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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..64f2348 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66385 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66385) diff --git a/old/66385-0.txt b/old/66385-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6cac943..0000000 --- a/old/66385-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4333 +0,0 @@ -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 *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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margin-top: 2em; } - .c020 { margin-top: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c021 { page-break-before: auto; margin-top: 1em; } - .c022 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c023 { page-break-before: auto; margin-top: 2em; } - .c024 { margin-top: 1em; text-indent: 1em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - body {width:80%; margin:auto; } - .tnbox {background-color:#E3E4FA;border:1px solid silver;padding: 0.5em; - margin:2em 10% 0 10%; } - h1 {font-size: 2em; text-align: center; } - h2 {font-size: 1.75em; } - h3 {font-size: 1.5em; } - h4 {font-size: 1.25em; } - </style> - </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'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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