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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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