peace and
+joy within, and eyes with gladness glisten, and
+father, with a happy grin, reads on, and bids
+them listen:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>“If you have pimples on your nose or bunions
+on your shoulder, if you have ringbones on your
+toes—ere you’re a minute older call up the
+druggist on the phone and have him send a basket
+of Faker’s pills, for they alone will save you
+from a casket.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The clock ticks on the cottage wall, and marks
+the minutes’ speeding; the firelight dances in the
+hall, on dad, where he sits reading. Oh, quiet,
+homely scene of bliss, the nation’s pride and
+glory! And in a million homes like this, dad
+reads the precious story:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“Oh, countless are the grievous ills, afflicting
+human critters, but we have always Bunkum’s
+Pills, and Skookum’s Hogwash Bitters. Have
+you the symptoms of the gout along your muscles
+playing? And are your whiskers falling out,
+and are your teeth decaying? Have you no
+appetite for greens, and do you balk at fritters?
+We’ll tell you, reader, what it means—you
+need some Hogwash Bitters!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The children nod their drowsy heads, their
+toys around them lying. “I’ll take them to their
+little beds,” says mother, softly sighing. “It’s
+time they were away from here—the evening
+is advancing; but ere they go, O husband dear,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>read one more tale entrancing.” And father
+seeks that inside page where “Household
+Hints” are printed, where, for the good of youth
+and age, this “Household Hint” is hinted:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“If you have maladies so rank they are too
+fierce to mention, just call on good old Dr.
+Crank; you’ll find it his intention to cure you up
+where others fail, though t’others number
+twenty; but don’t forget to bring the kale, and
+see that you have plenty.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>AT THE END</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WE do our little stunt on earth, and when
+it’s time to die, “The ice we cut has
+little worth—we wasted time,” we sigh.
+When one has snow above his ears, and age has
+chilled his veins, he looks back on the vanished
+years, his spirit racked with pains. However
+well he may have done, it all seems trifling then;
+alas, if he could only run his little course again!
+He would not then so greatly prize the sordid
+silver plunk; for when a man grows old and wise,
+he knows that coin is junk. One kindly action
+of the past, if such you can recall, will soothe you
+greatly at the last when memory is All. If you
+have helped some pilgrim climb from darkness
+and despair, that action, in your twilight time,
+will ease your weight of care. The triumphs of
+your business day, by stealth or sharpness gained,
+will seem, when you are tired and gray, to leave
+your record stained. Ah, comrade, in the dusk
+of life, when you have ceased your grind, when
+all your strategy and strife are left for aye
+behind, when you await the curtain’s fall, the
+setting of the sun, how you will struggle to recall
+the good that you have done!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>WHAT’S THE USE?</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>MAN toils at his appointed task till hair is
+gray and teeth are loose, and pauses now
+and then to ask, in tones despondent, “What’s
+the use?” We have distempers of the mind
+when we are tired and sorely tried; we’d like to
+quit the beastly grind, and let the tail go with
+the hide. The money goes for shoes and pie,
+for hats and pork and dairy juice; to get ahead
+we strive and try, and still are broke, so what’s
+the use? Then, gazing round us, we behold
+the down-and-outers in the street; they shiver in
+the biting cold, they trudge along on weary feet.
+They have no home, they have no bed, no shelter
+neath the wintry sky; they’ll have no peace till
+they are dead, and planted where the paupers
+lie. No comfort theirs till in the cell that has a
+clammy earthen lid; yet some of them deserve as
+well of Fortune as we ever did. And, having
+seen the hungry throng, if we’re good sports we
+cease to sigh; we go to work with cheery song,
+and make the fur and feathers fly.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE MAN WANTED</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>NEVER was there such a clamor for the
+man who knows his trade! Whether with
+a pen or hammer, whether with a brush or spade
+he’s equipped, the world demands him, calls
+upon him for his skill, and on pay day gladly
+hands him rolls of roubles from its till. Little
+boots it what his trade is, building bridges, shoeing
+mules—men will come from Cork and
+Cadiz to engage him and his tools. All the
+world is busy hunting for the workman who’s
+supreme, whether he is best at punting or at
+flavoring ice cream.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Up and down the land are treading men who
+find this world a frost, toiling on for board and
+bedding, in an age of hustling lost. “We have
+never had fair chances, Fortune ever used us
+sore,” they complain, as age advances, and the
+poorhouse lies before. “Handy men are we,”
+they mutter, “masters of a dozen trades, yet we
+can’t earn bread and butter, much less jams and
+marmalades. When we ask a situation, stern
+employers cry again: ‘Chase yourselves! This
+weary nation crowded is with handy men! Learn
+one thing and learn it fully, learn in something
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>to excel, then you’ll find this old world bully—it
+will please you passing well!’ Thus reply the
+stern employers when for work we sadly plead,
+saying we are farmers, sawyers, tinkers, tailors
+gone to seed. So we sing our doleful chorus as
+adown the world we wind, for the poorhouse lies
+before us, and the free lunch lies behind.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>While this tragedy’s unfolding in each corner
+of the land, men of skill are still beholding
+chances rise on every hand; men who learned one
+thing and learned it up and down and to and fro,
+got reward because they earned it—men who
+study, men who Know. If you’re raising sweet
+potatoes, see that they’re the best on earth; if
+you’re rearing alligators, see that they’re of
+special worth; if you’re shoeing dromedaries,
+shoe the brutes with all your might; if you’re peddling
+trained canaries, let your birds be out of
+sight. Whatsoever you are doing, do it well and
+with a will, and you’ll find the world pursuing,
+offering to buy your skill.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>A MAD WORLD</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHILE seated in my warm abode I see
+John Doe pass up the road, that man of
+many woes; he wears one rubber and one shoe,
+the wintry blast is blowing through his whiskers
+and his clothes. He has no place to sleep or eat,
+his only refuge is the street, his shelter heaven’s
+vault; I see him in the storm abroad, and say,
+“But for the grace of God, there goes your
+Uncle Walt.” John Doe with gifts was richly
+blest; he might have distanced all the rest, had
+Fortune kindly been; but Fortune put the kibosh
+on the efforts of the luckless John, and never
+wore a grin. I wonder why an Edgar Poe found
+life a wilderness of woe, and starved in garrets
+bare, while bards who cannot sing for prunes eat
+costly grub from golden spoons, and purple raiment
+wear. I wonder why a Robert Burns must
+try all kinds of shifts and turns to gain his daily
+bread, the while a Southey basked at ease and
+stuffed himself with jam and cheese, a wreath
+upon his head. Such things have never been
+explained; I know not why it is ordained that I
+find life a snap; and gazing from my door I see
+John Doe, in speechless misery, a homeless, hungry
+chap.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>PUNCTUALITY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE punctual man is a bird; he always is
+true to his word; he knows that the skate
+who is ten minutes late is trifling and vain and
+absurd. He says, “I’ll be with you at four”;
+though torrents may ruthlessly pour, you know
+when the clock strikes the hour he will knock
+with his punctual fist at your door. And you
+say, “He is surely a trump! I haven’t much
+use for the chump who is evermore late, making
+other men wait—the place for that gent is the
+dump.” The punctual man is a peach; he sticks
+to his dates like a leech; it’s a pity, alas, that he
+hasn’t a class of boneheaded sluggards to teach.
+He’s welcome wherever he wends; the country
+is full of his friends; he goes by the watch and he
+ne’er makes a botch of his time, so he never
+offends. If he says he’ll get married at nine, you
+can bet he’ll be standing in line, with his beautiful
+bride, and the knot will be tied ere the clock
+is done making the sign. If he says he’ll have
+cashed in at five, at that hour he will not be
+alive; you can order his shroud and assemble a
+crowd, clear out to the boneyard to drive. The
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>punctual man is a jo! The biggest success that
+I know! He is grand and sublime, he is always
+on time, not late by ten minutes or so.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DOWN AND OUT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>MISFORTUNE punched you in the neck,
+and knocked you down and tramped you
+under; will you survey the gloomy wreck, and
+stand around and weep, I wonder? Your hold
+upon success has slipped, and still you ought to
+bob up grinning; for when a man admits he’s
+whipped, he throws away his chance of winning.
+I like to think of John Paul Jones, whose ship
+was split from truck to fender; the British asked,
+in blawsted tones, if he was ready to surrender.
+The Yankee mariner replied, “Our ship is sinking
+at this writing, but don’t begin to put on side—for
+we have just begun our fighting!” There
+is a motto, luckless lad, that you should paste
+inside your bonnet; when this old world seems
+stern and sad, with nothing but some Jonahs on
+it, don’t murmur in a futile way, about misfortune,
+bleak and biting, but gird your well known
+loins and say, “Great Scott! I’ve just begun
+my fighting!” The man who won’t admit he’s
+licked is bound to win a triumph shining, and all
+the lemons will be picked by weak-kneed fellows,
+fond of whining.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>“CHARGE IT”</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>“JUST chalk it down,” the poor man said,
+when he had bought some boneless bread,
+and many costly things, his wife and brood of
+bairns to feed—the most of which they didn’t
+need as much as you need wings. He buys the
+richest things in town, and always says, “Just
+chalk it down, I’ll pay you soon, you bet;” and
+payday evening finds him broke, his hard earned
+plunks gone up in smoke, and still he is in debt.
+The man who doesn’t buy for cash lays in all
+kinds of costly trash, that he could do without;
+he spends his coin before it’s earned, and roars
+about it when it’s burned—is that your way,
+old scout? When comes the day of evil luck
+the war bag doesn’t hold a buck to keep the wolf
+away; the “charge it” plan will work no more
+at any market, shop, or store—no goods unless
+you pay. The poor man for his money sweats,
+and he should pay for what he gets, just when
+he gets the same; then, when he goes his prunes
+to buy, and sees how fast the nickels fly, he’ll
+dodge the spendthrift game. If you begin to
+save your stamps, some day, with teardrops in
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>your lamps, this writer you will thank; when man
+in grief and sickness groans there’s naught like
+having fifteen bones in some good savings bank.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE CROAKER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THERE is a man—you know him well; in
+every village doth he dwell—who all the
+time and every day can dig up something sad to
+say. The good, the beautiful, the fine, the
+things that others think divine, remind him that
+all flesh is grass, that all things must decay and
+pass. He shakes his head and wags his ears and
+sheds all kinds of briny tears and cries, “Alack
+and wella-day! All flesh is grass, and grass is
+hay!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He gazes on the blooming bride, who, in her
+beauty and her pride, is fairer than the fairest
+flower that ever charmed a summer hour. Wise
+people watch her with delight, and hope her
+future may be bright; they whisper blessings and
+declare that she is radiant and rare, and better
+feel for having seen so charming and so sweet a
+queen.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>But Croaker notes her brave array and sighs,
+“Her bloom will pass away! A few short
+years, and she’ll be bent and wrinkled up, I’ll
+bet a cent! The hair that looks like gold just
+now will soon be graying on her brow. She’ll
+shrivel in this world of sin, and there’ll be whiskers
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>on her chin; and she will seem all hide and
+bone, a withered and obnoxious crone! I’ve seen
+so many brides before, with orange wreaths and
+veils galore, and I have seen their glories pass—all
+flesh is grass, all flesh is grass!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The people hear his tale of woe and murmur,
+“What he says is so!” For that’s the way with
+evil words; they travel faster than the birds.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I go to see the football game, and note the
+athlete, strong of frame, his giant arms, his
+mighty chest, and glory in his youthful zest. It
+fires my ancient soul to see exultant youth, so
+strong and free.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>But someone at my elbow sighs—and there
+sits Croaker—dern his eyes!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“These youths,” he says, “so brave and
+strong, will all be crippled up ere long. If
+they’re not slaughtered in this game, they’ll all
+be bunged up, just the same. A few short years,
+and they will groan, with rheumatism in each
+bone; they’ll all be lame in feet and knees, they’ll
+have the hoof and mouth disease, the mumps, the
+glanders and the gout. Go on, ye springalds,
+laugh and shout and play the game as best ye
+may, for youth and strength will pass away!
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>Like snow wreaths in the thaw they’ll pass—all
+flesh is grass, all flesh is grass!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I bust him once upon the nose, I tie his whiskers
+to his toes, and, with an ardent, eager hoof,
+I kick his person through the roof. But he has
+spoiled my happy day; the croaker drives all
+glee away.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>CHOOSING A BRIDE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE man who goes to choose a bride should
+cautious be, and falcon-eyed, or he will
+harvest woes; it is a most important chore—more
+so than going to the store to buy a suit of
+clothes. If you have dreams of pleasant nights
+around the fire, and home delights, sidestep the
+giddy maid whose thoughts are all of hats and
+gowns, and other female hand-me-downs, of
+show and dress parade. And always shun the
+festive skirt who’ll never miss a chance to flirt
+with men, at any cost; she may seem sweet and
+charming now, but, as your own and only frau,
+she’s sure to be a frost. And when you see a
+woman near, who hankers for a high career, and
+combs her hair back straight, who says she’s
+wedded to her art, whose brow is high, whose
+tongue is tart—oh, Clarence, pull your freight!
+Select a damsel safe and sane, who has no folly
+in her brain, who wants to build a home; if you
+can win that sort of bride, peace shall with you
+and yours abide, and crown your old bald dome.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>AFTER US</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE workman, in my new abode, now
+spreads the luscious plaster; he hums a
+blithe and cheerful ode, and labors fast and
+faster. I stand and watch him as he works, I
+stand and watch and ponder; I mark how skillfully
+he jerks the plaster here and yonder.
+“This plaster will be here,” he cries, “unbroken
+and unshredded, when you sing anthems in the
+skies—if that’s where you are headed.” How
+good to feel, as on we strive, in this bright world
+enchanted, that what we do will be alive when
+we are dead and planted! For this the poet
+racks his brain (and not for coin or rubies) until
+he finds he’s gone insane and has to join the
+boobies. For this the painter plies his brush and
+spreads his yellow ochre, to find, when comes
+life’s twilight hush, that Fame’s an artful joker.
+For this the singer sprains her throat, and burns
+the midnight candle, and tries to reach a higher
+note than Ellen Yaw could handle. For this
+the actor rants and barks, the poor old welkin
+stabbin’, and takes the part of Lawyer Marks
+in Uncle Tommy’s Cabin. Alas, my labors
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>will not last! In vain my rhythmic rages! I
+cannot make my plaster plast so it will stick for
+ages!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SOME OF THE POOR</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>So many have no roofs or doors, no sheets
+to cuddle under! You hire some men to do
+your chores, and then you cease to wonder.
+Alas, he is so hard to find—he takes so much
+pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind
+on what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw
+some sticks, to keep the fire a-going, and he discusses
+politics, in language smooth and flowing;
+the saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin
+shrinks and totters, as he, with swinging jaws
+and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters.
+When I go home, as dusk grows dense, I hear
+his windy rages, and kick him sadly through the
+fence, when I have paid his wages. I hire a man
+to paint the churn and hoe the morning glories,
+and when at evening I return he’s busy telling
+stories. “That toiler is no good, I fear,” remarks
+the hausfrau, Sally; I take him gently
+by the ear and lead him to the alley. I hire a
+man the stove to black, and fix the kitchen table,
+and when at evening I come back, he’s sleeping
+in the stable. And thus we suffer and endure
+the trifler’s vain endeavor; we do not wonder
+that the poor are with us here forever.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE HARVEST HAND</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I
+get three bones a day and board! That’s
+going some, eh, what?” And on he labored,
+brave and strong; the work was hard, the hours
+were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at
+ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals
+to me—and watched him as he toiled; the
+sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could
+see his garments steam, his face and hands were
+broiled. He chuckled as he toiled away,
+“They’re paying me three bones a day, with
+board and washing, too!” That was his dream
+of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the sun,
+for that, the long day through! And I, who
+earn three iron men with sundry scratches of a
+pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his
+stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm
+within me, blew away. For he was getting more
+than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health,
+and blessings such as those; and when the day of
+toil was through, no doubt the stalwart worker
+knew a weary child’s repose!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>WHAT I’D DO</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>If I were Binks the baker, I’d tidy up my
+store; I would not have an acre of dust
+upon the floor. I’d be a skilled adjuster and
+make things please the eyes; I’d take a feather
+duster and clean the pumpkin pies. I’d keep the
+doorknob shining, and polish up the glass, and
+never sit repining, and never say, “Alas!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>If I were Binks the baker, I’d have a cheerful
+heart, as always should the maker of bread and
+pie and tart; for looking sad and grewsome will
+never bring the trade of folks who want to chew
+some doughnuts and marmalade. When I go
+blowing money I always seek the store whose
+boss is gay and sunny, with gladness bubbling
+o’er; and when I chance to enter a bakery whose
+chief is roaring like a stentor about his woe and
+grief, his bellowings confound me, I do not
+spend a yen; I merely glance around me, and
+hustle out again.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>If I were Binks the baker, and had a grouch
+on hand, I’d surely try to shake her, and smile
+to beat the band. For no one wants to harken
+to tales of woe and strife, to hear of clouds that
+darken a merchant’s weary life. For customers,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>have troubles, like you, through all their years;
+and when they spend their rubles they are not
+buying tears. They’ll like you all the better, you
+and your cakes and jam, if you are not a fretter,
+a kicker and a clam.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>If I were Bakes, the binker—my wires are
+crossed, I swow—I’d sell the pie and sinker
+with calm, unclouded brow. No grumblings
+wild and woolly would from my larynx slide;
+I’d swear that things were bully, and seven
+meters wide. Then folks would all admire me,
+and seek me in my den, and load me till they’d
+tire me, with kopecks, taels, and yen.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE FORTUNE TELLER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>A gypsy maiden, strangely wise, with
+dusky hair and midnight eyes, my future
+life unveiled; she said she’d read the lines of
+fate for many another trusting skate, and never
+yet had failed. She was a maid of savage
+charms; great brazen rings were on her arms,
+and she had strings of beads; with trinkets she
+was loaded down; the noisy colors of her gown
+recalled no widow’s weeds. She told me I
+would live to be as rich as Andy or John D., my
+dreams would all come true; I’d have a palace
+on a hill, and vassals near to do my will, a yacht
+to sail the blue. And as she told what blessings
+fine, what great rewards and gifts were mine, in
+low and dulcet tones, her nimble fingers, ne’er
+at rest, got closer to my checkered vest, and
+lifted seven bones. She touched me for my
+meager roll, that poor misguided, heathen soul,
+but still her victim smiles; she gave me dreams
+for half a day and took me with her to Cathay
+and the enchanted isles. Her glamour caused
+me to forget a little while, the strife and sweat,
+the city’s bricks and stones; she took my toilworn
+soul abroad, and she is welcome to my wad—I
+still have seven bones.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GOLD BRICKS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>Young Jack goes forth to call on Rose,
+attired in gorgeous raiment (and for that
+gaudy suit of clothes the tailor seeks his payment);
+his teeth are scoured, his shoes are shined,
+the barber man’s been active—in sooth, it’s
+hard to call to mind a fellow more attractive.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And Rose is waiting at the gate, as blithely
+Jack advances; she has her angel smile on
+straight, and charming are her glances. She’s
+spent at least a half a day (to temper’s sore abrasion)
+to get herself in brave array, in shape for
+this occasion. All afternoon, with patient care,
+she tried on heaps of dresses; her gentle mother
+heard her swear while combing out her tresses.
+But now, as lovely as the day, with trouble unacquainted,
+she looks as though she grew that
+way and never puffed or painted.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And so they both, on dress parade, sit down
+within the arbor, she well upholstered by her
+maid, he scented by his barber. They talk of
+painters, Spanish, Dutch; they talk of Keats and
+Dante—for whom they do not care as much
+as does your maiden auntie. Now Jack is down
+upon his knees! By jings! he is proposing!
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>His vows, a-floating on the breeze, his ardor are
+disclosing! And Rose! Her bliss is now begun—she’s
+made her little capture. Oh, chee! two
+hearts that beat as one, and all that sort of
+rapture!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And there is none to say to Rose, “Don’t rush
+into a marriage! You’re getting but a suit of
+clothes, some gall, a princely carriage! This
+man upon whose breast you lean too often has a
+jag on; he couldn’t buy the raw benzine to run
+your chug-chug wagon! Of tawdry thoughts he
+is the fount; his heart is cold and stony. He’s
+ornery and no account; his stately front is
+phony! He owes for all the duds he wears, for
+all the grub he’s swallowed, and at his heels, on
+streets and stairs, the bailiffs long have followed!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And there is none to say to Jack, “Don’t wed
+that dazzling maiden! You think that down a
+starry track she slid to you from Aidenn; but she
+is selfishness boiled down—as mother oft discovers—and
+in the house she wears a frown;
+she keeps her smiles for lovers. She never did a
+useful thing or had a thought uplifting, and ere
+she gets you on her string, look out where you
+are drifting!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>There’s none who dares to tell the truth or
+point the proper courses, so foolish maid weds
+foolish youth, and then we have divorces!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>AMBITIONS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>Ah, once, in sooth, in days of youth, I
+longed to be a pirate; the corsair’s fame
+for deeds of shame—all boys did once desire
+it. At night when gleamed the stars I dreamed
+of sacking Spanish vessels, of clanging swords
+and dripping boards, and bloody scraps and
+wrestles. Then “One-Eyed Lief” the pirate
+chief my hero was and model; in dreams I’d hold
+his stolen gold till I could scarcely waddle. But
+father took his shepherd’s crook and lammed me
+like tarnation, till I forgot that sort of rot for
+milder aspiration.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And still I dreamed; and now I seemed to be
+a baseball pitcher, adored by all, both great and
+small, in wealth grown rich and richer. My
+dreaming eyes saw crowds arise and bless me
+from the bleachers, when I struck out some pinch
+hit lout and beat those Mudville creatures. I
+seemed to stand, sublime and grand, the idol of
+all fandom; men thought me swell, and treasured
+well the words I spoke at random. Ah, boyhood
+schemes, and empty dreams of glory, fame
+and riches! My mother came and tanned my
+frame with sundry birchen switches, and brought
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>me back to duty’s track, and made me hoe the
+onions, dig garden sass and mow the grass until
+my hands had bunions.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>In later days I used to raise my eyes to summits
+splendid. “I’ll hold,” I’d swear, “the
+White House chair, before my life is ended.”
+The years rolled on and dreams are gone, with
+all their gorgeous sallies, and in my town I’m
+holding down a job inspecting alleys.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from
+heights to depths abysmal; the dream of hope is
+golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many
+dreams, so many schemes, upon the hard-rock
+shiver! We think we’ll eat some sirloin meat,
+and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine
+on duck and wine, with garlands hanging o’er
+us, but when some dub calls us to grub, stewed
+prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends,
+though dreaming ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow,
+build airy schemes! Without your
+dreams, this life would be all sorrow.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>CHRISTMAS MUSINGS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>One winter night—how long ago it
+seems!—I lay me down to bask in pleasant
+dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the
+quilting frame, where Santa Claus must see it
+when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good
+and wise, that he would come when I had closed
+my eyes; along the roofs he’d drive his team and
+sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty
+way. And much I wondered, as I drowsy
+grew, how he would pass the elbows in the flue.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The morning came, the Christmas bells rang
+loud, I heard the singing of a joyous crowd,
+and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift
+that made my head whirl round and round. A
+pair of skates, whose runners shone like glass,
+whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass!
+A pair of skates that would the gods suffice, if
+ever gods go scooting o’er the ice! All through
+the day I held them in my arms and nursed them
+close, nor wearied of their charms. I did not
+envy then the king his crown, the knight his
+charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the
+heights of rapture and delight—I had new
+skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then
+are in their graves, the wise old dames and men.
+Since that far day when rang the morning chimes,
+the Christmas bells have rung full forty times;
+the winter snow is on my heart and hair, and
+old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more
+I wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily
+I drift into a dream. Age has no myths, no
+legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are
+mostly griefs.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly
+store, since that bright morning in the time of
+yore. My home is filled with rare and costly
+things, and every day some modern comfort
+brings; I’ve motor cars and also speedy steeds,
+and goods to meet all human wants or needs;
+and at the bank, when I step in the door, the
+money changers bow down to the floor.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale,
+but I am old, and life is flat and stale. I’d
+give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such
+as I knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went
+and showed my youthful mates my Christmas
+gift—a pair of shining skates! For those cheap
+skates I’d give my motor cars, my works of art,
+my Cuba-made cigars, my stocks and bonds, my
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>hunters and my hounds, my stately mansion and
+my terraced grounds, if, having them, I once
+again might know the joy I knew so long, so
+long ago!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE WAY OF A MAN</h3>
+</div>
+<h4 class='c023'>BEFORE MARRIAGE</h4>
+
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>He carried flowers and diamond rings to
+please that dazzling belle, and caramels
+and other things that damsels love so well. He’d
+sit for hours upon a chair and hold her on his
+knees; he blew his money here and there, as
+though it grew on trees. “If I had half what
+you are worth,” he used to say, “my sweet,
+I’d put a shawlstrap round the earth and lay it
+at your feet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He had no other thought, it seemed, than just
+to cheer her heart; and everything of which she
+dreamed, he purchased in the mart.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“When we are spliced,” he used to say,
+“you’ll have all you desire—a gold mine or
+a load of hay, a dachshund or a lyre. My one
+great aim will be to make your life a thing of
+joy, so haste and to the altar take your little
+Clarence boy.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And so she thought she drew a peach when
+they were wed in June. Alas! how oft for
+plums we reach, and only get a prune!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>
+ <h4 class='c023'>AFTER MARRIAGE</h4>
+</div>
+
+<p class='c024'>“And so you want another hat?” he thundered
+to his frau. “Just tell me what is wrong
+with that—the one you’re wearing now! No
+wonder that I have the blues, the way the money
+goes; last week you blew yourself for shoes,
+next week you’ll want new clothes!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“I wish you were like other wives and would
+like them behave; it is the object of their lives
+to help their husbands save. All day I’m in the
+business fight and strain my heart and soul, and
+when I journey home at night, you touch me
+for my roll. You want a twenty-dollar hat, to
+hold your topknot down, or else a new Angora
+cat, a lapdog, or a gown. You lie awake at
+night and think of things you’d like to buy,
+and when I draw a little chink, you surely make
+it fly.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“With such a wife as you, I say, a husband
+has no chance; you pull his starboard limb by
+day, by night you rob his pants.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“My sainted mother, when she dwelt in this
+sad vale of tears, had one old lid of cloth or
+felt, she wore for thirty years. She helped my
+father all the time, she pickled every bone, and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>if she had to blow a dime, it made her weep
+and moan.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“The hat you wear is good as new; ’twill
+do another year. So don’t stand round, the rag
+to chew—I’m busy now, my dear.”</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE TWO SALESMEN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>Two salesmen went to work for Jones, who
+deals in basswood trunks; each drew per
+week eleven bones, eleven big round plunks.
+“It isn’t much,” said Jones, “but then, do
+well, and you’ll get more; I’d like to have some
+high-priced men around this blamed old store.
+You’ll find I’m always glad to pay as much as
+you are worth, so let your curves from day to
+day astonish all the earth.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Then Salesman Number One got down and
+buckled to his work; and people soon, throughout
+the town, were talking of that clerk. He
+was so full of snap and vim, so cheerful and
+serene, that people liked to deal with him, and
+hand him good long green. In busy times he’d
+stay at night to straighten things around, and
+never show a sign of spite, or raise a doleful
+sound. He never feared that he would work a
+half an hour too long, but he those basswood
+trunks would jerk with cheerful smile and song.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And ever and anon Brer Jones would say:
+“You’re good as wheat! I raise your stipend
+seven bones, and soon I will repeat!” And
+now that Salesman Number One is manager they
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>say; each week he draws a bunch of mon big
+as a load of hay.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>But Salesman Number Two was sore because
+his pay was small; he sighed, “The owner
+of this store has seven kinds of gall. He ought
+to pay me eighteen bucks, and more as I advance.
+He ought to treat me white—but shucks! I
+see my name is Pance.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Determined to do just enough to earn his
+meager pay, he watched the clock, and cut up
+rough if late he had to stay. He saw that
+other salesman climb, the man of smiles and
+songs; but still he fooled away his time, and
+brooded o’er his wrongs.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He’s still employed at Jones’ store, but not,
+alas! as clerk; he cleans the windows, sweeps
+the floor, and does the greasy work. He sees
+young fellows make their start and prosper and
+advance, and sadly sighs, with breaking heart,
+I never had a chance!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And thousands raise that same old wail
+throughout this busy land; you hear that gurgle,
+false and stale, wherever failures stand. The
+men who never had a chance are scarce as
+chickens’ teeth, and chaps who simply won’t
+advance must wear the goose-egg wreath.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE PRODIGAL SON</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>“At last I’m wise, I will arise, and seek
+my father’s shack;” thus muttered low
+the ancient bo, and then he hit the track. From
+dwellings rude he’d oft been shooed, been chased
+by farmers’ dogs; this poor old scout, all down
+and out, had herded with the hogs. His heart
+was wrong; it took him long to recognize the
+truth, that there’s a glad and smiling dad for
+each repentant youth. “I will arise, doggone
+my eyes,” the prodigal observed, “and try to
+strike the old straight pike from which I idly
+swerved.” The father saw, while baling straw,
+the truant, sore and lamed; he whooped with
+joy; “my swaybacked boy, you’re welcome!”
+he exclaimed. Midst glee and mirth two dollars’
+worth of fireworks then were burned;
+“we’ll kill a cow,” cried father, “now that
+Reuben has returned!” His sisters sang, the
+farmhouse rang with glee till rafters split, his
+mother sighed with hope and pride, his granny
+had a fit. And it’s today the same old way, the
+lamp doth nightly burn, to guide you home, O,
+boys who roam, if you will but return.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>HOSPITALITY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he
+makes me carry too big a load. He keeps
+close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign
+that I’d like to quit. “You do not eat as a
+host could wish—pray, try some more of the
+deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your
+greens, and take some more of the boneless beans,
+and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s
+a chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our
+cooking has failed to please, if you don’t eat
+more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash
+and the graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp,
+with their large round holes. You are no good
+with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of
+our home grown prunes!” I eat and eat, at
+my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from my
+creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is
+o’er, and nightmares come when I sleep and
+snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails,
+as though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be
+wise, be kind to the cherished guest, and let
+him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make
+him eat through the bill of fare, when you see
+he’s full of a dumb despair!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>HON. CROESUS EXPLAINS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little
+children toil; but why this foolish how-de-do,
+this uproar and turmoil? You say these
+children are but slaves, who, through the age-long
+day, must work in dark and noisome caves
+to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to
+public scorn as one who’s steeped in sin; and
+yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living in.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><i>But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven
+plunks to build a Home for Human
+Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks.</i></p>
+
+<p class='c006'>In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand
+men? I’m tired of that old chestnut;
+please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot
+answer for the fate of those by Trade unmade;
+for men who cannot hit the gait must drop from
+the parade. If scores of people got the worst
+of deals I had in line, if by the losers I am
+cursed, that is no fault of mine. And you, who
+come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use
+my money doing good, as much as any man.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><i>I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my
+conduct moans; for a Retreat for Maiden
+Aunts I just gave twenty bones.</i></p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry
+in tones intense; I’m making widows of their
+wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy
+a fire escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so
+the orphan’s wearing crape upon his Sunday tile.
+I know just what my trade will stand before
+it bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand
+with costly folderols. There is no sentiment in
+trade, let that be understood; but when my
+work aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><i>Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies
+of the Grail, who wish to furnish roasted ducks
+to suffragists in jail.</i></p>
+
+<p class='c006'>You say I violate all laws and laugh the
+courts to scorn, and war on every worthy cause
+as soon as it is born? You can’t admit my
+moral health—you wouldn’t if you could; I
+spend my days in gaining wealth, my nights in
+doing good.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><i>And while the hostile critic roars, I’m giving
+every day; I’m sending nice pink pinafores to
+heathen in Cathay.</i></p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MAÑANA</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE weeds in the garden are growing,
+while I’m sitting here in the shade; I
+know that I ought to be hoeing and doing some
+things with a spade. I know that I shouldn’t
+be shirking in pleasant, arboreal nooks; I know
+that I ought to be working like good little boys
+in the books. They tell me that idling brings
+sorrow, and doubtless they tell me the truth;
+I’ll tackle that garden tomorrow—today I’ve
+a yarn by Old Sleuth!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The fence, so my mother reminds me, needs
+fixing the worst kind of way! So it does; but,
+alas! how it grinds me to wrestle with fence
+boards today! I ought to do stunts with a
+hammer, and cut a wide swath with a saw, and
+raise an industrial clamor out there at the fence
+by the draw. The punishing fires of Gomorrah
+on idlers, ma says, will rain down; I’ll fix up
+that blamed fence tomorrow—today there’s a
+circus in town!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I ought to be whacking up kindling, says ma,
+as she fools with the churn; the pile in the
+woodshed is dwindling, and soon there’ll be
+nothing to burn. There’s Laura, my sister, as
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>busy as any old bee that you know, while all
+my employments are dizzy, productive of nothing
+but woe. I’ll show I’m as eager as Laura to
+make in the sunshine my hay! I’ll split up
+some kindling tomorrow—I planned to go fishing
+today!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I’ve made up my mind to quit fooling and
+do all the chores round the shack. Just wait till
+you see me a-tooling the cow to the pasture and
+back! I’ll show that I’m willing and able!
+I’ll weed out the cucumber vines, I’ll gather
+the eggs ’neath the stable, and curry the horse
+till he shines! A leaf from ma’s book I shall
+borrow and labor away till I fall! I’ll surely
+get busy tomorrow—today there’s a game of
+baseball!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SHOVELING COAL</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>SHOVELING coal, shoveling coal, into the
+furnace’s crater-like hole! Thus goes the
+coin we so wearily earn, into the furnace to sizzle
+and burn; thus it’s converted to ashes and smoke,
+and we keep shoveling, weeping, and broke.
+Oh, it’s a labor that tortures the soul, shoveling
+coal, shoveling coal! “The house,” says the
+wife, “is as cold as a barn,” so I must emigrate,
+muttering “darn,” down to the furnace,
+the which I must feed; it is a glutton, a demon
+of greed! Into its cavern I throw a large load—there
+goes the money I got for an ode!
+There goes the check that I got for a pome,
+boosting the joys of an evening at home! There
+goes the price of full many a scroll, shoveling
+coal, shoveling coal! Things that I need I’m
+not able to buy, I have shut down on the cake
+and the pie; most of my jewels are lying in soak,
+gone is the money for ashes and smoke; all I
+can earn, all the long winter through, goes in
+the furnace and then up the flue. Still says the
+frau, “It’s as cold as a floe, up in the Arctic
+where polar bears grow.” So all my song is of
+sorrow and dole, shoveling coal, shoveling coal!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE DIFFERENCE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN I was as poor as Job, and monkeyed
+around the globe in indolent vagrant
+style, my life was a joyous thing, devoid of a
+smart or sting, and everything seemed to smile.
+I hadn’t a bundle then; I herded with homeless
+men, and padded the highway dust; and care
+was a thing unknown, as scarce as the silver
+bone, in days of the wanderlust. But now
+I am settled down, a prop to this growing town,
+respectable till it hurts; and I have a bundle
+fat, and I have a stovepipe hat, and all kinds
+of scrambled shirts. I puff at a rich cigar, and
+ride in a motor car, and I have a spacious lawn;
+and diamonds upon me shine; my credit is simply
+fine, the newspapers call me Hon. But Worry
+is always near, a-whispering in my ear—I’m
+tired of her morbid talks: “Suppose that the
+bank should bust in which you have placed your
+dust, how then would you feel, Old Sox? Suppose
+that the cyclones swat the farms you have
+lately bought and blow them clear off the map?
+Suppose that your mills should fail, and you
+were locked up in jail, how then would you
+feel, old chap?” Dame Worry is always there;
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>she’s whitened my scanty hair, she’s cankered
+my weary breast; she never goes far away; she
+tortures me all the day and ruins my nightly
+rest. And often at night I sigh for a couch
+’neath the open sky and the long white road
+again; for the march through the sifting dust,
+and the lure of the wanderlust and the camp of
+the homeless men.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>IMMORTAL SANTA</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I MET a little maid who cried, as though
+her heart would break; I asked her why,
+and she replied, “Oh, Santa is a fake! My
+teacher says there never was a being by that
+name, and here I mourn for Santa Claus, and
+all the Christmas game.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“Cheer up, my little girl,” I said, “for
+weeping is a crime; I’ll go and punch that teacher’s
+head as soon as I have time. Old Santa
+lives, the good old boy, his race is not yet run;
+and he will bring the children joy, as he has
+always done. The pedagogues have grown too
+smart, and must take in their sails, if they would
+break a maiden’s heart by telling phony tales.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The young one, anxious to believe that Santa’s
+still on earth, looked up and smiled and ceased
+to grieve, and chortled in her mirth. I have no
+use for folks so wise that legend makes them sad,
+who say those stories are but lies which make
+the children glad. For Santa lives, and that’s
+the truth; and he will always live, while there is
+such a thing as Youth to bless the hands that
+give.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>You may not hear his reindeer’s hoofs go
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>tinkling o’er the snow; you may not see him
+climbing roofs to reach the socks below; and
+down the sooty chimney-hole you may not see
+him slide—for that would grieve the kindest
+soul, and scar the toughest hide—but still he
+goes his rounds and tries to make the children
+gay, and there is laughter in his eyes, on every
+Christmas Day.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>You’re Santa Claus, and so am I, and so is
+every dad, who says at Christmas time, “I’ll
+try to make the young hearts glad!” All other
+men may lay them down and go to rest some
+day; the homes they builded, and their town
+may crumble in decay; and governments may
+rise and fall, and dynasties may lapse, and still,
+triumphant over all, that jolliest of chaps will
+journey through the snow and storm, beneath
+the midnight sky; while souls are true and hearts
+are warm, old Santa shall not die.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE MEN BEHIND</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE firm of Jingleson & Jams, which manufactured
+wooden hams, has closed its doors,
+and in the mill, the wheels and shafting all stand
+still.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>This mighty business was upbuilt by Humper,
+Hooperman & Hilt, who kept the factory on the
+go and made all kinds of fancy dough. Their
+products went to every mart, and cheered the
+retail merchant’s heart, and made consumers
+warble psalms, and ask for more of those elm
+hams. These owners hired the ablest men that
+could be got for love or yen; throughout the mill
+fine workmen wrought; their every motion hit
+the spot; and expert foremen snooped around,
+and if some shabby work they found, the riot act
+they’d promptly speak, in Latin, Choctaw, Dutch
+and Greek.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The finest salesmen in the land were selling
+hams to beat the band. Old Humper said,
+“No ten-cent skate can earn enough to pay the
+freight; cheap men are evermore a frost—they’re
+dear, no matter what they cost. We
+want the ablest men that grow—no other kind
+will have a show.” And so these owners gathered
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>kale until the game seemed old and stale,
+then sold their mill and stock of hams to Messrs.
+Jingleson & Jams.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>These were a pair of cautious gents, who had
+a reverence for cents. They looked around,
+with eager eyes, for chances to economize. They
+had the willies when they gazed upon the payroll—they
+were dazed! “Great whiskers!”
+Jingleson exclaimed, “this wilful waste makes
+me ashamed! This salesman, Jasper Jimpson
+Jones, draws, every month, two hundred bones!
+Why I can hire F. Flimson Flatt, who’ll work
+I know, for half of that!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“And by old Pharaoh’s sacred rams,” remarked
+his partner, Peter Jams, “it’s that way
+all along the list; old Humper must be crazed,
+I wist! We’ll cut these salaries in two—that
+is the first thing we must do!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And so the high-priced expert men were told
+to go, nor come again; and soon the shop began
+to fill with chaps who’d neither brains nor
+skill. The payroll slumped—which made
+Jams glad; but so did trade—which made him
+mad. The product lost its high renown, and
+merchants turned the salesmen down, and they
+sent frantic telegrams to weary Jingleson & Jams.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>When things begin down hill to slide, they
+rush, and will not be denied, and so there came
+slump after slump until the business reached the
+dump, and poor old Jingleson & Jams are mournful
+as a pair of clams.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Economy’s the one best bet—but some kinds
+cost like blitzen, yet!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE BARD IN THE WOODS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>ALONG the forest’s virgin aisles I walk in
+rapture, miles on miles; at every turn delights
+unfold, and wondrous vistas I behold.
+What noble scenes on every hand! I feel my
+ardent soul expand; I turn my face toward the
+sky, and to the firmament I cry:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“<i>The derned mosquitoes—how they bite!
+The woods would be a pure delight, would lure
+all men back to the soil, if these blamed brutes
+were boiled in oil! They come forth buzzing
+from their dens, and they’re as big as Leghorn
+hens, and when they bite they raise a lump that
+makes the victim yell and jump.</i>”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>What wondrous voices have the trees when
+they are rocked by morning breeze! The voices
+of a thousand lyres, the music of a thousand
+choirs, the chorus of a thousand spheres are in
+the noble song one hears! The same sad music
+Adam heard when through the Eden groves he
+stirred; and ever since the primal birth, through
+all the ages of the earth, the trees have whispered,
+chanted, sung, in their soft, untranslated
+tongue. And, moved to tears, I cry aloud, far
+from the sordid madding crowd:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>“<i>Doggone these measly, red-backed ants!
+They will keep climbing up my pants! The
+woods will soon be shy of guests unless the ants
+and kindred pests abolished are by force of law;
+they’ve chewed me up till I am raw.</i>”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Here in these sylvan solitudes, unfettered
+Nature sweetly broods; she’d clasp her offspring
+to her breast, and give her weary children rest,
+and say to them, “No longer weep, but on your
+mother’s bosom sleep.” Here mighty thoughts
+disturb my brain—I try to set them down in
+vain; with noble songs my soul’s afire—I cannot
+fit them to my lyre, Elysian views awhile
+I’ve seen—I cannot tell you what they mean;
+adown the forest aisles I stray, and face the
+glowing East, and say:</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“<i>It must have been a bee, by heck! that
+stung me that time on the neck! It’s time I
+trotted back to town, and got those swellings
+doctored down! With bees and ants and wasps
+and snakes these bosky groves and tangled brakes
+are most too fierce for urban bard—I rather
+long for my back yard!</i>”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>VALUES</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OLD Hiram Hucksmith makes and sells
+green wagons with red wheels; and merry
+as a string of bells in his old age he feels. For
+over all the countryside his wagons have their
+fame, and Hiram sees with wholesome pride,
+the prestige of his name.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He always tells his men: “By jings, my
+output must be good! Don’t ever use dishonest
+things—no wormy steel or wood; use nothing
+but the choicest oak, use silver mounted tacks,
+and every hub and every spoke must be as sound
+as wax. I want the men who buy my carts to
+advertise them well; I do not wish to break the
+hearts of folks to whom I sell.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The farmers bought those wagons green, with
+wheels of sparkling red, and worked them up
+and down, I ween, and of them often said:
+“You cannot bust or wear them out, and if
+you’d break their holt, you’d have to have a
+waterspout or full-sized thunderbolt. The way
+they hang together’s strange, they ought to break
+but won’t, most earthly things decay or change,
+but these blamed wagons don’t.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Old Hiram’s heart with rapture thrilled, to
+hear that sort of stuff; he worked and worked
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>but couldn’t build his wagons fast enough. And
+now he lives on Easy Street, most honored of all
+men who toddle down our village street, and
+then back up again.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Old Jabez Jenkins long has made blue wagons
+with pink spokes, and once he had a goodly
+trade among the farmer folks. With pride his
+bosom did not swell, he knew not to aspire, to
+get up wagons that would sell—that was his
+one desire. And so he made his wheels of pine,
+where rosewood should have been, and counted
+on the painting fine, to hide the faults within.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And often when this sad old top was toiling
+in his shed, a customer would seek his shop and
+deftly punch his head. Wherever Jenkins’
+wagons went, disaster with them flew; the tires
+came off, the axles bent, the kingbolts broke in
+two. You’d see the farmers standing guard
+above their ruined loads, and springing language
+by the yard that fairly scorched the roads.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>This Jenkins now is old and worn, his business
+is decayed; and he can only sit and mourn
+o’er dizzy breaks he made. Old Hiram’s plan
+should suit all men who climb Trade’s rugged
+hill: Give value for the shining yen you put
+into your till.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>STICKING TO IT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I USED to run a beeswax store at Punktown-in-the-Hole,
+and people asked me o’er and
+o’er, “Why don’t you deal in coal? The
+beeswax trade will never pay—you know that
+it’s a sell; if you take in ten bones a day, you
+think you’re doing well.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Thus spake these thoughtful friends of mine;
+I heard their rigmarole, and straightway quit the
+beeswax line, and started selling coal. I built
+up quite a trade in slate, delivered by the pound,
+and just when I could pay the freight, my friends
+again came round. “Great Scott!” they cried,
+“you ought to quit this dark and dirty trade!
+To clean your face of grime and grit we’d need
+a hoe and spade! Quit dealing in such dusty
+wares, and make yourself look slick; lay in a
+stock of Belgian hares, and you’ll make money
+quick.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I bought a thousand Belgian brutes, and
+watched them beige around, and said: “I’ll
+fatten these galoots and sell them by the pound,
+and then I’ll have all kinds of kale, to pleasure
+to devote; around this blamed old world I’ll
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>sail in my own motor boat.” But when the
+hares were getting fat, my friends began to hiss:
+“Great Caesar! Would you look at that!
+What foolishness is this? Why wear out leg
+and back and arm pursuing idle fads? You
+ought to have a ginseng farm, and then you’d
+nail the scads.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The scheme to me seemed good and grand;
+I sold the Belgian brutes, and then I bought a
+strip of land and planted ginseng roots. I hoped
+to see them come up strong, and tilled them
+years and years, until the sheriff came along and
+took me by the ears. And as he pushed me
+off to jail, I passed that beeswax store; the
+owner, loaded down with kale, was standing in
+the door. “If you had stayed right here,” he
+said, “you’d now be doing well; you would
+not by the ears be led toward a loathsome cell.
+But always to disaster wends the man who has
+no spine, who always listens to his friends, and
+thinks their counsel fine.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>“THANKS”</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE lumber man wrapped up some planks,
+for which I paid a yen, and as I left he
+murmured, “Thanks! I hope you’ll call
+again!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Such little courtesies as this make business
+worth the while; they fill a customer with bliss
+and give his mug a smile. Politeness never
+fails to win, and bring the trade your way;
+when I have cash I blow it in with dealers
+blithe and gay.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Of course, in every merchant’s joint, there
+are a thousand cares, which file his temper to
+a point, and give his brow gray hairs. And he
+should have a goat, no doubt, on which to vent
+his spite; a sawdust dummy, good and stout,
+should do for that all right. And then, when
+burdened with his woe, he might a while withdraw,
+and to the basement gaily go, and smash
+that dummy’s jaw. And when he’d sprained
+the dummy’s back, and spoiled its starboard
+glim, he to his duties would retrack, refreshed
+and full of vim.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Some outlet for his flowing bile—on this
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>each man depends; but he should always have a
+smile and “Thank you” for his friends.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>When I am needing further planks, to make
+a chicken pen, I’ll seek the merchant who said,
+“Thanks! I hope you’ll come again!” I feel
+that I am welcome there, in that man’s scantling
+store, and I can use the office chair or sleep
+upon the floor. His cordial treatment makes me
+pant to patronize such gents; and I shall wed
+his maiden aunt and borrow fifty cents.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>I’d sing his praises day and night, if singing
+were allowed; the man consistently polite will
+always charm the crowd.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE OLD ALBUM</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I LIKE to take the album old, with covers
+made of plush and gold—or maybe it is
+brass—and see the pictures of the jays who
+long have gone their divers ways and come no
+more, alas!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>This picture is of Uncle James, who quit
+these futile worldly games full twenty years
+ago; up yonder by the village church, where in
+his pew he used to perch, he now is lying low.
+Unheard by him the church bell chimes; the
+grass has grown a score of times above his sleeping
+form. For him there is no wage or price,
+with him the weather cuts no ice, the sunshine
+or the storm.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Yet here he sits as big as life, as dolled up
+by his loving wife, “to have his picture took.”
+Though dead to all the world of men, yea,
+doubly dead, and dead again, he lives in this
+old book. His long side whiskers, north and
+south, stand forth, like mudguards for his mouth,
+his treasure and his pride. With joy he saw
+those whiskers sprout, with glee he saw them
+broaden out his face, already wide. In those
+sweet days of Auld Lang Syne the men considered
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>whiskers fine and raised them by the
+peck; a man grew whiskers every place that
+they would grow upon his face, and more upon
+his neck. He made his face a garden spot, and
+he was sad that he could not grow whiskers on
+his brow; he prized his whiskers more than
+mon and raised his spinach by the ton—where
+are those whiskers now?</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>Oh, ask the ghost of Uncle James, whose
+whiskers grew on latticed frames—at least,
+they look that way, as in this picture they appear,
+this photograph of yesteryear, so faded,
+dim and gray.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>My Uncle James looks sad and worn; he
+wears a smile, but it’s forlorn, a grin that seems
+to freeze. And one can hear the artist say—that
+artist dead and gone his way—“Now,
+then, look pleasant, please!” My uncle’s eyes
+seem full of tears. What wonder when, beneath
+his ears, two prongs are pressing sore?
+They’re there to hold his head in place, while
+he presents a smiling face for half an hour or
+more. The minutes drag—if they’d but rush!
+The artist stands and whispers, “Hush! Don’t
+breathe or wink your eyes! Don’t let your
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>smile evaporate, but keep it rigid, firm and
+straight—in it all virtue lies!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>It is a scene of long ago, when art was long
+and time was slow, brought back by this old
+book; there were no anesthetics then, and horror
+filled the souls of men who “had their pictures
+took.” Strange thoughts all soulful people
+hold, when poring o’er an album old, the book
+of vanished years. The dead ones seem to come
+again, the queer, old-fashioned dames and men,
+with prongs beneath their ears!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>WAR AND PEACE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE bugles sound, the prancing chargers
+neigh, and dauntless men have journeyed
+forth to slay. Mild farmer lads will wade
+around in gore and shoot up gents they never
+saw before. Pale dry goods clerks, amid war’s
+wild alarms, pursue the foe and hew off legs and
+arms. The long-haired bards forget their
+metred sins and walk through carnage clear up
+to their chins.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“My country calls!” the loyal grocer cries,
+then stops a bullet with his form and dies.
+“’Tis glory beckons!” cry the ardent clerks;
+a bursting shell then hits them in the works.
+And dark-winged vultures float along the air,
+and dead are piled like cordwood everywhere.
+A regiment goes forth with banners gay; a mine
+explodes, and it is blown away. There is a
+shower of patriotic blood; some bones are swimming
+in the crimson mud. Strong, brave young
+men, who might be shucking corn, thus uselessly
+are mangled, rent and torn. They call it glory
+when a fellow falls, his midriff split by whizzing
+cannon balls; but there’s more glory in a field
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>of hay, where brave men work for fifteen bits
+a day.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The bugles blow, the soldiers ride away, to
+gather glory in the mighty fray; their heads
+thrown back, their martial shoulders squared—what
+sight with this can ever be compared? And
+they have dreams of honors to be won, of
+wreaths of laurel when the war is done. The
+women watch the soldiers ride away, and to
+their homes repair to weep and pray.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>No bugles sound when back the soldiers come;
+there is no marching to the beat of drum. There
+are no chargers, speckled with their foam; but
+one by one the soldiers straggle home. With
+empty sleeves, with wooden legs they drill, along
+the highway, up the village hill. Their heads
+are gray, but not with weight of years, and all
+the sorrow of all worlds and spheres is in their
+eyes; for they have walked with Doom, have
+seen their country changed into a tomb. And
+one comes back where twenty went away, and
+nineteen widows kneel alone and pray.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>They call it glory—oh, let glory cease, and
+give the world once more the boon of peace!
+I’d rather watch the farmer go afield than see
+the soldier buckle on his shield! I’d rather hear
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>the reaper’s raucous roar than hear a colonel
+clamoring for gore! I’d rather watch a hired
+man milk a cow, and hear him cussing when she
+kicks his brow, than see a major grind his
+snickersnee to split a skull and make his country
+free! I’d rather watch the grocer sell his
+cheese, his boneless prunes and early winter peas,
+and feed the people at a modest price, than see
+a captain whack an ample slice, with sword or
+claymore, from a warlike foe—for peace is
+weal, and war is merely woe.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE CROOKS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE people who beat you, hornswoggle and
+cheat you, don’t profit for long from the
+kale; for folks who are tricky find Nemesis
+sticky—it never abandons their trail. I’ve
+often been cheated; the trick’s been repeated so
+often I cannot keep tab; but ne’er has the duffer
+who thus made me suffer been much better
+off for his grab. It pays not to swindle; dishonest
+rolls dwindle like snow when exposed to
+the sun; like feathers in Tophet is burned up
+the profit of cheating, the crooked man’s mon.
+The people who sting me unknowingly bring me
+philosophy fresh, by the crate; I don’t get excited—my
+wrongs will be righted, by Nemesis, Fortune,
+or Fate. I know that the stingers—they
+think they are dingers, and gloat o’er the
+coin they don’t earn—I know they’ll be busted
+and sick and disgusted, while I still have rubles
+to burn. I’d rather be hollow with hunger
+than follow the course that the tricksters pursue;
+I’d rather be “easy” than do as the breezy
+and conscienceless gentlemen do. Far better
+the shilling you’ve earned by the tilling of soil
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>that is harder than bricks, than any old dollar
+you manage to collar by crooked and devious
+tricks.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE TRAMP</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HIS hair is long, his breath is strong, his hat
+is old and battered, his knees are sprung,
+his nerves unstrung, his clothes are badly tattered,
+his shoes are worn, his hide’s been torn by bow-wows
+fierce and snarling; and yet, by heck!
+this tough old wreck was once some daddy’s
+darling!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He still must hit the ties and grit. A dismal
+fate is his’n; for if he stops, the village
+cops will slam him into prison. Some hayseed
+judge would make him trudge out where the
+rock pile’s lying, to labor there, in his despair,
+till next year’s snows are flying. The women
+shy when he goes by; with righteous wrath they
+con him. Men give him kicks and hand him
+bricks and train their shotguns on him. His
+legs are sprained, his fetlocks strained, from
+climbing highways hilly; it’s hard to think this
+seedy gink was someone’s little Willie!</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And yet ’tis so. Once, long ago, some dad
+of him was bragging, and matrons mild surveyed
+the child and set their tongues a-wagging.
+“What lovely eyes!” one woman cries.
+“They look like strips of heaven!” “And
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>note his hairs!” a dame declares. “I’ve
+counted six or seven!” “His temper’s sweet,”
+they all repeat; “he makes no fuss or bother.
+He has a smile that’s free from guile—he
+looks just like his father!” Thus women
+talked as he was rocked to slumber in his cradle;
+they filled with praise his infant days, poured
+taffy with a ladle.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>And ma and dad, with bosoms glad, planned
+futures for the creature. “I’ll have my way,”
+the wife would say; “the child must be a
+preacher! His tastes are pure, of that I’m sure,”
+she says, with optimism; “for when he strays
+around and plays, he grabs the catechism!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>“Ah, well,” says dad, “the lovely lad will
+reach great heights—I know it. I have the
+dope that he’ll beat Pope or Byron as a poet.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>To give him toys and bring him joys, the savings
+bank was burgled; folks cried, “Gee whiz!
+How cute he is!” whenever baby gurgled.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>His feet are bare, his matted hair could not
+be combed with harrows; his garb is weird, and
+in his beard are bobolinks and sparrows. You’d
+never think, to see the gink, that ever he had
+parents! Can it be so that long ago he was
+somebody’s Clarence?</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE DOLOROUS WAY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>AS a mortal man grows older he has pains
+in hoof or shoulder, by a thousand aches
+and wrenches all his weary frame is torn; he
+has headache and hay fever till he is a stout
+believer in the theory of the poet that the race
+was made to mourn. He has gout or rheumatism
+and he’s prone to pessimism, and he
+takes a thousand balsams, and the bottles strew
+the yard; he has grip and influenzy till his soul
+is in a frenzy, and he longs to end the journey,
+for this life is beastly hard. And his system’s
+revolution is Dame Nature’s retribution for the
+folly of his conduct in the days of long ago; in
+his anguish nearly fainting he is paying for the
+painting, for the wassail and the ruffling that his
+evenings used to know. We may dance and
+have our inning in our manhood’s bright beginning,
+but we all must pay the fiddler, pay him
+soon or pay him late, and a million men are paying
+for the dancing and the playing, who are
+charging up their troubles to misfortune or to
+fate.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>LOOKING FORWARD</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I OFTEN wonder how this globe will struggle
+on when I cash in, when I put on my long
+white robe and sleep with cold but peaceful
+grin. I find it hard to realize that sun and
+moon and stars will shine, that clouds will drift
+along the skies, when everlasting sleep is mine.
+What is the use of keeping up the long procession
+of the spheres, when I’m beneath the butter-cup,
+with gumbo in my eyes and ears? What
+is the use of dusk or dawn, of starless dark or
+glaring light, when I from all these scenes am
+gone, down to a million years of night? Young
+men will vow the same sweet vows, and maids
+with beating hearts will hear, beneath the churchyard
+maple’s boughs, and reck not that I’m resting
+near. And to the altar, up the aisle, the
+blooming brides of June will go, and bells will
+ring and damsels smile, and I’ll be too blamed
+dead to know. Ah, well, I’ve had my share of
+fun, I’ve lived and loved and shut the door;
+and when this little journey’s done, I’ll go to
+rest without a roar.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SEEING THE WORLD</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HE jogged around from town to town, “to
+see the world,” was his excuse; he’d get
+a job and hold it down a little while, then turn
+it loose. “Oh, stay,” employers use to say;
+“your moving is a foolish trick; you’ll soon be
+earning bigger pay, for we’ll promote you pretty
+quick.” “This town is punk,” he would reply,
+“and every street is surnamed Queer; I’d see the
+world before I die—I do not wish to stagnate
+here.” Then he was young and quick and
+strong, and jobs were thick, as he jogged by,
+till people passed the word along that on him
+no one could rely. Then, when he landed in a
+town, and wished to earn a humble scad, the
+stern employers turned him down—“we want
+you not, your record’s bad.” He’s homeless in
+these wintry days, he has no bed, no place to
+sup; he “saw the world” in every phase; the
+world saw him—and passed him up. It’s good
+to “see the world,” no doubt, but one should
+make his bundle first, or age will find him down
+and out, panhandling for the wienerwurst.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE POLITE MAN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN Wigglewax is on the street, a
+charming smile adorns his face; to every
+dame he haps to meet, he bows with courtly,
+old world grace. His seat, when riding in a
+car, to any girl he’ll sweetly yield; and women
+praise him near and far, and say he is a Chesterfield.
+Throughout the town, from west to east,
+the man for chivalry is famed. “The Bayards
+are not all deceased,” the women say, when he
+is named. At home this Bayard isn’t thus; his
+eye is fierce, his face is sour; he looks around
+for things to cuss, and jaws the women by the
+hour. His daughters tremble at his frown, and
+wonder why he’s such a bear; his wife would
+like to jump the town, and hide herself most anywhere.
+But if a visitor drops in, his manner
+changes with a jerk, he wears his false and shallow
+grin, and bows like some jimtwisted Turk.
+Then for his daughters and his wife he wears
+his smile serene and fat, and callers say, “No
+sordid strife can enter such a home as that!”
+A million frauds like Wigglewax are smirking
+on the streets today, and when at eve they seek
+their shacks, they’ll beef and grouch, the old
+stale way.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>UNCONQUERED</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>LET tribulation’s waters roll, and drench me
+as I don’t deserve! I am the captain of
+my soul, I am the colonel of my nerve. Don’t
+say my boasting’s out of place, don’t greet
+me with a jeer or scoff; I’ve met misfortune face
+to face, and pulled its blooming whiskers off.
+For I have sounded all the deeps of poverty and
+ill and woe, and that old smile I wear for keeps
+still pushed my features to and fro. Oh, I have
+walked the wintry streets all night because I had
+no bed; and I have hungered for the eats, and
+no one handed me the bread. And I have
+herded with the swine like that old prodigal of
+yore, and this elastic smile of mine upon my
+countenance I wore. For I believed and still
+believe that nothing ill is here to stay; the
+woozy woe, that makes us grieve, tomorrow will
+be blown away. My old-time griefs went up
+in smoke, and I remain a giggling bard; I look
+on trouble as a joke, and chortle when it hits
+me hard. It’s all your attitude of mind that
+makes you gay or sad, my boy, that makes
+your work a beastly grind, or makes it seem a
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>round of joy. The mind within me governs all,
+and brings me gladness or disgust; I am the
+captain of my gall, I am the major of my crust.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>REGULAR HOURS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I HIT the hay at ten o’clock, and then I sleep
+around the block, till half past five; I hear
+the early robin’s voice, and see the sunrise, and
+rejoice that I’m alive. From pain and katzenjammer
+free, my breakfast tastes as good to me
+as any meal; I throw in luscious buckwheat
+cakes, and scrambled eggs and sirloin steaks,
+and breaded veal. And as downtown I gaily
+wend, I often overtake a friend who’s gone to
+waste; “I stayed up late last night,” he sighs,
+“and now I have two bloodshot eyes, and dark
+brown taste; I’d give a picayune to die, for I’m
+so full of grief that I can hardly walk; I’ll have
+to brace the drugstore clerks and throw some
+bromo to my works, or they will balk.” But
+yesterday I saw a man to whom had been attached
+the can by angry boss, he wassailed all
+the night away, and then showed up for work
+by day a total loss. Don’t turn the night time
+into day, or loaf along the Great White Way—that
+habit grows; if to the front you hope to
+keep, you must devote your nights to sleep—I
+tell you those.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>PLANTING A TREE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>TO be in line with worthy folk, you soon
+must plant an elm or oak, a beech or
+maple fair to see, a single or a double tree.
+When winter’s storms no longer roll, go, get a
+spade and dig a hole, and bring a sapling from
+the woods, and show your neighbors you’re the
+goods. What though with years you’re bowed
+and bent, and feel your life is nearly spent? The
+tree you plant will rear its limbs, and there the
+birds will sing their hymns, and in its cool and
+grateful shade the girls will sip their lemonade;
+and lovers there on moonlight nights will get Dan
+Cupid dead to rights; and fervid oaths and tender
+vows will go a-zipping through its boughs.
+And folks will say, with gentle sigh, “Long years
+ago an ancient guy, whose whiskers brushed
+against his knee, inserted in the ground this tree.
+’Twas but a little sapling then; and he, the
+kindest of old men, was well aware that he’d
+be dead, long ere its branches grew and spread,
+but still he stuck it in the mould, and never did
+his feet grow cold. Oh, he was wise and kind
+and brave—let’s place a nosegay on his
+grave!”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DREAMERS AND WORKERS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE dreamers sit and ponder on distant
+things and dim, across the skyline yonder,
+where unknown planets swim; they roam the
+starry reaches—at least, they think they do—with
+patches on their breeches and holes in either
+shoe. The workers still are steaming around at
+useful chores; they always save their dreaming
+for night, to mix with snores. They’re toiling
+on their places, they’re raising roastin’ ears, they
+are not keeping cases on far, uncharted spheres.
+They’re growing beans and carrots, and hay
+that can’t be beat, while dreamers in their garrets
+have not enough to eat. Oh, now and then
+a dreamer is most unduly smart, and shows he
+is a screamer in letters or in art; but where one
+is a winner, ten thousand dreamers weep because
+they lack a dinner, and have no place to
+sleep. There is a streak of yellow in dreamers,
+as a class; the worker is the fellow who makes
+things come to pass; he keeps the forges burning,
+the dinner pail he fills, he keeps the pulleys
+turning in forty thousand mills. The man with
+dreams a-plenty, who lives on musty prunes, beside
+him looks like twenty or eighteen picayunes.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SPRING SICKNESS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THIS is the season when the blood, according
+to the learned physician, is thick and
+flows as slow as mud, which puts a man in bad
+condition. Spring sickness is a fell disease, according
+to our time-worn notions, and, having
+it, the victim flees, to blow himself for dopes and
+potions. “I have to thin the sluggish stream,”
+he says, “which through my system passes; it’s
+thicker now than cheap ice cream, and flows
+like New Orleans molasses.” From all spring
+ills he’d have release, if he would tramp his
+potions under, and get a jar of Elbow Grease,
+the medicine that’s cheap as thunder. To get
+out doors where breezes blow, and tinker
+’round to beat the dickens, would make a lot of
+ailments go, and thin the blood that winter
+thickens. Instead of taking pale pink pills which
+are designed for purple parties, go, plant the
+spuds in shallow hills, and you’ll be feeling fine,
+my hearties! We are too fond of taking dope,
+while in our easy chairs reclining, when we
+should shed our coats and slope out yonder where
+the sun is shining.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>ON THE BRIDGE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, and
+looked at the sizzling town, where the pleasure
+seeking people were holding the sidewalks
+down. The moon rose over the city and shone
+on the dames and gents, but the glare of the
+lights electric made it look like twenty cents.
+The windows of homes were darkened, for no
+one was staying there; the children, as well, as
+grownups, were all in the Great White Glare.
+Deserted were all the firesides, abandoned the
+old-time game; alas, that the old home circle is
+naught but an empty name! The father is out
+chug-chugging, the mother is at her club, the
+kids see the moving pictures, and go to hotels
+for grub. How often, oh, how often, in the
+days that seemed good to me, have I looked
+at the children playing at home, where they
+ought to be! How often, oh, how often, in
+those days of the proper stamp, have I gazed on
+the parents reading, at home, by the evening
+lamp! But the world has gone to thunder,
+forgotten that elder day; and I took up the
+bridge and broke it, and threw all the chunks
+away.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MR. CHUCKLEHEAD</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HE shuts the windows, and shuts the doors,
+and then he lies in his bed and snores,
+and breathes old air that is stale and flat—the
+kind of air that would kill a cat. He says
+next day: “I am feeling tough; I’ll have to
+visit old Dr. Guff, and buy a pint of his pale
+pink pills, or I shall harbor some fatal ills.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He fills his system with steaks and pies, and
+never indulges in exercise. He eats and drinks
+of the market’s best, until the buttons fly off his
+vest; he’s grown so mighty of breadth and girth
+that when he gambols he shakes the earth. “I’ll
+see Doc Faker,” he says; “that’s flat; I’ll get
+his dope for reducing fat. Doc Faker says he
+can make me gaunt, and let me eat all the stuff
+I want.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>He sits and mopes in his study chair, while
+others toil in the open air. He quaffs iced drinks
+through the sultry day, electric fans on his person
+play. “I feel despondent,” he murmurs low;
+“I lack the vim that I used to know; my liver’s
+loose and my kidneys balk, and my knee joints
+creak when I try to walk. I’ll call Doc Clinker
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>and have him bring his Compound Juice of the
+Flowers of Spring.”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>His head is bald where the tresses grew in
+the long gone days when his scalp was new. He
+won’t believe that the hair won’t grow where
+it lost its grip in the long ago. He tries all manner
+of dope and drug; he buys Hair Balm by
+the gallon jug; he reads the papers and almanacs
+for news concerning the Mystic Wax which
+surely maketh the wool appear on heads gone
+bare in the yesteryear.</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>The more he uses of patent dopes, the more
+he worries, the more he mopes. And all he
+needs to be blithe and gay is just to throw his
+old jugs away, to do some work, as his fathers
+toiled, to let in air that has not been spoiled,
+to rest his stomach and work his thews, quit
+pressing coat tails and shake his shoes. If
+Chucklehead and his tribe did this, they’d soon
+find health, which is short for bliss; and old Doc
+Faker and all his gang would close their offices
+and go hang.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>IN THE SPRING</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IN the spring the joyous husband hangs the
+carpet on the line, and assaults it with a horsewhip
+till its colors fairly shine; and the dust that
+rises from it fills the alley and the court, and he
+murmurs, ’twixt his sneezes: “This is surely
+splendid sport!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>In the spring the well-trained husband wrestles
+with the heating stove, while the flippant-minded
+neighbors go a-fishing in a drove. With the pipes
+and wire he tinkers, and his laughter fills the
+place, when the wholesome soot and ashes gather
+on his hands and face; and he says: “I’d like
+to labor at this task from sun to sun; this is what
+I call diversion—this is pure and perfect fun!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>In the spring the model husband carries furniture
+outdoors, and he gaily helps the women
+when they want to paint the floors; and he
+blithely eats his supper sitting on the cellar stairs,
+for he knows his wife has varnished all the
+tables and the chairs. Oh, he carries pails of
+water, and he carries beds and ticks, and he
+props up the veranda with a wagonload of
+bricks, and he deftly spades the garden, and he
+paints the barn and fence, and he rakes and
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>burns the rubbish with an energy intense, saying
+ever as he labors, in the house or out of doors:
+“How I wish my wife and daughters could
+suggest some other chores!”</p>
+
+<p class='c006'>In the spring this sort of husband may be
+found—there’s one in Spain, there is one in
+South Dakota and another one in Maine.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>BE JOYFUL</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>YOU’D better be joking than kicking or
+croaking, you’d better be saying that life is
+a joy, then folks will caress you and praise you
+and bless you, and say you’re a peach and a
+broth of a boy. You’d better be cheery, not
+drooling and dreary, from the time you get up
+till you go to your couch; or people will hate
+you and roast and berate you—they don’t like
+the man with a hangover grouch. You’d better
+be leaving the groaning and grieving to men who
+have woes of the genuine kind; you know that
+your troubles are fragile as bubbles, they are
+but the growth of a colicky mind. You’d better
+be grinning while you have your inning, or
+when a real trouble is racking your soul, your
+friends will be growling, “He always is howling—he
+wouldn’t touch joy with a twenty-foot
+pole.” You’d better be pleasant; if sorrow is
+present, there’s no use in chaining it fast to your
+door; far better to shoo it, and hoot and pursue
+it, and then it may go and come back never
+more.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GOOD AND EVIL</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE poet got his facts awry, concerning
+what lives after death; the good men do
+lives on for aye, the evil passes like a breath. A
+noble thought, by thinker thunk, will live and
+flourish through the years; a thought ignoble
+goes kerplunk, to perish in a pool of tears. Man
+dies, and folks around his bed behold his tranquil,
+outworn clay; “We’ll speak no evil of the
+dead, but recollect the good,” they say. Then
+one recalls some noble trait which figured in the
+ice-cold gent. “He fixed the Widow Johnsing’s
+gate, and wouldn’t charge a doggone
+cent.” “Oh, he was grand when folks were
+ill; he’d stay and nurse them night and day,
+hand them the bolus and the pill, and never
+hint around for pay.” “He ran three blocks
+to catch my wig when April weather was at
+large.” “He butchered Mrs. Jagway’s pig, and
+smoked the hams, and didn’t charge.” Thus
+men conspire, to place on file and make a record
+of the good, and they’d forget the mean or
+vile for which, perhaps, in life you stood. The
+shining heroes we admire had faults and vices
+just like you; when they concluded to expire,
+their failings kicked the bucket, too.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>BROWN OCTOBER ALE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HOW many ringing songs there are that celebrate
+the wine, and other goods behind
+the bar, as being wondrous fine! How many
+choruses exalt the brown October ale, which
+puts a fellow’s wits at fault, and lands him in
+the jail! A hundred poets wasted ink, and
+ruined good quill pens, describing all the joys of
+drink in gilded boozing kens. But all those
+joys are hollow fakes which wisdom can’t indorse;
+they’re soon converted into aches and
+sorrow and remorse. The man who drains the
+brimming glass in haunts of light and song, next
+morning knows that he’s an ass, with ears twelve
+inches long. An aching head, a pile of debts,
+a taste that’s green and stale, that’s what the
+merry fellow gets from brown October ale. Untimely
+graves and weeping wives and orphans
+shedding brine; this sort of thing the world
+derives from bright and sparkling wine. The
+prison cell, the scaffold near; such features may
+be blamed on wholesome keg and bottled beer,
+which made one city famed. Oh, sing of mud
+or axle grease, but chant no fairy tale, of that
+disturber of the peace, the brown October ale!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c000' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DELIVER US</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>FROM all the woe and sorrow that bloody
+warfare brings, when monarchs start to borrow
+some grief from other kings, from dreadful
+scenes of slaughter, and dead men by the cord,
+from blood that flows like water, deliver us, O
+Lord! From fear and melancholy that every
+death list gives, from all the pompous folly in
+which an army lives, from all the strife stupendous,
+that brings no sane reward, but only
+loss tremendous, deliver us, O Lord! From
+seeing friend and neighbor in tools of death
+arrayed, deserting useful labor to wield the
+thirsty blade; from seeing plowshares lying all
+rusty on the sward, where men and boys are
+dying, deliver us, O Lord! From seeing foreign
+legions invade our peaceful shore, and turn
+these smiling regions to scenes of death and
+gore, from all the desolation the gods of war
+accord to every fighting nation, deliver us, O
+Lord!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DOING ONE’S BEST</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>ONE sweetly solemn thought comes to me
+every night; I at my task have wrought,
+and tried to do it right. No doubt my work
+is punk, my efforts are a jest; however poor my
+junk, it represents my best. If you, at close of
+day, when sounds the quitting bell, that truthfully
+can say, you’re doing pretty well. Some
+beat you galley west, and bear away the prize,
+but you have done your best—in that the
+honor lies. And, having done your best, your
+conscience doesn’t hurt; serene you go to rest,
+in your long muslin shirt. And at the close of
+life, when you have said good-bye to cousin, aunt
+and wife, and all the children nigh, you’ll face
+the river cold that flows to islands blest, with
+courage high and bold, if you have done your
+best. No craven fears you’ll know, no terrors
+fierce and sharp, but like a prince you’ll go, to
+draw your crown and harp. So, then, whate’er
+the field in which you do your stunt, whatever
+tool you wield to earn your share of blunt, toil
+on with eager zest, nor falter in that plan; the
+one who does his best is God’s blue-ribbon
+man.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>A LITTLE WHILE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>A FEW more years, or a few more days,
+and we’ll all be gone from the rugged
+ways wherein we are jogging now; a few more
+seasons of stress and toil, then we’ll all turn in
+to enrich the soil, for some future farmer’s plow.
+A few more years and the grass will grow where
+you and the push are lying low, your arduous
+labors o’er; and those surviving will toil and
+strain, their bosoms full of the same old pain
+you knew in the days of yore. Oh, what’s the
+use of the carking care, or the load of grief that
+we always bear, in such a brief life as this? A
+few more years and we will not know a side of
+beef from a woozy woe, an ache from a bridal
+kiss. “I fear the future,” you trembling say,
+and nurse your fear in a dotard way, and
+moisten it with a tear; the future day is a day
+unborn, and you’ll be dead on its natal morn,
+so live while the present’s here. A few more
+years and you cannot tell a quart of tears from
+a wedding bell, a wreath from a beggar’s rags;
+you’ll take a ride to the place of tombs in a
+jaunty hearse with its nodding plumes, and a
+pair of milk-black nags. So while you stay on
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>the old gray earth, cut up and dance with exceeding
+mirth, have nothing to do with woe; a
+few more years and you cannot weep, you’ll be
+so quiet and sound asleep, where the johnnie-jumpups
+grow.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE IDLERS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>MEN labor against the hames, and sweat
+till they’re old and gray, supporting the
+stall-fed dames who idle their years away.
+We’ve bred up a futile race of women who
+have no care, except for enameled face, or
+a sea-green shade of hair, who always are richly
+gowned and wearing imported lids, who carry
+their poodles ’round, preferring the pups to kids.
+And husbands exhaust their frames, and strain
+till their journey’s done, supporting the stall-fed
+dames, who never have toiled or spun. We’re
+placed in this world to work, to harvest our crop
+of prunes; Jehovah abhors the shirk, in gown
+or in trouserloons. The loafers in gems and
+silk are bad as the fragrant vags, who pilfer and
+beg and bilk, and die in their rancid rags. The
+loafers at bridge-whist games, the loafers at
+purple teas, the hand-painted stall-fed dames,
+are chains on the workers’ knees. The women
+who cook and sew, the women who manage
+homes, who have no desire to grow green hair
+on enameled domes, how noble and good they
+seem, how wholesome and sane their aim, compared
+with that human scream, the brass-mounted,
+stall-fed dame!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>LITERATURE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I LIKE a rattling story of whiskered buccaneers,
+whose ships are black and gory, who
+cut off people’s ears. A yarn of Henry Morgan
+warms up my jaded heart, and makes that ancient
+organ feel young and brave and smart. I like detective
+fiction, it always hits the spot, however
+poor in diction, however punk in plot; I like the
+sleuth who follows a clue o’er hill and vale, until
+the victim swallows his medicine in jail. I like all
+stories ripping, in which some folks are killed,
+in which the guns go zipping, and everyone is
+thrilled. But when I have some callers, I hide
+those books away, those good old soul enthrallers
+which make my evenings gay. I blush for
+them, by jingo, and all their harmless games;
+I talk the highbrow lingo, and swear by Henry
+James. When sitting in my shanty, to “have
+my picture took,” I hold a work by Dante, or
+other heavy book. But when the artist’s vanished,
+I drop those dippy pomes, old Dante’s
+stuff is banished—I reach for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>NURSING GRIEF</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I KNOW not what may be your woe, how
+deep the grief you nurse, but if you bid the
+blamed thing go, it’s likely to disperse. If you
+would say, “Cheap grief, depart!” you soon
+might dance and sing; instead, you fold it to
+your heart, or lead it with a string. Oh, every
+time I go outdoors, I meet some mournful men,
+who talk about their boils or sores, of felon or
+of wen. Why put your misery in words, and
+thus your woe prolong? ’Twere best to talk
+about the birds, which sing their ragtime song;
+or of the cheerful clucking hens, which guard
+their nests of eggs; that beats a tale of corns or
+wens, of mumps or spavined legs. We go
+a-groaning of our aches, of damaged feet or
+backs, and nearly all our pains are fakes, when
+we come down to tacks. We talk about financial
+ills when we have coin to burn—and if we
+wish for dollar bills, there’s lots of them to earn.
+We cherish every little grief, when we should
+blithely smile; and if a woe’s by nature brief,
+we string it out a mile. Oh, let us cease to
+magnify each trifling ill and pain, and wear a
+sunbeam in each eye, and show we’re safe and
+sane.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE IDLE RICH</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I’M fond of coin, but I don’t itch to be among
+the idle rich, who have long green to burn;
+their wealth I could not well employ, for I could
+never much enjoy the bone I did not earn. Oh,
+every coin of mine is wet with honest, rich, transparent
+sweat, until it has been dried; it represents
+no sire’s bequest, no buried miser’s treasure
+chest, no “multi’s” pomp and pride. I grind
+my anthem mill at home, and every time I make
+a pome, I take in fifty cents; I get more pleasure
+blowing in this hard-earned, sweat-stained slice
+of tin, than do the wealthy gents. Their coin
+comes easy as the rain, it represents no stress or
+strain, no toil in shop or den; they use their
+wealth to buy and sell, like taking water from
+a well; the hole fills up again. We do not
+value much the thing, which, like an everlasting
+spring, wells up, year after year; if you’d appreciate
+a bone, you have to earn it with a groan,
+and soak it with a tear. I’d rather have the
+rusty dime for which I labored overtime, and
+sprained a wing or slat, than have the large and
+shining buck that Fortune handed me, or Luck;
+get wise, rich lad, to that.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>PASSING THE HAT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>PASSING the hat, passing the hat! Some
+one forever gets busy at that! Oh, it seems
+useless to struggle and strain, all our endeavor
+is hopeless and vain; when we have gathered a
+small, slender roll, hoping to lay in some cordwood
+or coal, hoping to purchase some flour and
+some spuds, hoping to pay for the ready made
+duds, hoping to purchase a bone for the cat, some
+one comes cheerfully passing the hat! Passing
+the hat that the bums may be warm, passing the
+hat for some noble reform, passing the hat for
+the fellows who fail, passing the hat to remodel
+the jail, passing the bonnet for this or for that,
+some one forever is passing the hat! Dig up
+your bundle and hand out your roll, if you don’t
+do it you’re lacking a soul! What if the feet
+of your children are bare? What if your wife
+has no corset to wear? What if your granny
+is weeping for shoes? What if the grocer’s demanding
+his dues? Some one will laugh
+at such logic as that, some one who’s merrily
+passing the hat! Passing the hat for the pink
+lemonade, passing the hat for a moral crusade,
+passing the hat to extinguish the rat—some one
+forever is passing the hat!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GOING TO SCHOOL</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>“I HATE to tool my feet to school,” we
+hear the boy confessin’; “I’d like to play
+the livelong day, and dodge the useful lesson.
+The rule of three gives pain to me, old Euclid
+makes me weary, the verbs of Greece disturb
+my peace, geography is dreary. I’ll go and
+fish; I do not wish to spend my lifetime schooling;
+I do not care to languish there, and hear
+the teacher drooling.” His books he hates, his
+maps and slates, and all the schoolhouse litter;
+he feels oppressed and longs for rest, his sorrows
+make him bitter. The years scoot on and soon
+are gone, for years are restless friskers; the
+schoolboy small is now grown tall, and has
+twelve kinds of whiskers. “Alas,” he sighs,
+“had I been wise, when I was young and sassy,
+I well might hold, now that I’m old, a situation
+classy. But all the day I thought of play, and
+fooled away my chances, and here I strain, with
+grief and pain, in rotten circumstances. I’m
+always strapped; I’m handicapped by lack of
+useful knowledge; through briny tears I view the
+years I loafed in school and college!”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>NOT WORTH WHILE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE night of death will soon descend; a
+few short years and then the end, and
+perfect rest is ours; forgotten by the busy throng,
+we’ll sleep, while seasons roll along, beneath
+the grass and flowers. Our sojourn in this world
+is brief, so why go hunting care and grief, why
+have a troubled mind? And what’s the use of
+getting mad, and making folks around us sad,
+by saying words unkind? Why not abjure the
+base and mean, why not be sunny and serene,
+from spite and envy free? Why not be happy
+while we may, and make our little earthly stay
+a joyous jamboree? We’re here for such a
+little while! And then we go and leave the
+pile for which we strive and strain; worn out
+and broken by the grind, we go, and leave our
+wads behind—such effort’s all in vain. We
+break our hearts and twist our souls acquiring
+large and useless rolls of coins and kindred
+things, and when we reach St. Peter’s Town,
+they will not buy a sheet-iron crown, or cast-off
+pair of wings.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MISREPRESENTATION</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I BOUGHT a pound of yellow cheese, the
+other day, from Grocer Wheeze. And as
+he wrapped it up he cried, “In this fine cheese
+I take much pride. It’s made from Jersey cream
+and milk, and you will find it fine as silk; it’s
+absolutely pure and clean, contains no dyes or
+gasoline, it’s rich and sweet, without a taint,
+doggone my buttons if it ain’t. Oh, it will chase
+away your woe, and make your hair and whiskers
+grow.” I took it home with eager feet,
+impatient to sit down and eat, for I am fond
+of high-class cheese, which with my inner works
+agrees. But that blamed stuff was rank and
+strong, for it had been on earth too long. My
+wife, a good and patient soul, remarked, “Bring
+me a ten-foot pole, before you do your other
+chores, and I will take that cheese out doors.
+Before it’s fit for human grub we’ll have to stun
+it with a club.” What does a sawed-off grocer
+gain by such a trick, unsafe, insane? And what
+does any merchant make by boosting some
+atrocious fake? Yet every day we’re buying
+junk which proves inferior and punk, although
+it’s praised to beat the band; such things are
+hard to understand.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MAN OF GRIEF</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I NOW am bent and old and gray, and I have
+come a doleful way. A son of sorrow I
+have been, since first I reached this world of
+sin. Year after year, and then repeat, all kinds
+of troubles dogged my feet; they nagged me
+when I wished to sleep and made me walk the
+floor and weep. I had all troubles man can
+find—and most of them were in my mind.
+When I would number all the cares which gave
+me worry and gray hairs, I can’t remember one
+so bad that it should bother any lad. And
+often, looking back, I say, “I wonder why I
+wasn’t gay, when I had youth and strength and
+health, and all I lacked on earth was wealth?
+I wonder why I didn’t yip with gladness ere I
+lost my grip? My whole life long I’ve wailed
+and whined of cares which lived but in my
+mind. The griefs that kept me going wrong
+were things that never came along. The cares
+that furrowed cheek and brow look much like
+hop-joint phantoms now. And now that it’s
+too late, almost, I see that trouble is a ghost,
+a scarecrow on a crooked stick, to scare the
+gents whose hearts are sick.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MELANCHOLY DAYS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE melancholy days have come, the saddest
+of the year, when you, determined
+to be glum, produce the flowing tear, when you
+refuse to see the joys surrounding every gent,
+and thus discourage other boys, and stir up discontent.
+A grouch will travel far and long
+before its work is done; and it will queer the
+hopeful song, and spoil all kinds of fun. Men
+start downtown with buoyant tread, and things
+seem on the boom; then you come forth with
+blistered head, and fill them up with gloom.
+There’d be no melancholy days, our lives would
+all be fair, if it were not for sorehead jays who
+always preach despair. We’d shake off every
+kind of grief if Jonah didn’t come, the pessimist
+who holds a brief for all things on the bum.
+So, if you really cannot rise above the sob and
+wail, and see the azure in the skies, and hear the
+nightingale, let some dark cave be your abode,
+where men can’t hear your howl, and let your
+comrades be the toad, the raven, and the owl.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MIGHT BE WORSE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE window sash came hurtling down on
+Kickshaw’s shapely head and neck; it
+nearly spoiled his toilworn crown, and made his
+ears a hopeless wreck. Then Kickshaw sat and
+nursed his head, a man reduced to grievous pass;
+yet, with a cheerful smile, he said, “I’m glad it
+didn’t break the glass.” He might have ripped
+around and swore, till people heard him round
+a block, or kicked a panel from the door, or
+thrown the tomcat through the clock; he might
+have dealt in language weird, and made the
+housewife’s blood run cold, he might have raved
+and torn his beard, and wept as Rachel wept
+of old. But Kickshaw’s made of better stuff,
+no tears he sheds, no teeth he grinds; when dire
+misfortune makes a bluff, he looks for comfort,
+which he finds. And so he bears his throbbing
+ache, and puts a poultice on his brain, and says,
+“I’m glad it didn’t break that rich, imported
+window pane.” It never helps a man to beef,
+when trouble comes and knocks him lame;
+there’s solace back of every grief, if he will
+recognize the same.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MODERATELY GOOD</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>A LOAD of virtue will never hurt you, if
+modestly it’s borne; the saintly relic who’s
+too angelic for week days, makes us mourn. The
+gloomy mortal who by a chortle or joke is deeply
+vexed, the turgid person who’s still disbursin’ the
+precept and the text, is dull and dreary, he makes
+us weary, we hate to see him come; oh, gent so
+pious, please don’t come nigh us—your creed
+is too blamed glum! The saint who mumbles,
+when some one stumbles, “That man’s forever
+lost,” is but a fellow with streak of yellow, his
+words are all a frost. Not what we’re saying,
+as we go straying adown this tinhorn globe, not
+words or phrases, though loud as blazes, will
+gain us harp and robe. It’s what we’re doing
+while we’re pursuing our course with other skates,
+that will be counted when we have mounted the
+ladder to the Gates. A drink of water to tramps
+who totter with weakness in the sun will help us
+better than text and letter of sermons by the
+ton. So let each action give satisfaction, let
+words be few and wise, and, after dying, we’ll
+all go flying and whooping through the skies.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE GIRL GRADUATE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IN school, academy and college stands forth
+the modern cultured girl, her lovely head so
+stuffed with knowledge it fairly makes her tresses
+curl. We all lean back in admiration when
+she stands up to make her speech, the finest product
+of the nation, the one serene, unblemished
+peach. Behold her in her snowy garments, the
+pride, the honor of her class! A malediction on
+the varmints who say her learning cuts no grass!
+“She hasn’t learned to fry the mutton, she’s not
+equipped to be a wife; she couldn’t fasten on a
+button, to save her sweet angelic life! With all
+her mighty fund of learning, she’s ignorant of
+useful chores; she cannot keep an oil stove burning
+so it won’t smoke us out of doors. The man
+she weds will know disaster, his dreams of home
+and love will spoil; she cannot make a mustard
+plaster, or put a poultice on a boil.” Avaunt,
+ye croakers, skip and caper, or we’ll upset your
+apple-carts! The damsel rises with her paper
+on “Old Greek Gods and Modern Arts.” So
+pledge her in a grapejuice flagon! Who cares
+if she can sew or bake? She’s pretty as a new
+red wagon, and sweeter than an old plum cake.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE BYSTANDER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I STAND by my window alone, and look at
+the people go by, pursuing the shimmering
+bone, which is so elusive and shy. Pursuing
+the beckoning plunk, and no one can make them
+believe that rubles and kopecks are junk, vain
+baubles got up to deceive. Their faces are
+haggard and sad, from weariness often they reel,
+pursuing the succulent scad, pursuing the wandering
+wheel. And many are there in the
+throng who have all the money they need, and
+still they go racking along, inspired by the
+demon of greed. “To put some more bucks in
+the chest,” they sigh, as they toil, “would be
+grand;” the beauty and blessing of rest is something
+they don’t understand. We struggle and
+strain all our years, and wear out our bodies
+and brains, and when we are stretched on our
+biers, what profit we then by our pains? The
+lawyers come down with a whoop, and rake in
+our bundle of scrip, and plaster a lien on the
+coop before our poor orphans can yip. I stand
+at my window again, and see the poor folks as
+they trail, pursuing the yammering yen, pursuing
+the conquering kale; and sorrow is filling my
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>breast, regret that the people won’t know the
+infinite blessing of rest, that solace for heartache
+and woe.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MEDICINE HAT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE tempests that rattle and kill off the
+cattle and freeze up the combs of the
+roosters and hens, that worry the granger, whose
+stock is in danger—the mules in their stables,
+the pigs in their pens—the loud winds that frolic
+like sprites with the colic and carry despair to
+the workingman’s flat, the wild raging blizzard
+that chills a man’s gizzard, they all come
+a-whooping from Medicine Hat. When men
+get together and note that the weather is fixing
+for ructions, preparing a storm, they cry: “Julius
+Caesar! The square-headed geezer who’s running
+the climate should try to reform! The
+winter’s extensive and coal’s so expensive that
+none can keep warm but the blamed plutocrat!
+It’s time that the public should some weather
+dub lick! It’s time for a lynching at Medicine
+Hat!” And when the sun’s shining we still are
+repining. “This weather,” we murmur, “is too
+good to last; just when we’re haw-hawing
+because we are thawing there’ll come from the
+Arctic a stemwinding blast; just when we are
+dancing and singing and prancing, there’ll come
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>down a wind that would freeze a stone cat; just
+when we are hoping that winter’s eloping, they’ll
+send us a package from Medicine Hat!”</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>FLETCHERISM</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I READ a screed by Brother Fletcher, on how
+we ought to chew our grub; I said, “It’s
+sensible, you betcher! I’ll emulate that thoughtful
+dub. No more like some old anaconda, I’ll
+swallow all my victuals whole; I’ll eat the sort
+of things I’m fond o’, but chew them up with
+heart and soul.” And now I’m always at the
+table, I have no time to do my chores; the horse
+is starving in the stable, the weeds are growing
+out o’ doors. My wife says, “Say, you should
+be doing some work around this slipshod place.”
+I answer her, “I’m busy chewing—canst see
+the motions of my face?” I have no time to hoe
+the taters, I have no time to mow the lawn;
+though chewing like ten alligators, I’m still
+behind, so help me, John! I chew the water I
+am drinking, I chew the biscuit and the bun;
+I’ll have to hire a boy, I’m thinking, to help me
+get my chewing done. Some day they’ll bear
+me on a stretcher out to the boneyard, where
+they plant, and send my teeth to Brother
+Fletcher, to make a necklace for his aunt.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>FATHER TIME</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>TIME drills along, and, never stopping,
+winds up our spool of thread; the time to
+do our early shopping is looming just ahead. It
+simply beats old James H. Thunder how time
+goes scooting on; and now and then we pause
+and wonder where all the days have gone.
+When we are old a month seems shorter than
+did a week in youth; the years are smaller by
+a quarter, and still they shrink, forsooth. This
+busy world we throw our fits in will soon be
+ours no more; time hurries us, and that like
+blitzen, toward another shore. So do not make
+me lose a minute, as it goes speeding by; I want
+to catch each hour and skin it and hang it up to
+dry. A thousand tasks are set before me,
+important, every one, and if you stand around
+and bore me, I’ll die before they’re done. Oh,
+you may go and herd together, and waste the
+transient day, and talk about the crops and
+weather until the roosters lay, but I have work
+that long has beckoned, and any Jim or Joe who
+causes me to lose a second, I look on as a foe.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>FIELD PERILS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE farmer plants his field of corn—the
+kind that doesn’t pop—and hopes that on
+some autumn morn he’ll start to shuck his crop.
+And shuck his crop he often does, which is
+exceeding queer, for blights and perils fairly
+buzz around it through the year. I think it
+strange that farmers raise the goodly crops they
+do, for they are scrapping all their days against
+a deadly crew. To plant and till will not suffice;
+the men must strain their frames, to kill the
+bugs and worms and mice, and pests with Latin
+names. The cut worms cut, the chinchbugs
+chinch, the weevil weaves its ill, and other pests
+come up and pinch the corn and eat their fill.
+And then the rainworks go on strike, and gloom
+the world enshrouds, and up and down the
+burning pike the dust is blown in clouds. And
+if our prayers are of avail, and rain comes in the
+night, it often brings a grist of hail that riddles
+all in sight. And still the farmers raise their
+crops, and nail the shining plunk; none but the
+kicker stands and yawps, and what he says is
+bunk. If all men brooded o’er their woes, and
+looked ahead for grief, that gent would starve
+who gaily goes to thresh the golden sheaf.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>JOY COMETH</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I SAT and sighed, with downcast head, my
+heart consumed with sorrow, and then my
+Aunt Jemima said: “I’m going home tomorrow!”
+I’d feared that she would never leave,
+her stay would be eternal, and that’s what made
+me pine and grieve, and say, “The luck’s infernal!”
+I thought my dark and gloomy skies no
+sunshine e’er would borrow, then Aunt Jemima
+ups and cries, “I’m going home tomorrow!”
+Thus oft the kindly gods confound the kickist
+and the carkist, and joy comes cantering around
+just when things seem the darkest. We all have
+aunts who come and stay until their welcome’s
+shabby, who eat our vittles day by day, until
+the purse is flabby; and when we think they’ll
+never go, or let us know what peace is, they up
+and dissipate our woe by packing their valises.
+The darkest hour’s before the dawn, and when
+your grief’s intensest, it is a sign ’twill soon be
+gone, not only hence, but hencest.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>LIVING TOO LONG</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I WOULD not care to live, my dears, much
+more than seven hundred years, if I should
+last that long; for I would tire of things in time,
+and life at last would seem a crime, and I a
+public wrong. Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom
+you know, was born a hundred years ago, and
+states the fact with mirth; he’s rather proud that
+he has hung around so long while old and young
+were falling off the earth. But when his boastful
+fit is gone, a sadness comes his face upon,
+that speaks of utter woe; he sits and broods and
+dreams again of vanished days, of long dead
+men, his friends of long ago. There is no loneliness
+so dread as that of one who mourns his
+dead in white and wintry age, who, when the
+lights extinguished are, the other players scattered
+far, still lingers on the stage. There is no
+solitude so deep as that of him whose friends,
+asleep, shall visit him no more; shall never ask,
+“How do you stack,” or slap him gaily on the
+back, as in the days of yore. I do not wish to
+draw my breath until the papers say that Death
+has passed me up for keeps; when I am tired I
+want to die and in my cosy casket lie as one who
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>calmly sleeps. When I am tired of dross and
+gold, when I am tired of heat and cold, and
+happiness has waned, I want to show the neighbor
+folk how gracefully a man can croak when
+he’s correctly trained.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>FRIEND BULLSNAKE</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THESE sunny days bring forth the snakes
+from holes in quarries, cliffs and brakes.
+The gentle bullsnake, mild and meek, sets forth
+his proper prey to seek; of all good snakes he is
+the best, with high ambitions in his breast; he
+is the farmer’s truest friend, because he daily
+puts an end to mice and other beasts which prey
+upon that farmer’s crops and hay. He is most
+happy when he feasts on gophers and such
+measly beasts; and, being six or eight feet high,
+when stood on end, you can’t deny that forty
+bullsnakes on a farm are bound to do the vermin
+harm. The bullsnake never hurts a thing; he
+doesn’t bite, he doesn’t sting, or wrap you in his
+slimy folds, and squeeze you till he busts all
+holds. As harmless as a bale of hay, he does
+his useful work all day, and when at night he
+goes to rest, he’s killed off many a wretched pest.
+And yet the farmers always take a chance to kill
+this grand old snake. They’ll chase three miles
+or more to end the labors of their truest friend.
+They’ll hobble forth from beds of pain to hack
+a bullsnake’s form in twain, and leave him mangled,
+torn and raw—which shows there ought
+to be a law.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DOUGHNUTS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>I SEEK the high-class eating joint, when my
+old stomach gives a wrench, and there the
+waiters proudly point to bills of fare got up in
+French. I order this, and order that, in eagerness
+my face to feed, and oftentimes I break a
+slat pronouncing words I cannot read. And as
+I eat the costly greens, prepared by an imported
+cook, to other times and other scenes with reminiscent
+eyes I look. My mother never was in
+France, no foreign jargon did she speak, but
+how I used to sing and dance when she made
+doughnuts once a week! Oh, they were crisp
+and brown and sweet, and they were luscious
+and sublime, and I could stand around and eat
+a half a bushel at a time. The doughnuts that
+our mothers made! They were the goods, they
+were the stuff; we used to eat them with a
+spade and simply couldn’t get enough. And
+when I face imported grub, all loaded down with
+Choctaw names, I sigh and wish I had a tub of
+doughnuts, made by old-time dames. I do not
+care for fancy frills, but when the doughnut dish
+appears, I kick my hind feet o’er the thills, and
+whoop for joy, and wag my ears.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE ILL WIND</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE cold wet rain kept sloshing down, and
+flooded yard and street. My uncle cried:
+“Don’t sigh and frown! It’s splendid for the
+wheat!” I slipped and fell upon the ice, and
+made my forehead bleed. “Gee whiz!” cried
+uncle, “this is nice! Just what the icemen
+need!” A windstorm blew my whiskers off
+while I was writing odes. My uncle said:
+“Don’t scowl and scoff—’twill dry the muddy
+roads!” If fire my dwelling should destroy, or
+waters wash it hence, my uncle would exclaim,
+with joy: “You still have got your fence!”
+When I was lying, sick to death, expecting every
+day that I must draw my final breath, I heard
+my uncle say, “Our undertaker is a jo, and if
+away you fade, it ought to cheer you up to
+know that you will help his trade.” And if we
+study uncle’s graft, we find it good and fair;
+how often, when we might have laughed, we
+wept and tore our hair! Such logic from this
+blooming land should drive away all woe; the
+thing that’s hard for you to stand, is good for
+Richard Roe.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>APPROACH OF SPRING</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE spring will soon be here; the snow will
+disappear; the hens will cluck, the colts
+will buck, as will the joyous steer. How sweet
+an April morn! The whole world seems reborn;
+and ancient men waltz round again and laugh
+their years to scorn. And grave and sober
+dames forsake their quilting frames, and cut up
+rough, play blind man’s buff, and kindred cheerful
+games. The pastors hate to preach; the
+teachers hate to teach; they’d like to play baseball
+all day, or on the bleachers bleach. The
+lawyer tires of law; the windsmith rests his jaw;
+they’d fain forget the toil and sweat, and play
+among the straw. The spring’s the time for
+play; let’s put our work away, with joyous spiels
+kick up our heels, e’en though we’re old and
+gray. You see old Dobbin trot around the
+barnyard lot, with flashing eye and tail on high,
+his burdens all forgot. You see the muley cow
+that’s old and feeble now, turn somersaults and
+prance and waltz, and stand upon her brow.
+The rooster, old is he, and crippled as can be,
+yet on his toes he stands and crows “My
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Shall we inspired
+galoots have less style than the brutes? Oh, let
+us rise and fill the skies with echoing toot-toots.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>STUDYING BOOKS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WITH deep and ancient tomes to toil, and
+burn the midnight Standard oil may seem
+a job forbidding; but it’s the proper thing to do,
+whene’er you have the time, if you would have
+a mind non-skidding. If one in social spheres
+would shine, he ought to cut out pool and wine,
+and give some time to study; load up with wisdom
+to the guards and read the message of the
+bards from Homer down to Ruddy. How often
+conversation flags, how oft the weary evening
+drags, when people get together, when they have
+sprung their ancient yawps about the outlook of
+the crops, the groundhog and the weather. How
+blest the gent who entertains, who’s loaded up
+his active brains with lore that’s worth repeating,
+the man of knowledge, who can talk of other
+things than wheat and stock and politics and
+eating! Our lives are lustreless and gray because
+we sweat around all day and think of naught
+but lucre; and when we’re at our inglenooks we
+never open helpful books, but fool with bridge
+or euchre. Exhausted by the beastly grind
+we do not try to store the mind with matters
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>worth the knowing; our lives are spent in hunting
+cash, and when we die we make no splash,
+and none regrets our going.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/right.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>STRANGER THAN FICTION</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>IT’S strange that people live so long, remaining
+healthy, sound and strong, when all around
+us, everywhere, the germs and microbes fill the
+air. The more we read about the germs, in
+technical or easy terms, the stranger does it seem
+that we have so far dodged eternity. No wonder
+a poor mortal squirms; all things are full of
+deadly germs. The milk we drink, the pies we
+eat, the shoes we wear upon our feet, are haunts
+of vicious things which strive to make us cease
+to be alive. And yet we live on just the same,
+ignore the germs, and play our game. Well,
+that’s just it; we do not stew or fret o’er things
+we cannot view. If germs were big as hens or
+hawks, and flew around our heads in flocks,
+we’d just throw up our hands and cry: “It is
+no use—it’s time to die!” The evils that we
+cannot see don’t cut much ice with you and me.
+A bulldog by the garden hedge, with seven kinds
+of teeth on edge, will hand to me a bigger scare
+than all the microbes in the air. So let us live
+and have our fun, and woo and wed and blow
+our mon, and not acknowledge coward fright of
+anything that’s out of sight.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE GOOD DIE YOUNG</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>BESIDE the road that leads to town the
+thistle thrives apace, and if you cut the
+blamed thing down, two more will take its place.
+The sunflowers flourish in the heat that kills the
+growing oats; the weeds keep living when the
+wheat and corn have lost their goats. The roses
+wither in the glare that keeps the prune alive,
+the orchards fail of peach and pear while cheap
+persimmons thrive. The good and useful men
+depart too soon on death’s dark trip; they just
+have fairly made a start when they must up and
+skip. A little cold, a little heat will quickly kill
+them off; a little wetting of their feet, a little
+hacking cough; they’re tender as the blushing
+rose of evanescent bloom; too quickly they turn
+up their toes and slumber in the tomb. And
+yet the world is full of scrubs who don’t know
+how to die, a lot of picayunish dubs, who
+couldn’t, if they’d try. Year after year, with
+idle chums, they hang around the place, until
+at last their age becomes a scandal and disgrace.
+And thus the men of useful deeds die off, while
+no-goods thrive; you can’t kill off the human
+weeds, nor keep the wheat alive.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>DISCONTENT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE man who’s discontented, whose temper’s
+always frayed, who keeps his shanty
+scented with words that are decayed, would do
+as much complaining if all the gods on high upon
+his head were raining ambrosia, gold, and pie.
+The man who busts his gallus because his house
+is cheap, would rant if in a palace he could high
+wassail keep. The vexed and vapid voter who
+throws a frequent fit because his neighbors motor
+while he must hit the grit, would have as many
+worries, his soul would wear its scars, if he had
+seven surreys and twenty motor cars. The man
+who earns his living by toiling in the ditch, whose
+heart is unforgiving toward the idle rich, who
+hates his lot so humble, his meal of bread and
+cheese, would go ahead and grumble on downy
+beds of ease. Contentment is a jewel that some
+wear in the breast, and life cannot be cruel so
+long as it’s possessed! This gem makes all
+things proper, the owner smiles and sings; it may
+adorn a pauper, and be denied to kings.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SILVER THREADS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_5_0_7 c020'>LIFE is fading fast away, silver threads are
+on my brow; will you love me when I’m
+gray, as you love me now, my frau? Will you
+love me when I’m old, and my temper’s on the
+blink, and I sit around and scold till I drive the
+folks to drink? When I have the rheumatiz,
+and lumbago, and repeat, and the cusswords
+fairly sizz as I nurse my swollen feet; when a
+crutch I have to use, since my trilbys are so lame
+that they will not fit my shoes, will you love me
+just the same? When the gout infests my toes,
+and all vanished are my charms, will you kiss
+me on the nose, will you clasp me in your arms?
+Silver threads are in the gold, life will soon have
+run its lease; I’d be glad if I were told that your
+love will still increase when my high ambition
+fails, and my hopes are all unstrung, and I tell
+my tiresome tales of the days when I was young;
+when I sit around the shack making loud and
+dismal moan, of the stitches in my back, and my
+aching collar bone; when the asthma racks my
+chest so I cannot speak a word, will you fold
+me to your breast, saying I’m your honeybird?
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>When I’m palsied, stiff and sere, when I’m
+weary of the game, tell me, O Jemima dear, will
+you love me just the same?</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>MOVING ON</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WE foolish folk are discontented with things
+where’er we chance to dwell. “The
+air,” we say, “is sweeter scented in some far
+distant dale or dell.” And so we pull up stakes
+and travel to seek the fair and promised land,
+and find our Canaan is but gravel, a wilderness
+of rocks and sand. “Across the hills the fields
+are greener,” we murmur, “and the view more
+fair; the water of the brooks is cleaner, and fish
+grow larger over there.” And so we leave our
+pleasant valley, from all our loving friends we
+part, and o’er the stony hills we sally, to reach
+a land that breaks the heart. “There’s gold in
+plenty over yonder,” we say, “and we shall
+seek the mines.” Then from our cheerful homes
+we wander, far from our fig trees and our vines;
+a little while our dreams we cherish, and think
+that we can never fail; but, tired at last, we
+drop and perish, and leave our bones upon the
+trail. How happy is the man whose nature permits
+him to enjoy his home, who, till compelled
+by legislature, declines in paths afar to roam!
+There is no region better, fairer, than that home
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>region that you know; there are no zephyrs
+sweeter, rarer, than those which through your
+galways blow.</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE OLD PRAYER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>WHEN the evening shadows fall, oftentimes
+do I recall other evenings, far
+away, when, aweary of my play, I would climb
+on granny’s knee (long since gone to sleep has
+she), clasp my hands and bow my head, while
+the simple lines I said, “Now I lay me down to
+sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.” Journeyed
+long have I since then, in this sad, gray
+world of men; I have seen with aching heart,
+comrades to their rest depart; friends have left
+me, one by one, for the shores beyond the sun.
+Still the Youth enraptured sings, and the world
+with gladness rings, but the faces I have known
+all are gone, and I’m alone. All alone, amid
+the throng, I, who’ve lived and journeyed long.
+Loneliness and sighs and tears are the wages of
+the years. Who would dread the journey’s end,
+when he lives without a friend? Now the sun
+of life sinks low; in a little while I’ll go where
+my friends and comrades wait for me by the
+jasper gate. Though the way be cold and stark,
+I shall murmur, in the dark, “Now I lay me
+down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>INTO THE SUNLIGHT</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OH cut out the vain repining, cease thinking
+of dole and doom! Come out where the
+sun is shining, come out of the cave of gloom!
+Come out of your hole and borrow a package of
+joy from me, and say to your secret sorrow,
+“I’ve no longer use for thee!” For troubles,
+which are deluding, are timorous beasts, I say;
+they stick to the gent who’s brooding, and flee
+from the gent who’s gay. The gateways of
+Eldorados are open, all o’er the earth; come out
+of the House of Shadows, and dwell in the
+House of Mirth. From Boston to far Bobcaygeon
+the banners of gladness float; oh, grief
+is a rank contagion, and mirth is the antidote.
+And most of our woes would perish, or leave us,
+on sable wings, if only we didn’t cherish and
+coddle the blame fool things. Long since would
+your woes have scampered away to their native
+fogs, but they have been fed and pampered like
+poodles or hairless dogs. And all of these facts
+should teach you it’s wise to be bright and gay;
+come out where the breeze can reach you, and
+blow all your grief away.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>BLEAK DAYS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE clouds are gray and grim today, the
+winds are sadly sighing; it seems like fall,
+and over all a sheet of gloom is lying. The
+dreary rain beats on the pane, and sounds a note
+of sorrow; but what’s the odds? The genial
+gods will bring us joy tomorrow. We have the
+mumps, the doctor humps himself around to cure
+it; we’re on the blink and often think we simply
+can’t endure it; to all who list we groan, I wist,
+and tell a hard-luck story; but why be vexed?
+Week after next we’ll all be hunkydory. The
+neighbor folks are tiresome blokes, they bore us
+and annoy us; with such folks near it’s amply
+clear that no one can be joyous; things would
+improve if they would move—we really do not
+need them; but let’s be gay! They’ll move
+away, and worse ones will succeed them. The
+world seems sad, sometimes, my lad, and life is
+a disaster; but do not roar; for every sore tomorrow
+brings a plaster. The fool, he kicks against
+the pricks, all optimism scorning; the wise man
+goes his way—he knows joy cometh in the
+morning.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE GIVERS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE great, fine men are oft obscure; they
+have no wide, resounding fame, that
+experts warrant to endure until the finish of the
+game. Old Clinkenbeard is such a man, and
+though he has no store of yen, he’s always doing
+what he can to help along his fellowmen. He
+has no millions to disburse, but when he meets a
+hungry guy, he digs a quarter from his purse,
+which buys the sinkers and the pie. The gifts
+of bloated millionaires mean nothing of a sacrifice;
+they sit around in easy chairs and count
+the scads they have on ice; if Croesus gives ten
+thousand bucks to help some college off the rocks,
+he still can have his wine and ducks—he has
+ten million in his box. The widow’s mite, I do
+not doubt, in heaven made a bigger splash than
+shekels Pharisees shelled out from their large
+wads of ill-gained cash. And so the poor man,
+when he breaks the only William in his pants,
+to buy some widow tea and cakes, is making
+angels sing and dance. In fertile soil he’s sowing
+seeds, and he shall reap a rich reward; for he
+who gives the coin he needs, is surely lending to
+the Lord.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>GOOD OLD DAYS</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HOW I regret the good old days, and all
+the pleasant, happy ways now perished
+from the earth! No more the worn breadwinner
+sings, no more the cottage rooftree rings with
+sounds of hearty mirth. The good old days!
+The cheerful nights! We had then no electric
+lights, but oil lamps flared and smoked; and now
+and then they would explode and blow the
+shanty ’cross the road, and sometimes victims
+croaked. The windows had no window screens,
+there were no books or magazines to make our
+morals lame; we used to sit ’round in the dark
+while father talked of Noah’s ark until our bedtime
+came. No furnace or steam heating plant
+would make the cold air gallivant; a fireplace
+kept us warm; the house was full of flying soot
+and burning brands, and smoke to boot, whene’er
+there was a storm. No telephones then made
+men curse; if with a neighbor you’d converse,
+you hoofed it fourteen miles; the girl who wished
+to be a belle believed that she was doing well if
+she knew last year’s styles. There’ll never be
+such days as those, when people wore no underclothes,
+<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>and beds were stuffed with hay, when
+paper collars were the rage—oh, dear, delightful
+bygone age, when we were young and gay!</p>
+
+<div class='figcenter id003'>
+<img src='images/left.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' />
+</div>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c002' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>THE RAIN</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE clouds are banked up overhead, the
+thunder rips and roars; the lightning hits
+old Jimpson’s shed, and now the torrent pours.
+The crazy hens get wet and mad, the ducks
+rejoice and quack; the patient cow looks pretty
+sad, and humps her bony back; the hired man,
+driven from the field, for shelter swiftly hies; old
+Pluvius can surely wield the faucet when he
+tries. In half an hour the rain is done, the
+growling thunder stops, and once again the good
+old sun is warming up the crops. In half an
+hour more good is wrought to every human cause,
+than all our statesmen ever brought by passing
+helpful laws. Old Pluvius sends down the juice,
+when he’s blown off the foam, and once again
+high hangs the goose in every happy home. Not
+all the armies of the earth, nor fleets that sail the
+main, can bring us prizes which are worth a half-hour’s
+honest rain. No prophet with his tongue
+or pen, no poet with his lyre, can, like the rain,
+bring joy to men, or answer their desire. The
+sunflowers have new lease of life, the johnnie-jumpups
+jump. Now I must go and help my
+wife to prime the cistern pump.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>SOMETHING TO DO</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>OH, ye who complain of the grind, remember
+these words (which are true!): The
+dreariest job one can find is looking for something
+to do! Sometimes, when my work seems
+a crime, and I’m sorely tempted to sob, I think
+of the long vanished time when I was out hunting
+a job. I walked eighty miles every day, and
+climbed forty thousand high stairs, and people
+would shoo me away, and pelt me with inkstands
+and chairs. And then, when the evening grew
+dark, I knew naught of comfort or ease; I made
+me a bed in the park, for supper chewed bark
+from the trees. I looked through the windows
+at men who tackled their oysters and squabs,
+and probably grumbled again because they were
+tired of their jobs. And I was out there in the
+rain, with nothing to eat but my shoe, and filled
+with a maddening pain because I had nothing to
+do. And now when I’m tempted to raise the
+grand hailing sign of distress, I think of those
+sorrowful days, and then I feel better, I guess.
+I go at my labors again with energy vital and
+new, and say, as I toil in my den, “Thank
+God, I have something to do!”</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>INDUSTRY</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>HOW doth the busy little bee improve each
+shining hour! It honey takes from every
+tree, and keeps it till it’s sour. Ah, nothing hinders,
+nothing queers its labors here below; it does
+not always cock its ears, to hear the whistle blow.
+Wherever honey is on tap, you see the bumbler
+climb; for shorter hours it doesn’t scrap, nor
+charge for overtime. It’s on the wing the livelong
+day, from rise to set of sun, and when at
+eve it hits the hay, no chore is left undone. And
+when the bumblers are possessed of honey by the
+pound, bad boys come up and swat their nest,
+and knock it to the ground. The store they
+gathered day by day has vanished in a breath,
+and so the bees exclaim, “Foul play!” and sting
+themselves to death. There is no sense in making
+work a gospel and a creed, in thinking every hour
+will spoil that knows no useful deed. No use
+competing with the sun, and making life a strain;
+for bees—and boys—must have some fun if
+they’d be safe and sane.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>WET WEATHER</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>ALL spring the rain came down amain, and
+rills grew into rivers; the bullfrogs croaked
+that they were soaked till mildewed were their
+livers. The fish were drowned, and in a swound
+reclined the muskrat’s daughter, and e’en the
+snakes, in swamps and brakes, hissed forth
+“There’s too much water!” And all my
+greens, the peas and beans, that I with toil had
+planted, a sickly host, gave up the ghost, the
+while I raved and ranted. The dew of doom hit
+spuds in bloom, and slew the tender onion; I
+viewed the wreck, and said, “By heck!” and
+other things from Bunyan. All greens of worth
+drooped to the earth, and died and went to
+thunder; but useless weeds all went to seeds—no
+rain could keep them under. When weather’s
+dry, and in the sky a red-hot sun is burning, it
+gets the goats of corn and oats, the wheat to
+wastage turning; the carrots shrink, and on the
+blink you see the parsnips lying, but weeds still
+thrive and keep alive, while useful things are
+dying. It’s strange and sad that critters bad,
+both veg’table and human, hang on so tight, while
+critters bright must perish when they’re bloomin’!</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<div>
+ <span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>
+ <h3 class='c019'>AFTER STORM</h3>
+</div>
+<p class='drop-capa0_25_0_7 c020'>THE wind has blown the clouds away, and
+now we have a perfect day, the sun is sawing
+wood; we jog along ’neath smiling skies, the
+sounds of grief no more arise, and every gent feels
+good. Life seems a most delightful graft when
+nature once again has laughed, dismissing clouds
+and gloom; we find new charms in Mother Earth,
+our faces beam with seemly mirth, our whiskers
+are in bloom. That is the use of dreary days, on
+which we’re all inclined to raise a yell of bitter
+grief; they fill us up with woe and dread, so when
+the gloomy clouds are sped, we’ll feel a big relief.
+That is the use of every care that fills your system
+with despair, and rends your heart in twain; for
+when you see your sorrow waltz, you’ll turn three
+hundred somersaults, and say life’s safe and sane.
+If there was not a sign of woe in all this verdant
+vale below, life soon would lose its zest, and you
+would straightway roar and beef because you
+couldn’t find a grief to cuddle to your breast. So
+sunshine follows after storm, and snow succeeds
+the weather warm, and we have fog and sleet; all
+sorts of days are sliding past, and when we size
+things up at last, we see life can’t be beat.</p>
+<div class='pbb'>
+ <hr class='pb c009' />
+</div>
+<p class='c006'> </p>
+<div class='tnbox'>
+
+ <ul class='ul_1 c009'>
+ <li>Transcriber’s Notes:
+ <ul class='ul_2'>
+ <li>Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
+ </li>
+ <li>Typographical errors were silently corrected.
+ </li>
+ <li>Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant
+ form was found in this book.
+ </li>
+ </ul>
+ </li>
+ </ul>
+
+</div>
+<p class='c006'> </p>
+
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK “HORSE SENSE” IN VERSES TENSE ***</div>
+<div style='text-align:left'>
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