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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #66892 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66892)
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-The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pacifist: and other poems, by Howard
-Futhey Brinton
-
-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: The Pacifist: and other poems
-
-Author: Howard Futhey Brinton
-
-Release Date: December 6, 2021 [eBook #66892]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-Produced by: Carol Brown, Charlene Taylor 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 THE PACIFIST: AND OTHER POEMS ***
-
-
-
-
-THE PACIFIST
-
-_And Other Poems_
-
-
-
-
-HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON
-
-
-
-
-[Illustration: Printer's Logo]
-
-
-
-
-BOSTON
-
-THE GORHAM PRESS
-
-MCMXVIII
-
-
-
-
-Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton
-
-All Rights Reserved
-
-
-
-
-MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
-
-THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A.
-
-
-
-
-TO
-
-THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,
-
-AND
-
-WILLIAM MACFUNN BAIRD
-
-
-
-
-CONTENTS
-
-                                     PAGE
-
-The Pacifist                            9
-
-“Adam’s Apple”                         11
-
-Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar              12
-
-Breaking In                            15
-
-La Reve                                16
-
-Sol                                    17
-
-The Poor Man’s Club                    18
-
-Retrospect                             20
-
-On “Gungha Din”                        21
-
-Why?                                   22
-
-Barney                                 23
-
-Come, Little Girl                      24
-
-I’ll Come, Little Boy                  25
-
-Chenoweth                              26
-
-You Wonder                             28
-
-In “Del’s”                             29
-
-The Mother                             30
-
-Jumbo’s Dream                          31
-
-The Blues                              33
-
-The “I Told You So Club”               34
-
-E Pluribus                             37
-
-The Man About Town                     39
-
-Elk Creek                              40
-
-How the Village Canard Started         41
-
-The Spring Violet                      44
-
-Sandy Flash                            45
-
-The New Suit                           46
-
-The Libertine                          47
-
-The Liberty Cornet Band                48
-
-The Periodic                           50
-
-Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase                 51
-
-The Legend of Deborah’s Rock           52
-
-The Actor-Man                          54
-
-The Gangster                           55
-
-Tom                                    58
-
-La Langue Anglaise                     59
-
-Ne’er More                             60
-
-When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town           61
-
-
-
-
-THE PACIFIST
-
-
-
-
-  THE PACIFIST
-
-
-  In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt,
-    A strain of the strong Saxon thew;
-  From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South――
-    An American type through and through.
-  A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say,
-    Who lived in the far remote past,――
-  An unpractical man and careless forsooth;
-    Inclined as a youth to be fast.
-  He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats,
-    And once on a time rolled the dice,
-  But heart like an ox and muscled like steel;
-    A dreamer? Yes, without price.
-  He filled no great niche in the town where he lived,
-    Was never considered worth while.
-  The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky
-    And mentioned his name with a smile,
-  An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin,
-    A smile that was snaky and sly.
-  They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club,
-    But could damn with the lift of an eye.
-  The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land,
-    And threatened invasion seemed near.
-  The hand of the patriot went to the sword;
-    The pacifist muttered in fear;
-  He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground
-    Down hard by the burden of Thor,
-  Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates;
-    Conscription did curse and abhor.
-  Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife
-    Where the roar of the guns rose and fell;
-  Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause
-    As he fought like a demon of hell.
-  They builded a shaft in the town of his birth
-    To the rascally skin and the beat
-  Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food,
-    A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat
-  Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war,
-    Contributed largely of speech
-  And words of advice to the youth thereabouts――
-    His pacifist face was a ‘screech’,
-  Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept
-    Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame;
-  No tablet recited the list of his deeds,
-    Nor blazoned the worth of his name.
-  He died as men do who answer the call
-    With boots on and pierced to the heart;
-  He died and those lived who, sneering at him,
-    Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart;
-  Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood,
-    Not unwilling a country to sell;
-  Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf――
-    The opal-eyed vampires of hell!
-
-
-
-
-  “ADAM’S APPLE”
-
-
-    Said Eve to “hub” Adam:
-  “My dear, what’s the matter?
-    Your eyes are all bulging;
-  Your teeth all a chatter.
-    That lump in your throat, dear,
-  Speak, Adam!” she muttered.
-    “Ad” gasped for his breath,
-  And spluttered and spluttered,
-    Then breathed more at ease;
-  Congestion releasing
-    Its hold, he looked normal,
-  But frowns his face creasing,
-    He paused before speaking:
-  “Eve, list while I chatter;
-    I’ve most choked to death, see?
-  The cause of the matter
-    Was eating your apple,
-  Esophagus cloying,
-    That Forbidden Fruit
-  My life most destroying.”
-
-         *     *     *
-
-    Now if we’re believing
-  In stuff that’s prenatal,
-    We plain see the reason
-  Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal
-    Big lumps all a bulging,
-  Their cervicals craning,――
-    ’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault,
-  Heredity’s (s) training,
-    That lump in their throats just
-  Keeps sticking and sticking.
-    “Adam’s Apple” Eve called it,
-  _But_ Eve did the picking.
-
-
-
-
-  MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR
-
-
-  There’s a quaint and care-free tavern
-  In the heart of business life,
-  In the Quaker City’s centre,――
-  Where relaxation’s rife.
-  ’Tis a melting pot and leveler
-  For the man who has a ‘bump’,
-  Or the one with trouble burdened
-  Like a dromedary’s hump.
-  One finds parry and riposte rare
-  Unto the nth degree,
-  And Barney Bright, the Irish wight,
-  Who orders “darks” for me.
-  Here Andrew Jackson Johnson,
-  Or MacDee, with _savoir faire_,
-  Smooths down the foolish talker
-  Who wildly pounds the air.
-  Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”――
-  MacDee, I mean――the two
-  Have often smoothed the ruffled path
-  For you and me and you.
-  Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel
-  Disports in ornate phrase,
-  And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’
-  Descants Bohemia’s ways
-  Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell,
-  Of famed blue-grass renown,
-  Exploits the perfect luxury
-  Of bourbon trickling down.
-  And so, ad infinitum,
-  From out the clouds of smoke,
-  Away from tribulation,
-  We laugh and jest and joke.
-  Now far as I have wandered,
-  At home, abroad, afar,
-  I’ve never seen the equal
-  Of Bill MacDee’s cigar.
-  Its shape just at the lighting
-  Is like Zeppelin’s air craft;
-  ’Tis round and rolled so nicely
-  And pointed fore and aft;
-  It faithfully interprets,
-  In rising rings of smoke,
-  Each psychologic moment,
-  Each point and pass and poke.
-  Now when it’s smooth and rounded
-  Mac’s camping on the trail
-  Of something that’s been mooted,
-  And works his mental flail.
-  This cautious Scottish Quaker’s
-  “I see” means “I’ve a hunch”;
-  He’s sparring for an opening
-  Before he hands a punch,
-  But just before he counters
-  While listening to us “spar,”
-  You will never see the equal
-  Of good, old Mac’s cigar.
-  It’s whirled round like a cyclone;
-  It’s feathered like an owl;
-  It’s mussed up like a scrap can
-  Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.
-  It’s frayed and furred and serrate;
-  It’s toothed and torn and spurred;
-  It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged,
-  And this is what’s occurred;
-  Chaotic conversation
-  A figure needs, you know,
-  A metaphor or something
-  Interpreting its flow;
-  To visualize its looseness,
-  Its academic “punk”
-  From Literary Digests;
-  Its casuistic “bunk.”
-  And so when I’m relaxing,
-  And talking wild and far,
-  I catch my real reflection
-  In Bill MacDee’s cigar.
-  I trust that it may “_fumer_,”
-  Frayed, frazzled old cheroot,
-  For many years of joy for Mac,
-  With other things to boot.
-  And when I’ve run my gamut
-  And am “crossing of the bar,”
-  I hope to see a-glowing
-  The end of Mac’s cigar.
-
-
-
-
-  BREAKING IN
-
-
-  I called on the editor,
-    A story in my grip.
-  I laid it down before him,
-    Then bethought me of some quip,
-  Some turn of conversation,
-    Some “jolly” or some speech,
-  A sesame or something
-    By which I’d surely reach
-  And pink him in the vitals
-    Of sympathy and such
-  Emotionals and interest,
-    And volunteered this much:
-  “I feel I have a FUTURE
-    In writing, don’t you see,
-  In enlightening the public
-    With prose and poetry!”
-  I waited a few minutes
-    Until the tale he’d read,
-  He looked at me acutely
-    With horoscopic dread.
-  “You feel you have a FUTURE
-    In writing, then,” he sneered.
-  “You’d better get a PAST, sir,”
-    Was all he volunteered.
-
-  (Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late
-  David Graham Phillips.)
-
-
-
-
-  LA REVE
-
-
-  The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams,
-    Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams,
-  Her delicate touch to soothe me the while,
-    Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.
-
-         *     *     *
-
-  I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems;
-  It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.
-
-
-
-
-  SOL
-
-
-  “Solomon, young, full of pep”――
-  I’m quoting one Burney C.
-  “With all the gay blades kept step
-  Gay Lothario he.
-  Solomon withered and old,
-    Filled to the brim with _ennui_,
-  Tired of the gay life and bold,
-  Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”
-
-
-
-
-  THE POOR MAN’S CLUB
-
-
-  The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place,
-      Neither fashionable, swift nor slow,
-  A kindly, rare, psychological spot,
-      As those who frequent it well know.
-  It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan
-      Which is sane and destructive to fear.
-  You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself,
-      And expand in democracy’s cheer.
-  Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse
-      For a rare metaphysical “bee.”
-  “Missourians” they, with a look which conveys:
-      “My friend, you will have to show me.”
-  No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust,
-      No skeptical look nor a sneer,
-  Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance,
-      Then “welcome here without fear.”
-  The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind;
-      I opine it dislikes the “know
-  It all” sort, the artistically weird,
-      Still more it detests the blow.
-  It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks
-      And the man who tries to droll.
-  It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad
-      As it would a plain damned fool.
-  In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri
-      Or a melting pot, you know,
-  For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all,
-      Or flotsam who just come and go.
-  Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place
-      For the man with mental bumps.
-  Its light and cheer are just the best boost
-      For the one who’s in the dumps.
-  Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch,
-      It smooths for the man who’s down,
-  And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick
-      Of a patronizing frown.
-  So if some night you are all out of sorts
-      And don’t know what to do,
-  Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club,
-      And let me present to you
-  First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope”
-      And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,”
-  Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,”
-      And then you can have your fill
-  Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up
-      And kindly repartee,
-  In the night you spend in parry and tierce
-      At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”
-
-  (Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).
-
-
-
-
-  RETROSPECT
-
-
-  She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,
-  And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”
-  There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,
-  And the savor of health as she passes you by.
-  Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,
-  And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.
-  I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,
-  The impress she made on me, the old bore,
-  As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,
-  With a touch of the roguish, a wonderful glow
-  In her exquisite eyes never equaled as yet.
-  They’ve haunted me since and I’ll never forget
-  That touch of the roguish, that wonderful glow
-  In her exquisite eyes on that night long ago.
-
-
-
-
-  ON “GUNGHA DIN”
-
-
-  Have you ever heard Schaffer declaim of old “Din,”
-            “Din,” “Gungha Din,”
-          He gives all its savors,
-          Its turns and its quavers
-          And all the camp flavors
-            Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
-
-  I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin
-            On “Din,” “Gungha Din,”
-          He catches its chiming,
-          Its scanning and rhyming,
-          And the depth of repining
-            In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
-
-  With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in
-            To “Din,” “Gungha Din!”
-          You hear bullets flying
-          And screeching, men sighing
-          When Schaffer is plying
-            His “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
-
-  If some night you hear a real terrible din
-            After “Din,” “Gungha Din!”
-          You’ll know they’re applauding
-          And cheering and lauding
-          Old Schaffer marauding
-            Through “Din,” “Gungha Din.”
-
-
-
-
-  WHY?
-
-
-  What a glance in your sweet, soulful eyes!
-    What a tilt to your nose, just above
-  The _moue_ to your lips, that is charming.
-    Your delicate ears, sweet, I love!
-  I’ll love you, my wee girl, forever;
-    With the strength of my soul, I will do
-  The best I can plan for you, darling,
-    And why? Why because, dear, you’re you!
-
-
-
-
-  BARNEY
-
-
-  Have you ne’er heard of Barney?
-  Come, none of your blarney;
-  You’ve ne’er heard of Barney, the wight?
-  He’s a real Celt; he’s witty;
-  He lives in this city,
-  And waits at Meran’s every night.
-
-  There once ’rose the question
-  Midst mental congestion
-  Produced by ‘Vin Ordinaire;’
-  “What shape is this world here,
-  Round, ovoid, spheroidal,
-  Elliptical, nut-shaped or square?”
-
-  After hopeless arraignment,
-  With well-done containment,
-  One called on old Barney so that
-  He might judge the matter――
-  To ease up the clatter,
-  And put a quick end to the spat.
-
-  “I’ve thought and I’ve wondered,”
-  Said Barney, “I’ve pondered,
-  To see, sir, just where I was at.
-  The world is not round, sir,
-  For I’ve always found, sir,
-  Whenever I hit it, ’twas flat.”
-
-
-
-
-  COME, LITTLE GIRL
-
-
-  Oh, come, little girl, and play with me
-        For I would be your little boy.
-  We will never grow old, little girl, at all;
-  We’ll hop, skip and jump and play with a ball:
-  We’ll frolic, and laugh and climb the trees tall,
-        Just you, little girl, and I.
-
-  Oh, come, little girl and play with me,
-        For I would be your little boy.
-  We’ll make believe cats and doggies and things
-  Are elephants, lions and eagles with wings;
-  We’ll dream in the woods, where the waterfall sings,
-        Just you, little girl, and I.
-
-  Oh, come, little girl and play with me,
-        For I would be your little boy.
-  We’ll make believe you, little girl, and I
-  Are married some day, and then by and by,
-  We’ll buy paper kiddies, and croon “lullaby,”
-        Just you, little girl, and I.
-
-  Do come little girl, _please_ play with me,
-        For I _must_ be your little boy
-  We’ll build a sweet house, little girl, our own,
-  Of sassafras wood, and birch, and stone;
-  We’ll bake big mud pies, and cookies and pome,
-        You, sweet little girl, and I.
-
-
-
-
-  I’LL COME, LITTLE BOY
-
-
-  I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
-          For I would be your little girl.
-  We’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll play and we’ll sing;
-  We’ll just pretend lake down by the old spring,
-  And toss ourselves high in the old willow swing,
-          Just you, little boy, and I.
-
-  Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
-          For I would be your little girl.
-  I’ll bring my sweet kitties and doggies and “Ted”,
-  The little brown bear, with the cute little head,
-  And we’ll sing them to sleep in a wee trundle bed,
-          Just you, little boy, and I.
-
-  Oh! I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
-          For I would be your little girl.
-  We’ll sit by the brook where the cataract calls;
-  And make believe, down by the Silver Thread Falls,
-  That we’re on a honeymoon, like Grandma Mauls,
-          Just you, little boy, and I.
-
-  Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,
-          For I _must_ be your little girl.
-  I’ll cook in an oven of clay and of loam;
-  I’ll kiss you, dear boy, whene’er you come home,
-  And then you’ll kiss me, little boy, all my own,
-          Just you, little boy, and I.
-
-
-
-
-  CHENOWETH
-
-
-  I’ve followed athletes’ foibles since Walter Camp began
-  To pick foot-ball immortals for “The All-American,”
-  But close as I’ve observed them at home, abroad, afar,
-  I’m sure that “Texas” Chenoweth is easily the star
-  Of all elusive “quarters” who ever tried to squirm
-  On foot-ball field deceptive; on footing wet or firm.
-  He twists just like a serpent; he’s cunning as a fox;
-  He runs as from a creditor; he’s mighty hard to box.
-  He’s slippery as an oyster; he’s fleeter than a deer;
-  He dodges like a debtor; he jumps now there, now here.
-  I’ve seen DeSaulles cavorting from this goal unto that;
-  To “Phil” King I’ve paid homage; to Daly doffed my hat.
-  “Brown’s” Sprackling was a wonder; Carl Williams was a peach;
-  To Poe, finesse in foot-ball was very hard to teach.
-  Out West there was a wonder named Walter Eckersall;
-  Old Bray, the Easton wonder, was a terror with the ball.
-  And so, _ad infinitum_, I might enumerate
-  The gamut of the heroes who really scintillate
-  In firmament of foot-ball, the king of out-door sport,
-  When put to the defensive, to really show one’s forte,
-  But in quaffing to those heroes who’re destined e’er to shine,
-  Or in toasting to great “quarters” in retrospective wine,
-  I’ll just defer to Kipling and attempt to plagiarize
-  Those lines of his so potent, and not philosophize
-    Here’s to ’Weth, ’Weth, ’Weth, Chenoweth,
-    You doughty little “quarter,” get your breath,
-    Though they’ve tackled, mauled and flayed you,
-    And in Earth’s dank mud have laid you,
-    You’ve “got ’em shooting ducks,” “Tex” Chenoweth.
-
-  _Philadelphia Lehigh Club “NEWS,”
-  January 1914._
-
-
-
-
-  YOU WONDER
-
-
-  You wonder, you surmise,
-  And with imploring eyes,
-  You ask me: “Will you always love me so?”
-  Your soul is searching mine,
-  While your trembling lips make sign
-  To ask me “Will you always love me so?”
-
-  Your soul is all afire,
-  With that questioning desire
-  To ask me: “Will you always love me so?”
-  But your pride bids you keep still,
-  And you force me by sheer will
-  To tell you: “I will always love you so.”
-
-
-
-
-  IN “DEL’S”
-
-
-  In the rich warm light,
-  We sat one night
-  At dear Delmonico’s.
-  The menu there,
-  With dishes rare,
-  Hints gastronomic throes.
-
-  She scanned it down,
-  ’Twixt smile and frown,
-  And then expressed a wish
-  To try some quails
-  And Newburg snails――
-  The last a dainty dish.
-
-  New York her “town,”
-  On which we frown
-  In Philadelphia slow,
-  And not a word
-  I’ve ever heard
-  Of eating snails, you know.
-
-  I said as much
-  With just a touch
-  Of thin-veiled irony,
-  And then she said,
-  With turn of head,
-  While smiling quizzically:
-
-  “In Quaker town,
-  Of great renown,
-  They tell me they’re so slow,
-  They don’t eat snail
-  Because they fail
-  To catch them. Is it so?”
-
-
-
-
-  THE MOTHER
-
-
-  Ah! for one look at you,
-    Dear baby mine.
-  Ah! just to fondle you,
-    Croon you a rhyme.
-  Ah! for the eyes of you,
-    Dear little pearl.
-  Ah! just to love you,
-    My baby girl.
-
-
-
-
-  JUMBO’S DREAM
-
-
-  “Listen, my children, and you shall here,”
-  Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,”
-  But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine,
-  Who measured standing say nine feet nine,――
-  His dream of the animals at the Zoo.
-  Of course you know them just as I do;
-  The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear,
-  Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care
-  To hear of what the animals planned
-  In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand
-  Scheme together down by the pond;
-  Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond――
-  A plan to learn the human way
-  Of learning and playing, et cetera.
-  A college they wanted with flags and cheers
-  Like Yale and Harvard――you know, my dears.
-  First, old Jumbo called for order there
-  By the old swan pond; he held the chair.
-  He looked them over with kindly eye
-  Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry
-  Proposed that they have a college grand――
-  Professors and such, and a college band,
-  With college colors; but first a yell
-  Like the college boys; for he knew full well
-  That a college cheer by the animals there
-  Would wonderful be beyond compare.
-  He straightway appointed of parrots five
-  To choose a cheer real loud and live
-  To start off their college so grand and fine
-  In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.
-  The parrot committee composed a cheer;
-  It went exactly like this, my dear:
-          “Hiss, squeal, roar,
-          Roar, roar, more,
-          Grunt, yell, chatter;
-          Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.”
-  They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time;
-  The parrots leading the cheering line;
-  A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise,
-  Fifty times worse than the college boys,
-  For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal;
-  The lion would roar till one could feel
-  The ground all tremble from noise he made
-  Like soldiers marching on dress parade;
-  The hyena let out such a mighty yell
-  That the leaves most off the branches fell;
-  The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter,
-  And all for college and alma mater.
-  “’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad――,
-  For the cheer was really “righty” bad.
-  He looked discouraged, with face awry,
-  While a tear appeared in each small eye;
-  He heaved a big sigh, then looking around――
-  Awakened all trembling upon the ground.
-  So ended his dream of a college fine,
-  With parrots leading the cheering line.
-  He looked at his keeper as if to say:
-  “I’ll never again eat a bale of hay;
-  For such overeating most always means
-  The most impossible kind of dreams.
-  Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack,
-  With the kiddies a-hanging on my back;
-  With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say,
-  On my big broad back the livelong day.”
-
-
-
-
-  THE BLUES
-
-
-  If you’ve ever a “grouch,” little girl,
-  And your brain is all twisted and torn;
-  If your nerves are all racked, little girl,
-  And the world looks all blue and forlorn;
-  Don’t commune with yourself, little girl,
-  But just let me share it, please do,
-  For I’m part of you, my little girl,
-  And I love you, dear heart, yes, I do.
-
-
-
-
-  THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”
-
-
-  Old Winchester borough, in thriftiness thorough,
-  Sits ninety miles back from the sea;
-  ’Tis famed for its learning and all things concerning
-  Its people of high pedigree.
-  Now some are quite clever, some brainy, scarce ever
-  Are any thick-witted and “fat”;
-  None over-contented, yet mighty well vented;
-  Real satisfied, passe and pat.
-  The world all around may astound, not confound them;
-  “They’re there” in their insular way;
-  You may laughingly drool them; but trip them or fool them;
-  If you do they’ll admit it? Not they!
-  Its dames real exclusive, though slightly abusive,
-  Just deft subterranean digs.
-  You can’t analyze them (noblesse), nor despise them,
-  These quaint and bizarre periwigs.
-  Now once I remember, ’twas late in November,
-  A handsome young blade struck the town;
-  _Distingué_ he was this bold rusher, this crusher;
-  He did up us rural swains brown;
-  His hair was so curly, complexion so pearly;
-  His eyes flashed a real soulful glow;
-  He’d ancestors famous and average and heinous,
-  Of the last though he spoke “sotto vo.”
-  By profession a drummer, this hummer, this stunner;
-  The mesdames and misses cast looks
-  Of wild admiration and praise, adulation,
-  As he glibly and smoothly talked books.
-  When he’d quote a good rhyme or distich, they opine;
-  Their souls all mesmerized, torn,
-  “That say what you will, he cast doubts willy-nilly,
-  Is sure to the real manner born.”
-  They smiled on and wined him and frequently dined him,
-  Which quite put a crimp in us beaux;
-  Who all became hectic, enraged, apoplectic,
-  As we found ourselves not _comme il faut_.
-  We planned and we wondered and craftily pondered
-  A plan of reprisal for quits,
-  Then we thought if we waited real patient, more sated,
-  We’d be than to throw fifty fits.
-  No haste and bad temper, not even a whimper;
-  We’d watch and we’d wait and we’d hope;
-  We’d give him good tether, the stuffer, the bluffer,
-  He’d hang himself high with the rope.
-  Now slow was the turning, and with envy burning,
-  We waited long weeks for his crown,
-  When early one morning we heard, without warning
-  He’d quickly and darkly left town.
-  A check ’twas that threw him, became his undoing
-  With Winchester’s _creme de la creme_.
-  There was weeping and wailing and very much railing;
-  “His likes just had never been seen.”
-  Now when tea-pots were boiling; the _mesdames_ were spoiling
-  To square themselves――and not to squirm;
-  With _demoiselles_ mustered round tea cups they blustered:
-  “I told you so,” each one in turn.
-  “I sensed he was nothin’,” said portly Miss Tuffin;
-  “I mistrusted,” said thin Aunty Gray.
-  “I somehow got thinkin’,” said Grandma a-blinkin’;
-  “He warn’t all he should be, that jay.”
-  “I had intuitions, like needles in cushions,”
-  Observed Ann, the good parson’s wife;
-  “Same as me,” yapped sour Fanny; “I knowed ye did, Annie;”
-  “Me too,” offered Miss Tilly Clife.
-  “I told you so,” each one to this one, to that one;
-  “I told you so,” chimed one and all.
-  They’d never admit he’d deceived them nor peeved them.
-  Nor out of them taken a fall.
-  We snubbed swains laughed loudly, yet held ourselves proudly;
-  We stood real aloof for a while.
-  Things must have an ending; so slowly unbending
-  We’d spar with a frown or a smile.
-  The _entente_ came duly, if slowly, but truly,
-  And at last all were quite _en rapport_.
-  We dined well and wined well, and then all opined: “Well,
-  We’d forgive and forget the old score.”
-
-         *     *     *
-
-  Not Eve’s daughters only, but Adam’s sons lonely
-  Are hipped on their judgment of men;
-  They think they have got them, can size them or spot them,
-  But mostly they don’t. Dinna ken?
-
-
-
-
-  E PLURIBUS
-
-
-  Some have sung of the days in Vienna,
-  And others the strains “Wacht am Rhein;”
-  Men have mellowed to old Finnish folk tunes,
-  Kept step to Bavarian rhyme.
-  Old Madrid set our Spanish friends boasting:
-  Hungarian songs we’ve heard, too,
-  Yet, spite of the singing and toasting,
-  They _live_ under Red, White and Blue.
-
-  They never go back to Vienna
-  Nor foregather again on the Rhine;
-  Have ne’er seen their kin in bleak Finland
-  Nor been o’er Bavarian line.
-  They’re not in Madrid when they’re boasting;
-  In Hungary things might not ring true.
-  All fine are the singing and toasting,
-  But they _live_ under Red, White and Blue.
-
-  The Old World says we are commercial,
-  Yet “a dollar’s a dollar,” they say.
-  Have done with your “green eyes,” my brothers,
-  For world o’er achievement holds sway.
-  Come, cease your irrational boasting,
-  And stand by the land sought by you;
-  Then when you are singing and toasting,
-  Sing, sing for the Red, White and Blue,
-
-  From the Somme comes democracy’s pleading;
-  The Thames takes up the refrain.
-  The Scotch and the Irish are struggling;
-  Brave Canada’s not called in vain.
-  The Flemish not yielding or boasting;
-  Proud Portugal fights her way through.
-  And Italy’s brave sons we’re toasting,
-  We’re coming, the Red, White and Blue.
-
-  We’ll ne’er crook to yoke of a master;
-  To superman never pay toll;
-  We’ll never bow down like a vassal;
-  No, better the hemlock, the bowl!
-  The cause of humanity’s calling.
-  Take heart, we have heard it; we’re true;
-  For that cause brave men are now falling,
-  The men of the Red, White, and Blue.
-
-
-
-
-  THE MAN ABOUT TOWN
-
-
-  Oh, the “Man About Town;” the “Man About Town;”
-  He sometimes is “up,” and he’s usually “down.”
-  He’s always well-dressed, and he’s real debonair
-  And lives by his wits with a true _savoir faire_.
-  He quotes from R. Kipling, R. Service and “sich;”
-  Looks down on the poor, “plays up” to the rich.
-  The wise cannot answer his fool questionings;
-  His mental suggestions are terrible things.
-  He “blows hot and cold” with his two-edged breath,
-  And plays for your confidence “even till death.”
-  He looks in your eyes in a terrible way,
-  To find what you’ve “doped,” not because he’s O. K.
-  He’s glib on eugenics, and smattered in all
-  The games of cheap “con” on this old earthly ball.
-  Some day you may meet him, a real mental clown.
-  That cosmic creation, “The Man About Town.”
-
-
-
-
-  ELK CREEK
-
-
-  Purling and winding midst balsam and pine;
-  Hiding ’neath willow and spruce.
-  Sinuous, singing a sweet crooning rhyme;
-  Pleading to malcontents “truce.”
-  Lilting the line of a sad roundelay,
-  Presaging optimist’s prayer.
-  Sun-lit, twisting its silvery way,
-  Moon-kissed, ethereal, rare.
-
-
-
-
-  HOW THE VILLAGE CANARD STARTED
-
-
-  Tom walked into a bar-room to have a quiet beer,
-  Odds Bodkins! Jerry saw him, white-necktied Jerry Lear.
-
-  Now Jerry was an elder, a presbyter, you see,
-  Who prated loud ’gainst drinking, but “sneaked one” frequently.
-
-  Tom Benton was no tippler, but took one when he would,
-  No sweeter, kinder fellow e’er lived, nor half so good.
-
-  His quiet deeds of kindness, a help now here, now there,
-  A “candle under bushel” who always seemed to care
-
-  To help the weak and erring in unobtrusive way;
-  To make the lowly happy, and aching hearts make gay
-
-  By quip or jest or story, by his own soulful smile,
-  By merry rippling laughter, which heartened them awhile――
-
-  A law unto himself, then, this lovable old soul,
-  Who treated men as humans, but couldn’t “Jordan Roll,”
-
-  A bent and crooked body, but straight and pure at heart,
-  Who loved the young and aged, whom tears could rend apart.
-
-  Now this is how it happened that poor old Tom was damned
-  By Puritanic gossips through length and breath of land.
-
-  “Drab” Jerry told the parson, who told his wife, you see;
-  His wife informed Ned Nosy of Tom’s catastrophe,
-
-  Ned was a devout deacon, a long, thin-visaged wight,
-  Who’d sneak away _sub rosa_ to train around at night,
-
-  But Sunday sat in church pew and bawled a mighty chant,
-  Or railed against men’s vices with Puritanic rant.
-
-  Ned buttonholed old Bowser, a wily, canny runt,
-  Who’d beat deserving clients by doing bankrupt’s stunt.
-
-  Old Bowser told his sister, the village gossip kind
-  Quite “confidential-like” spake to her “who speak my mind.”
-
-  Miss Bowser told the Hearts’ Club of wondrous pedigree,
-  Who all exclaimed “how dreadful,” at poor Tom’s plight you see.
-
-  The Club then told their “hubbies,” all men of great renown,
-  Of more or less veracity, who quickly told the “town.”
-
-  And so these old bucolics ripped poor Tom fore and aft;
-  They sneered and jeered and pitied, and chaffed and leered and
-    laughed.
-
-  His quiet little “night-caps” grew to a mighty stream,
-  A riotous, raw revel, a Bacchanalian scream,
-
-  Now to the mighty truth, then, of all that canard crew,
-  There wouldn’t be a feather left if each one had his due.
-
-
-
-
-  THE SPRING VIOLET
-
-
-  Nestling in sun-lit valley;
-  Dew-kissed and petaled so rare;
-  Dainty as Daphne’s divinest;
-  Color cerulean, fair.
-  Graceful, petite and suggestive;
-  Urging the wooer’s behest,
-  Tenderly, lovingly covering
-  The heart in dear Mother Earth’s breast.
-
-
-
-
-  SANDY FLASH
-
-
-  A robber, in legend, S. Flash,
-  Was chock full of pep, fire, dash,
-    For he bluffed Chester County,
-    Bamboozled big bounty.
-  Some legend. Some brigand, one Flash.
-
-  Now this bold buccaneer, Sandy Flash,
-  When chock full of pep, fire, dash,
-    Made Abe Buzzard a piker,
-    Also Jess James, “Red Mike” or
-  The others a la Sandy Flash.
-
-  (After reading Bayard Taylor’s “Story of Kennett.”)
-
-
-
-
-  THE NEW SUIT
-
-
-  Willie Fiddle D. D. boasted twenty-five years;
-    He’d frittered his life quite away.
-  He lisped in a manner which moved one to tears,
-    And answered to all things, “I say!”
-  He sported a monocle really _de trop_,
-    And dined at Martin’s every night;
-  He talked of the gossip about “so-and-so”,
-    But “nevvah, ah nevvah,” talked “fight”.
-  Now grandfather D. had a plethoric purse
-    Which grandson would “touch” now and then;
-  For Willie since leaving his fond, doting nurse
-    Had not had real work in his ken.
-  Now once on a time, after dinner, at nine,
-    Which is really the time for a “touch,”
-  Old granddad sat reading of terrible war,
-    Whose horrors had troubled him much,
-  When Willie broke in, twixt a lisp and a squirm,
-    And plead for the price of a suit.
-  The old man turned red, white and blue, each in turn,
-    And out shot his big heavy boot
-  “You want a new suit,” roared the old man, aflame,
-    “You want a new suit, you young fright;
-  Your country is calling for men; it’s a shame.
-    Get out in the trenches and fight!
-  Get out in the trenches and fight like a man
-    Don’t stand there, you simp, like a mute.
-  Take a fall to yourself, and fight if you can;
-    Uncle Samuel will furnish a suit!”
-
-
-
-
-  THE LIBERTINE
-
-
-  He boasted a chivalrous birthright;
-    “The ladies” he toasted in wine;
-  He fumed at an off-color story,
-    And spoke of “those sisters of mine.”
-  Protected them all from designing
-    Intrigue, conniving and pelf,
-  Yet we all agreed in opining
-    He’d protect no girl from himself.
-
-
-
-
-  THE LIBERTY CORNET BAND
-
-
-  I’s hyeahd ol’ Massa Sousa
-  A playin’ wif his band;
-  Seen Massa Herbert wavin’
-  An’ beatin’ wif his hand.
-  De Jazz Band of de Navy――
-  Say, chile, dat bunch kin play.
-  But has you hyeahd ouah Lib’ty
-  Cawnet Band blaze away?
-
-  Jess Williams de drum majah,
-  Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
-  A struttin’ lak some rajah,
-  Toot, toot, chile, hyeah dey come.
-  Ol’ Goose Greek bridge a crossin’
-  Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
-  Keep step, coon, follow long now
-  Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
-
-  Today’s ouah day o’ days, chile;
-  Heads up now, march away!
-  De sidewalk we’s obstructin’?
-  Go, long, boss; hyeah dem play.
-  We’s just a clean fu’gotten
-  We’s livin! Aint it grand?
-  Chest out, eyes front, keep step to
-  De Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
-
-  I knows I’s retrospectin’,
-  But den I’s growin’ old.
-  I sawt o’ luv dem deah days
-  When I was pea’t and bold.
-  Jess Williams de drum majah,
-  De fines’ in de land.
-  A struttin’ an’ a leadin’
-  Dat Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
-
-  Jess Williams de drum majah,
-  Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
-  A struttin’ lak some rajah,
-  Toot, toot, hark! hyeah dey come.
-  Ol’ Goose Creek bridge a crossin’,
-  Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
-  Hats off, chile, Lawd bless evah
-  Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band!
-
-
-
-
-  THE PERIODIC
-
-
-  A poor periodic,
-  In mood episodic,
-  Sat shaking with “nerves” one day,
-  When a “pony” beside him
-  Ran way down inside him,
-  And chased old Neuritis away.
-
-
-
-
-  MRS. MURPHY’S PURCHASE
-
-
-  Mrs. Murphy was on purchasing bent,
-  So she hied to “The Great Big Store.”
-  She gazed around, then finally went
-  Towards a fellow just six-feet-four,
-  A floor-walk man with legs that curved
-  Till they looked like a mystic O.
-  “He’d never be catching a hog,” she averred,
-  “Nor shine at a greased pig show!”
-  This much to herself――then she said to “that gint”
-  In a raucous voice of command:
-  “I want some gloves, of a pearl-gray tint,
-  To be wearin’ upon me hand.”
-  The man bowed low and had turned to go
-  Towards the place where the gloves were sold,
-  With “walk this way”――when Mrs. M. lo!
-  Stopped and looked at that figure bold.
-  She gazed at his legs, then fairly yelled,
-  As she looked him o’er and o’er,
-  “Me walk that way, no, not if I’m held;
-  No! not fer yer whole blamed store!”
-
-
-
-
-  THE LEGEND OF DEBORAH’S ROCK
-
-
-  A rock sits by
-    A stream.
-  I don’t know why
-    They call
-  It Deborah’s Rock.
-    I guess
-  It’s not a “knock”
-    At her.
-  It’s hard and rough.
-    ’Twas once
-  Of prehistoric stuff
-    And then
-  ’Twas soft, _on dit_.
-    For me
-  I don’t know, see!
-    They say
-  An Indian red
-    Once fell
-  _In_ love with Deb-
-    O Rah,
-  Then _out_, and why?
-    Just guess!
-  (Here you must cry)
-    She jumped
-  Right off that rock,
-    Kersplash!
-  My what a knock
-    She had.
-  She died (Here blink)
-    And left
-  Deep print, they think,
-    On top
-  The rock, from place
-    She jumped,
-  Of foot. Now space
-    Forbids
-  I dare deny
-    She did,
-  But this I try
-    To see
-  In vain, how she
-    Could sink
-  Her foot, you see,
-    Into
-  That rock so rough.
-    Now this
-  Is quite enough
-    To give
-  The lie to tale.
-    But here,
-  Lest this grow stale,
-    I say
-  I just believe
-    The maid
-  Weighed tons! Perceive?
-    Or else
-  Was built dame, bold,
-    In pre-
-  Historic mould
-    When rock
-  Was soft and then――
-    But there,
-  “I dinna ken!”
-
-
-
-
-  THE ACTOR-MAN
-
-
-  A fun-making, pun-making actor,
-  Came out on the stage one night.
-  In real histrionics, a factor,
-  He came down the boards to the light.
-  “I’m starving,” he cried; “I am needing
-  Food for my body and soul.”
-  He looked towards the ceiling in pleading,
-  Then the curtain came down with a “roll.”
-
-
-
-
-  THE GANGSTER
-
-
-  “Hand me the dream book,” the gangster winked;
-      “Bring out the old harpoon――
-  I mean the dead list, the men I’ve pinked;
-      Bilged to the old time tune.
-  Listen, I’ll tell you the system’s sin;
-      Show you the way we do――
-  God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in――
-      Guess I’ll confess, I’m through.
-  Open the dead list, begin with ‘A,’
-      Andrews, the first one there;
-  Beat me. I got him; crossed him, say,
-      Tell me you’ll keep it, swear!
-  No? Well, to Hell then! I just plain lied;
-      Framed it his wife wasn’t true.
-  Killed him? I know it; he up and died;
-      Took a lead pill or two.
-  Turn to the ‘B’s’ now, old Doctor Blight,
-      Lord, how he caught us red,
-  Square as ye make ’em, but ‘black is white’
-      Or ‘white is black’ ’tis said;
-  Least that’s our creed; we painted up
-      Slip of his boyhood days;
-  Sensitive man, Blight, he hit the cup,
-      Took to the rum-dum’s ways.
-  Look at the ‘C’s’ next, Judge William Clate,
-      Straight as a ramrod, ‘Will;’
-  Gave us ‘the double.’ Decision straight?
-      Sure Mike. He paid the bill.
-  We stuffed the ballot late in the fall,
-      Presto! out went the Judge!
-  Most broke his heart, his friends and all.
-      Coolly we fed our grudge.
-  You say it’s rotten? Sure, lad, I know,
-      Yes, to the very core.
-  Built on the weakness of ‘So and So.’
-      ‘Framing,’ ‘getting’ and more
-  Words that a man hates dyed in sin,
-      Lying as I do here;
-  ‘Dictographs,’ ‘trumping’ and ‘listening in,’
-      ‘Crafty,’ ‘foxy,’ ‘the queer,’
-  ‘Blackmailing,’ ‘crossing,’ ’tis only such,
-      No other words I’ve known.
-  Good things in life I ain’t seen much;
-      What I have reaped I’ve sown.
-  Laughed at the dreamers, the fighters clean,
-      Men with no axe to grind;
-  Scoffed at the white ones and have seen
-      Others who’ve lost their mind.
-  Snuffed out the gentle; smeared with mud
-      Men with escutcheons fair;
-  Joshed at the learned and cursed blue-blood,
-      Sneered at their manners rare;
-  Called them the ‘stuffed suits,’ laid my plot
-      To safe and sure get mine.
-  Men call me ‘self-made.’ A self-made what?
-      Dough I’ve got and some fine
-  Diamonds a sparklin’, but just know
-      I ain’t so great; I’m small.
-  Money does talkin,’ they say, but Joe,
-      Money won’t do it all.
-  Boot-licked the Trust, then twisted, swirled
-      Up on the ‘reps’ I’d killed;
-  Slimed along playing the underworld;
-      Think of the blood I’ve spilled!
-  God bless the self mades, who’re manly ones,
-      Modest and generous, kind!
-  Damn such as me, a self-made bum,
-      Crafty, crooked and blind!
-  Money’s all right if you’re right, see?
-      Bad if you’re bad at heart.
-  Right with yourself is the way to be;
-      Don’t try to play too smart!
-  Here’s where you need help, when you’re all in,
-      Beaten down to a clod;
-  Showing your hand and squaring up
-      Yourself when you’re facing God.”
-
-
-
-
-  TOM
-
-  (_With apologies to Thomas and Quintus._)
-
-
-  Oh, T. W. Pierce, scanner of Q. H. Flaccus,
-  Delver in Socrates’ ways, greetings, best wishes from us.
-  Juggler in dactyls and such; beating iambic tattoo;
-  Aristotelian in thought; epic in quality too.
-  Twin, in love for the old, with one “Scotty” Waddell,
-  Give us the “once over,” friend. Think that you can’t? What the hell!
-  Spellbinding classical clubs, Phi Beta Kappa’s delight,
-  Give us a touch of your art while you are with us to-night,
-  Better a touch of yourself, you who are true to Yale Blue.
-  Health and a long life, old friend; all that is fine, Tom, for you!
-
-
-
-
-  LA LANGUE ANGLAISE
-
-
-  In French, she tattled like fury;
-  Her Spanish was quite _comme il faut_.
-  Italian she rattled like monkey;
-  In German, she spoke “high” and “low.”
-  Though born in Chicago, the windy,
-  And trussed up in finishing school,
-  Her English was really a shindy,
-  And smashed each grammatical rule.
-
-
-
-
-  NE’ER MORE
-
-
-  A reader of Poe yclept Lake,
-  Quite often of ales did partake.
-      Once he took most a score,
-      Quoth he ravin’; “Ne’er more,”
-  So they soon held a wake for one, Lake.
-
-
-
-
-  WHEN “TY” COBB COMES TO TOWN
-
-
-  Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat
-  With a droop in his big blue eye,
-  His collar wilted, tie askew,
-  And his red face all awry.
-  The beads of perspiration rolled
-  And bathed him cheek and jowl;
-  He fanned himself with palm leaf fan
-  And mopped his face with a towel.
-
-  Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat,
-  And into a smile broke he.
-  He’d been some working “mon” that day;
-  He’d had funerals twelve, you see.
-  “Not common-like of common folks,”
-  He said, and his laugh beguiled,
-  “But Grandmas twelve of office boys.”
-  Bill stopped, then broadly smiled.
-
-
-
-
-Transcriber’s Note
-
-Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores,
-_like this_. Dialect, obsolete and misspelled words were not
-changed. Added unprinted hyphen to “so-and-so.”
-
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-<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Pacifist: and other poems, by Howard Futhey Brinton</div>
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-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
-most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
-of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
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-</div>
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-<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Pacifist: and other poems</p>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Howard Futhey Brinton</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: December 6, 2021 [eBook #66892]</div>
-
-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
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-<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
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-<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Carol Brown, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</div>
-
-<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PACIFIST: AND OTHER POEMS ***</div>
-
-<!--Pg_001-->
-<div class="box">
-<div class="innerbox">
-<h1 class="h1head">THE PACIFIST</h1>
-
-<p class="center"><span class="decoration">And Other Poems</span></p>
-
-<h2 class="h2head">HOWARD FUTHEY BRINTON</h2>
-
-<div class="p4 figcenter">
- <img src="images/logo.jpg"
- width="200"
- alt="Printer logo'"
- />
-</div>
-
-<p class="p4 center">BOSTON<br />
-<span class="larger">THE GORHAM PRESS</span>
-<abbr title="1918">MCMXVIII</abbr></p>
-</div><!--end innerbox-->
-</div><!--end box-->
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-<p class="p4 center">Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton</p>
-<hr />
-<p class="center">All Rights Reserved</p>
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-<p class="p4 center">MADE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA</p>
-<hr />
-<p class="center"><span class="sc">The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A.</span></p>
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-<div class="break">
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-<p class="p4 center"><span class="sc lowercase">TO</span></p>
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-<p class="center larger">THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,</p>
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-<p class="center"><span class="sc lowercase">AND</span></p>
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-<p class="center larger"><span class="sc">WILLIAM MacFUNN BAIRD</span></p>
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-<table summary="">
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-<tr><td class="center">CONTENTS</td></tr>
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-<tr><td colspan="2" class="right"><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Pacifist</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_009">9</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">“Adam’s Apple”</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_011">11</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_012">12</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Breaking In</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_015">15</a></td></tr>
-
-<tr><td class="left">La Reve</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_016">16</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Sol</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_017">17</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Poor Man’s Club</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_018">18</a></td></tr>
-
-<tr><td class="left">Retrospect</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_020">20</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">On “Gungha Din”</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_021">21</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Why?</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_022">22</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Barney</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_023">23</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Come, Little Girl</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_024">24</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">I’ll Come, Little Boy</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_025">25</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Chenoweth</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_026">26</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">You Wonder</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_028">28</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">In “Del’s”</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_029">29</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Mother</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_030">30</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Jumbo’s Dream</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_031">31</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Blues</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_033">33</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The “I Told You So Club”</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_034">34</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">E Pluribus</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_037">37</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Man About Town</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_039">39</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Elk Creek</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_040">40</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">How the Village Canard Started</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_041">41</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Spring Violet</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_044">44</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Sandy Flash</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_045">45</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The New Suit</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_046">46</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Libertine</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_047">47</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Liberty Cornet Band</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_048">48</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Periodic</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_050">50</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_051">51</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Legend of Deborah’s Rock</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_052">52</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Actor-Man</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_054">54</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">The Gangster</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_055">55</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Tom</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_058">58</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Langue Anglaise</span></td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_059">59</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">Ne’er More</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_060">60</a></td></tr>
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-<tr><td class="left">When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town</td>
-    <td class="right"><a href="#Page_061">61</a></td></tr>
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-<h2 class="h1head">THE PACIFIST</h2>
-</div>
-<!--Pg_008--><!--blank page-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_009" id="Page_009"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE PACIFIST</div>
-
-<div class="i0">In Ben’s blood there coursed the fire of the Celt,</div>
-<div class="i2">A strain of the strong Saxon thew;</div>
-<div class="i0">From his eyes shot a glint of a son of the South&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">An American type through and through.</div>
-<div class="i0">A dreamer, daredevil, and care free, they say,</div>
-<div class="i2">Who lived in the far remote past,&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">An unpractical man and careless forsooth;</div>
-<div class="i2">Inclined as a youth to be fast.</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d shot up the town and sowed some wild oats,</div>
-<div class="i2">And once on a time rolled the dice,</div>
-<div class="i0">But heart like an ox and muscled like steel;</div>
-<div class="i2">A dreamer? Yes, without price.</div>
-<div class="i0">He filled no great niche in the town where he lived,</div>
-<div class="i2">Was never considered worth while.</div>
-<div class="i0">The pacifist craft rolled their eyes to the sky</div>
-<div class="i2">And mentioned his name with a smile,</div>
-<div class="i0">An odious smile, twixt a smirk and a grin,</div>
-<div class="i2">A smile that was snaky and sly.</div>
-<div class="i0">They’d ne’er draw a sword nor strike with a club,</div>
-<div class="i2">But could damn with the lift of an eye.</div>
-<div class="i0">The tocsin of war sounds at last in the land,</div>
-<div class="i2">And threatened invasion seemed near.</div>
-<div class="i0">The hand of the patriot went to the sword;</div>
-<div class="i2">The pacifist muttered in fear;</div>
-<div class="i0">He muttered, then sold to the Government, ground</div>
-<div class="i2">Down hard by the burden of Thor,</div>
-<div class="i0">Life’s veriest needs at prohibitive rates;</div>
-<div class="i2">Conscription did curse and abhor.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ben rode to the front with the coming of strife</div>
-<div class="i2">Where the roar of the guns rose and fell;</div>
-<div class="i0">Was killed while he strove for democracy’s cause</div>
-<div class="i2">As he fought like a demon of hell.</div>
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-<div class="i0">They builded a shaft in the town of his birth</div>
-<div class="i2">To the rascally skin and the beat</div>
-<div class="i0">Who’d tricked Uncle Sam by short-changing of food,</div>
-<div class="i2">A lynx-eyed and oily old cheat</div>
-<div class="i0">Who yapped about honesty, horrors of war,</div>
-<div class="i2">Contributed largely of speech</div>
-<div class="i0">And words of advice to the youth thereabouts&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">His pacifist face was a ‘screech’,</div>
-<div class="i0">Ben hadn’t a shaft where his forefathers slept</div>
-<div class="i2">Nor niche in the Chancel of Fame;</div>
-<div class="i0">No tablet recited the list of his deeds,</div>
-<div class="i2">Nor blazoned the worth of his name.</div>
-<div class="i0">He died as men do who answer the call</div>
-<div class="i2">With boots on and pierced to the heart;</div>
-<div class="i0">He died and those lived who, sneering at him,</div>
-<div class="i2">Sucked the people’s blood dry in the mart;</div>
-<div class="i0">Conniving at profit, a pacifist brood,</div>
-<div class="i2">Not unwilling a country to sell;</div>
-<div class="i0">Iniquitous, plotting and pandering to pelf&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">The opal-eyed vampires of hell!</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_011" id="Page_011"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">“ADAM’S APPLE”</div>
-
-<div class="i2">Said Eve to “hub” Adam:</div>
-<div class="i0">“My dear, what’s the matter?</div>
-<div class="i2">Your eyes are all bulging;</div>
-<div class="i0">Your teeth all a chatter.</div>
-<div class="i2">That lump in your throat, dear,</div>
-<div class="i0">Speak, Adam!” she muttered.</div>
-<div class="i2">“Ad” gasped for his breath,</div>
-<div class="i0">And spluttered and spluttered,</div>
-<div class="i2">Then breathed more at ease;</div>
-<div class="i0">Congestion releasing</div>
-<div class="i2">Its hold, he looked normal,</div>
-<div class="i0">But frowns his face creasing,</div>
-<div class="i2">He paused before speaking:</div>
-<div class="i0">“Eve, list while I chatter;</div>
-<div class="i2">I’ve most choked to death, see?</div>
-<div class="i0">The cause of the matter</div>
-<div class="i2">Was eating your apple,</div>
-<div class="i0">Esophagus cloying,</div>
-<div class="i2">That Forbidden Fruit</div>
-<div class="i0">My life most destroying.”</div>
-<div class="center">*&emsp;&emsp;*&emsp;&emsp;*</div>
-<div class="i2">Now if we’re believing</div>
-<div class="i0">In stuff that’s prenatal,</div>
-<div class="i2">We plain see the reason</div>
-<div class="i0">Some “Ad’s” sons have fatal</div>
-<div class="i2">Big lumps all a bulging,</div>
-<div class="i0">Their cervicals craning,&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">’Twas “Grandfather’s” fault,</div>
-<div class="i0">Heredity’s (s) training,</div>
-<div class="i2">That lump in their throats just</div>
-<div class="i0">Keeps sticking and sticking.</div>
-<div class="i2">“Adam’s Apple” Eve called it,</div>
-<div class="i0"><em>But</em> Eve did the picking.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_012" id="Page_012"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR</div>
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-<div class="i0">There’s a quaint and care-free tavern</div>
-<div class="i0">In the heart of business life,</div>
-<div class="i0">In the Quaker City’s centre,&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">Where relaxation’s rife.</div>
-<div class="i0">’Tis a melting pot and leveler</div>
-<div class="i0">For the man who has a ‘bump’,</div>
-<div class="i0">Or the one with trouble burdened</div>
-<div class="i0">Like a dromedary’s hump.</div>
-<div class="i0">One finds parry and riposte rare</div>
-<div class="i0">Unto the nth degree,</div>
-<div class="i0">And Barney Bright, the Irish wight,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who orders “darks” for me.</div>
-<div class="i0">Here Andrew Jackson Johnson,</div>
-<div class="i0">Or MacDee, with <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">savoir faire</i>,</div>
-<div class="i0">Smooths down the foolish talker</div>
-<div class="i0">Who wildly pounds the air.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now diplomatic “Jack” and “Mac”&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">MacDee, I mean&mdash;the two</div>
-<div class="i0">Have often smoothed the ruffled path</div>
-<div class="i0">For you and me and you.</div>
-<div class="i0">Here rotund, pleasant Pickerel</div>
-<div class="i0">Disports in ornate phrase,</div>
-<div class="i0">And Henry Schaffer ‘Gungha Dins:’</div>
-<div class="i0">Descants Bohemia’s ways</div>
-<div class="i0">Or “Colonel Massa” Hallowell,</div>
-<div class="i0">Of famed blue-grass renown,</div>
-<div class="i0">Exploits the perfect luxury</div>
-<div class="i0">Of bourbon trickling down.</div>
-<div class="i0">And so, ad infinitum,</div>
-<div class="i0">From out the clouds of smoke,</div>
-<div class="i0">Away from tribulation,</div>
-<div class="i0">We laugh and jest and joke.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now far as I have wandered,</div>
-<!--Pg_013-->
-<div class="i0">At home, abroad, afar,</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ve never seen the equal</div>
-<div class="i0">Of Bill MacDee’s cigar.</div>
-<div class="i0">Its shape just at the lighting</div>
-<div class="i0">Is like Zeppelin’s air craft;</div>
-<div class="i0">’Tis round and rolled so nicely</div>
-<div class="i0">And pointed fore and aft;</div>
-<div class="i0">It faithfully interprets,</div>
-<div class="i0">In rising rings of smoke,</div>
-<div class="i0">Each psychologic moment,</div>
-<div class="i0">Each point and pass and poke.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now when it’s smooth and rounded</div>
-<div class="i0">Mac’s camping on the trail</div>
-<div class="i0">Of something that’s been mooted,</div>
-<div class="i0">And works his mental flail.</div>
-<div class="i0">This cautious Scottish Quaker’s</div>
-<div class="i0">“I see” means “I’ve a hunch”;</div>
-<div class="i0">He’s sparring for an opening</div>
-<div class="i0">Before he hands a punch,</div>
-<div class="i0">But just before he counters</div>
-<div class="i0">While listening to us “spar,”</div>
-<div class="i0">You will never see the equal</div>
-<div class="i0">Of good, old Mac’s cigar.</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s whirled round like a cyclone;</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s feathered like an owl;</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s mussed up like a scrap can</div>
-<div class="i0">Or poor-plucked barnyard fowl.</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s frayed and furred and serrate;</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s toothed and torn and spurred;</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s ripped and ribbed and ragged,</div>
-<div class="i0">And this is what’s occurred;</div>
-<div class="i0">Chaotic conversation</div>
-<div class="i0">A figure needs, you know,</div>
-<div class="i0">A metaphor or something</div>
-<div class="i0">Interpreting its flow;</div>
-<div class="i0">To visualize its looseness,</div>
-<!--Pg_014-->
-<div class="i0">Its academic “punk”</div>
-<div class="i0">From Literary Digests;</div>
-<div class="i0">Its casuistic “bunk.”</div>
-<div class="i0">And so when I’m relaxing,</div>
-<div class="i0">And talking wild and far,</div>
-<div class="i0">I catch my real reflection</div>
-<div class="i0">In Bill MacDee’s cigar.</div>
-<div class="i0">I trust that it may “<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fumer</i>,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Frayed, frazzled old cheroot,</div>
-<div class="i0">For many years of joy for Mac,</div>
-<div class="i0">With other things to boot.</div>
-<div class="i0">And when I’ve run my gamut</div>
-<div class="i0">And am “crossing of the bar,”</div>
-<div class="i0">I hope to see a-glowing</div>
-<div class="i0">The end of Mac’s cigar.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_015" id="Page_015"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">BREAKING IN</div>
-
-<div class="i0">I called on the editor,</div>
-<div class="i2">A story in my grip.</div>
-<div class="i0">I laid it down before him,</div>
-<div class="i2">Then bethought me of some quip,</div>
-<div class="i0">Some turn of conversation,</div>
-<div class="i2">Some “jolly” or some speech,</div>
-<div class="i0">A sesame or something</div>
-<div class="i2">By which I’d surely reach</div>
-<div class="i0">And pink him in the vitals</div>
-<div class="i2">Of sympathy and such</div>
-<div class="i0">Emotionals and interest,</div>
-<div class="i2">And volunteered this much:</div>
-<div class="i0">“I feel I have a FUTURE</div>
-<div class="i2">In writing, don’t you see,</div>
-<div class="i0">In enlightening the public</div>
-<div class="i2">With prose and poetry!”</div>
-<div class="i0">I waited a few minutes</div>
-<div class="i2">Until the tale he’d read,</div>
-<div class="i0">He looked at me acutely</div>
-<div class="i2">With horoscopic dread.</div>
-<div class="i0">“You feel you have a FUTURE</div>
-<div class="i2">In writing, then,” he sneered.</div>
-<div class="i0">“You’d better get a PAST, sir,”</div>
-<div class="i2">Was all he volunteered.</div>
-<div class="poemtitle"><br />(Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late<br />
-David Graham Phillips.)</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_016" id="Page_016"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">LA REVE</div>
-
-<div class="i0">The girl of my dreams, ah! the girl of my dreams,</div>
-<div class="i2">Those wonderful, beautiful, wonderful dreams,</div>
-<div class="i0">Her delicate touch to soothe me the while,</div>
-<div class="i2">Her exquisite brows, her sweet soulful smile.</div>
-<div class="center">*&emsp;&emsp;*&emsp;&emsp;*</div>
-<div class="i0">I stir! I’m awake. Ah, how sweet she now seems;</div>
-<div class="i0">It is she. I am with her, sweet girl of my dreams.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_017" id="Page_017"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">SOL</div>
-
-<div class="i0">“Solomon, young, full of pep”&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">I’m quoting one Burney C.</div>
-<div class="i0">“With all the gay blades kept step</div>
-<div class="i0">Gay Lothario he.</div>
-<div class="i0">Solomon withered and old,</div>
-<div class="i2">Filled to the brim with <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ennui</i>,</div>
-<div class="i0">Tired of the gay life and bold,</div>
-<div class="i0">Ergo Proverbs. Some Solomon he!”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_018" id="Page_018"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE POOR MAN’S CLUB</div>
-
-<div class="i0">The Poor Man’s Club is a wonderful place,</div>
-<div class="i2">Neither fashionable, swift nor slow,</div>
-<div class="i0">A kindly, rare, psychological spot,</div>
-<div class="i2">As those who frequent it well know.</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s built on the marvelous “Dutch treat” plan</div>
-<div class="i2">Which is sane and destructive to fear.</div>
-<div class="i0">You stand for yourself, also pay for yourself,</div>
-<div class="i2">And expand in democracy’s cheer.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now this old club, in fact, is just an excuse</div>
-<div class="i2">For a rare metaphysical “bee.”</div>
-<div class="i0">“Missourians” they, with a look which conveys:</div>
-<div class="i2">“My friend, you will have to show me.”</div>
-<div class="i0">No cynical scoff nor ironical thrust,</div>
-<div class="i2">No skeptical look nor a sneer,</div>
-<div class="i0">Just a leveling kind, “don’t throw a bluff” glance,</div>
-<div class="i2">Then “welcome here without fear.”</div>
-<div class="i0">The Poor Man’s Club hates the stuffed suit kind;</div>
-<div class="i2">I opine it dislikes the “know</div>
-<div class="i0">It all” sort, the artistically weird,</div>
-<div class="i2">Still more it detests the blow.</div>
-<div class="i0">It ignores the sycophant’s sly, smooth tricks</div>
-<div class="i2">And the man who tries to droll.</div>
-<div class="i0">It shunts a cold, climbing, cynical cad</div>
-<div class="i2">As it would a plain damned fool.</div>
-<div class="i0">In short it’s a sane sort of potpourri</div>
-<div class="i2">Or a melting pot, you know,</div>
-<div class="i0">For “high brow,” “low brow,” no brows at all,</div>
-<div class="i2">Or flotsam who just come and go.</div>
-<div class="i0">Yes, the Poor Man’s Club is a leveling place</div>
-<div class="i2">For the man with mental bumps.</div>
-<div class="i0">Its light and cheer are just the best boost</div>
-<div class="i2">For the one who’s in the dumps.</div>
-<div class="i0">Life’s edges rough with a deft, tactful touch,</div>
-<div class="i2">It smooths for the man who’s down,</div>
-<!--Pg_019-->
-<div class="i0">And the one who’s up never tries the snide trick</div>
-<div class="i2">Of a patronizing frown.</div>
-<div class="i0">So if some night you are all out of sorts</div>
-<div class="i2">And don’t know what to do,</div>
-<div class="i0">Why just drop in to the Poor Man’s Club,</div>
-<div class="i2">And let me present to you</div>
-<div class="i0">First “Jack” and “Mac,” then old “Skeff” and “Lope”</div>
-<div class="i2">And “Jawn” and rare “Doc” and “Bill,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Also “Mont” and “Cook,” or some “also ran brows,”</div>
-<div class="i2">And then you can have your fill</div>
-<div class="i0">Of talk that’s light and a good heartening up</div>
-<div class="i2">And kindly repartee,</div>
-<div class="i0">In the night you spend in parry and tierce</div>
-<div class="i2">At the sign of the “Old P. M. C.”</div>
-<div class="i0"><br />(Philadelphia Press, July 16, 1911).</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_020" id="Page_020"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">RETROSPECT</div>
-
-<div class="i0">She’s sweet, I declare, and she’s real debonair,</div>
-<div class="i0">And she just sort of has me “way up in the air!”</div>
-<div class="i0">There’s a touch of the gyp in her arch little eye,</div>
-<div class="i0">And the savor of health as she passes you by.</div>
-<div class="i0">Her hair is jet black; her look rings real true,</div>
-<div class="i0">And the tinge of her heart I am sure is true blue.</div>
-<div class="i0">I shall ever recall, if I live to four score,</div>
-<div class="i0">The impress she made on me, the old bore,</div>
-<div class="i0">As she sat on the stairs one night long ago,</div>
-<div class="i0">With a touch of the roguish, a wonderful glow</div>
-<div class="i0">In her exquisite eyes never equaled as yet.</div>
-<div class="i0">They’ve haunted me since and I’ll never forget</div>
-<div class="i0">That touch of the roguish, that wonderful glow</div>
-<div class="i0">In her exquisite eyes on that night long ago.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_021" id="Page_021"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">ON “GUNGHA DIN”</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Have you ever heard Schaffer declaim of old “Din,”</div>
-<div class="i6">“Din,” “Gungha Din,”</div>
-<div class="i4">He gives all its savors,</div>
-<div class="i4">Its turns and its quavers</div>
-<div class="i4">And all the camp flavors</div>
-<div class="i6">Of “Din,” “Gungha Din.”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">I wish Rudyard Kipling could hear Schaffer chin</div>
-<div class="i6">On “Din,” “Gungha Din,”</div>
-<div class="i4">He catches its chiming,</div>
-<div class="i4">Its scanning and rhyming,</div>
-<div class="i4">And the depth of repining</div>
-<div class="i6">In “Din,” “Gungha Din.”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">With a mien that is grave, old Schaffer wades in</div>
-<div class="i6">To “Din,” “Gungha Din!”</div>
-<div class="i4">You hear bullets flying</div>
-<div class="i4">And screeching, men sighing</div>
-<div class="i4">When Schaffer is plying</div>
-<div class="i6">His “Din,” “Gungha Din.”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">If some night you hear a real terrible din</div>
-<div class="i6">After “Din,” “Gungha Din!”</div>
-<div class="i4">You’ll know they’re applauding</div>
-<div class="i4">And cheering and lauding</div>
-<div class="i4">Old Schaffer marauding</div>
-<div class="i6">Through “Din,” “Gungha Din.”</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_022" id="Page_022"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">WHY?</div>
-
-<div class="i0">What a glance in your sweet, soulful eyes!</div>
-<div class="i2">What a tilt to your nose, just above</div>
-<div class="i0">The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">moue</i> to your lips, that is charming.</div>
-<div class="i2">Your delicate ears, sweet, I love!</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ll love you, my wee girl, forever;</div>
-<div class="i2">With the strength of my soul, I will do</div>
-<div class="i0">The best I can plan for you, darling,</div>
-<div class="i2">And why? Why because, dear, you’re you!</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_023" id="Page_023"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">BARNEY</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Have you ne’er heard of Barney?</div>
-<div class="i0">Come, none of your blarney;</div>
-<div class="i0">You’ve ne’er heard of Barney, the wight?</div>
-<div class="i0">He’s a real Celt; he’s witty;</div>
-<div class="i0">He lives in this city,</div>
-<div class="i0">And waits at Meran’s every night.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">There once ’rose the question</div>
-<div class="i0">Midst mental congestion</div>
-<div class="i0">Produced by ‘Vin Ordinaire;’</div>
-<div class="i0">“What shape is this world here,</div>
-<div class="i0">Round, ovoid, spheroidal,</div>
-<div class="i0">Elliptical, nut-shaped or square?”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">After hopeless arraignment,</div>
-<div class="i0">With well-done containment,</div>
-<div class="i0">One called on old Barney so that</div>
-<div class="i0">He might judge the matter&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">To ease up the clatter,</div>
-<div class="i0">And put a quick end to the spat.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">“I’ve thought and I’ve wondered,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Said Barney, “I’ve pondered,</div>
-<div class="i0">To see, sir, just where I was at.</div>
-<div class="i0">The world is not round, sir,</div>
-<div class="i0">For I’ve always found, sir,</div>
-<div class="i0">Whenever I hit it, ’twas flat.”</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_024" id="Page_024"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">COME, LITTLE GIRL</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Oh, come, little girl, and play with me</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little boy.</div>
-<div class="i0">We will never grow old, little girl, at all;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll hop, skip and jump and play with a ball:</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll frolic, and laugh and climb the trees tall,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little girl, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Oh, come, little girl and play with me,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little boy.</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll make believe cats and doggies and things</div>
-<div class="i0">Are elephants, lions and eagles with wings;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll dream in the woods, where the waterfall sings,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little girl, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Oh, come, little girl and play with me,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little boy.</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll make believe you, little girl, and I</div>
-<div class="i0">Are married some day, and then by and by,</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll buy paper kiddies, and croon “lullaby,”</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little girl, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Do come little girl, <em>please</em> play with me,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I <em>must</em> be your little boy</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll build a sweet house, little girl, our own,</div>
-<div class="i0">Of sassafras wood, and birch, and stone;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll bake big mud pies, and cookies and pome,</div>
-<div class="i4">You, sweet little girl, and I.</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_025" id="Page_025"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">I’LL COME, LITTLE BOY</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-
-<div class="i0">I’ll come and play with you, little boy,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little girl.</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll laugh, we’ll love, we’ll play and we’ll sing;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll just pretend lake down by the old spring,</div>
-<div class="i0">And toss ourselves high in the old willow swing,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little boy, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little girl.</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ll bring my sweet kitties and doggies and “Ted”,</div>
-<div class="i0">The little brown bear, with the cute little head,</div>
-<div class="i0">And we’ll sing them to sleep in a wee trundle bed,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little boy, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Oh! I’ll come and play with you, little boy,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I would be your little girl.</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll sit by the brook where the cataract calls;</div>
-<div class="i0">And make believe, down by the Silver Thread Falls,</div>
-<div class="i0">That we’re on a honeymoon, like Grandma Mauls,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little boy, and I.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Yes, I’ll come and play with you, little boy,</div>
-<div class="i4">For I <em>must</em> be your little girl.</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ll cook in an oven of clay and of loam;</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ll kiss you, dear boy, whene’er you come home,</div>
-<div class="i0">And then you’ll kiss me, little boy, all my own,</div>
-<div class="i4">Just you, little boy, and I.</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_026" id="Page_026"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">CHENOWETH</div>
-
-<div class="i0">I’ve followed athletes’ foibles since Walter Camp began</div>
-<div class="i0">To pick foot-ball immortals for “The All-American,”</div>
-<div class="i0">But close as I’ve observed them at home, abroad, afar,</div>
-<div class="i0">I’m sure that “Texas” Chenoweth is easily the star</div>
-<div class="i0">Of all elusive “quarters” who ever tried to squirm</div>
-<div class="i0">On foot-ball field deceptive; on footing wet or firm.</div>
-<div class="i0">He twists just like a serpent; he’s cunning as a fox;</div>
-<div class="i0">He runs as from a creditor; he’s mighty hard to box.</div>
-<div class="i0">He’s slippery as an oyster; he’s fleeter than a deer;</div>
-<div class="i0">He dodges like a debtor; he jumps now there, now here.</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ve seen DeSaulles cavorting from this goal unto that;</div>
-<div class="i0">To “Phil” King I’ve paid homage; to Daly doffed my hat.</div>
-<div class="i0">“Brown’s” Sprackling was a wonder; Carl Williams was a peach;</div>
-<div class="i0">To Poe, finesse in foot-ball was very hard to teach.</div>
-<div class="i0">Out West there was a wonder named Walter Eckersall;</div>
-<div class="i0">Old Bray, the Easton wonder, was a terror with the ball.</div>
-<div class="i0">And so, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ad infinitum</i>, I might enumerate</div>
-<div class="i0">The gamut of the heroes who really scintillate</div>
-<div class="i0">In firmament of foot-ball, the king of out-door sport,</div>
-<div class="i0">When put to the defensive, to really show one’s forte,</div>
-<div class="i0">But in quaffing to those heroes who’re destined e’er to shine,</div>
-<div class="i0">Or in toasting to great “quarters” in retrospective wine,</div>
-<!--Pg_027-->
-<div class="i0">I’ll just defer to Kipling and attempt to plagiarize</div>
-<div class="i0">Those lines of his so potent, and not philosophize</div>
-<div class="i2">Here’s to ’Weth, ’Weth, ’Weth, Chenoweth,</div>
-<div class="i2">You doughty little “quarter,” get your breath,</div>
-<div class="i2">Though they’ve tackled, mauled and flayed you,</div>
-<div class="i2">And in Earth’s dank mud have laid you,</div>
-<div class="i2">You’ve “got ’em shooting ducks,” “Tex” Chenoweth.</div>
-
-<div class="poemtitle"><br /><cite>Philadelphia Lehigh Club “NEWS,”<br />
-January 1914.</cite></div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_028" id="Page_028"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">YOU WONDER</div>
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">You wonder, you surmise,</div>
-<div class="i0">And with imploring eyes,</div>
-<div class="i0">You ask me: “Will you always love me so?”</div>
-<div class="i0">Your soul is searching mine,</div>
-<div class="i0">While your trembling lips make sign</div>
-<div class="i0">To ask me “Will you always love me so?”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Your soul is all afire,</div>
-<div class="i0">With that questioning desire</div>
-<div class="i0">To ask me: “Will you always love me so?”</div>
-<div class="i0">But your pride bids you keep still,</div>
-<div class="i0">And you force me by sheer will</div>
-<div class="i0">To tell you: “I will always love you so.”</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_029" id="Page_029"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">IN “DEL’S”</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">In the rich warm light,</div>
-<div class="i0">We sat one night</div>
-<div class="i0">At dear Delmonico’s.</div>
-<div class="i0">The menu there,</div>
-<div class="i0">With dishes rare,</div>
-<div class="i0">Hints gastronomic throes.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">She scanned it down,</div>
-<div class="i0">’Twixt smile and frown,</div>
-<div class="i0">And then expressed a wish</div>
-<div class="i0">To try some quails</div>
-<div class="i0">And Newburg snails&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">The last a dainty dish.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">New York her “town,”</div>
-<div class="i0">On which we frown</div>
-<div class="i0">In Philadelphia slow,</div>
-<div class="i0">And not a word</div>
-<div class="i0">I’ve ever heard</div>
-<div class="i0">Of eating snails, you know.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">I said as much</div>
-<div class="i0">With just a touch</div>
-<div class="i0">Of thin-veiled irony,</div>
-<div class="i0">And then she said,</div>
-<div class="i0">With turn of head,</div>
-<div class="i0">While smiling quizzically:</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">“In Quaker town,</div>
-<div class="i0">Of great renown,</div>
-<div class="i0">They tell me they’re so slow,</div>
-<div class="i0">They don’t eat snail</div>
-<div class="i0">Because they fail</div>
-<div class="i0">To catch them. Is it so?”</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_030" id="Page_030"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE MOTHER</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Ah! for one look at you,</div>
-<div class="i2">Dear baby mine.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ah! just to fondle you,</div>
-<div class="i2">Croon you a rhyme.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ah! for the eyes of you,</div>
-<div class="i2">Dear little pearl.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ah! just to love you,</div>
-<div class="i2">My baby girl.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_031" id="Page_031"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">JUMBO’S DREAM</div>
-
-<div class="i0">“Listen, my children, and you shall here,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Not the “midnight ride of Paul Revere,”</div>
-<div class="i0">But a dream of the elephant, Jumbo fine,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who measured standing say nine feet nine,&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">His dream of the animals at the Zoo.</div>
-<div class="i0">Of course you know them just as I do;</div>
-<div class="i0">The lion, the tiger, the grizzly bear,</div>
-<div class="i0">Old Jumbo. Yes? Well then you’ll care</div>
-<div class="i0">To hear of what the animals planned</div>
-<div class="i0">In old Jumbo’s dream, a really grand</div>
-<div class="i0">Scheme together down by the pond;</div>
-<div class="i0">Caretakers asleep; their keepers fond&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">A plan to learn the human way</div>
-<div class="i0">Of learning and playing, et cetera.</div>
-<div class="i0">A college they wanted with flags and cheers</div>
-<div class="i0">Like Yale and Harvard&mdash;you know, my dears.</div>
-<div class="i0">First, old Jumbo called for order there</div>
-<div class="i0">By the old swan pond; he held the chair.</div>
-<div class="i0">He looked them over with kindly eye</div>
-<div class="i0">Then waved his trunk and with lordly cry</div>
-<div class="i0">Proposed that they have a college grand&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">Professors and such, and a college band,</div>
-<div class="i0">With college colors; but first a yell</div>
-<div class="i0">Like the college boys; for he knew full well</div>
-<div class="i0">That a college cheer by the animals there</div>
-<div class="i0">Would wonderful be beyond compare.</div>
-<div class="i0">He straightway appointed of parrots five</div>
-<div class="i0">To choose a cheer real loud and live</div>
-<div class="i0">To start off their college so grand and fine</div>
-<div class="i0">In eighteen hundred and ninety-nine.</div>
-<div class="i0">The parrot committee composed a cheer;</div>
-<div class="i0">It went exactly like this, my dear:</div>
-<div class="i4">“Hiss, squeal, roar,</div>
-<div class="i4">Roar, roar, more,</div>
-<!--Pg_032-->
-<div class="i4">Grunt, yell, chatter;</div>
-<div class="i4">Hurrah for college and Alma Mater.”</div>
-<div class="i0">They practiced this cheer, oh! time on time;</div>
-<div class="i0">The parrots leading the cheering line;</div>
-<div class="i0">A terrible, fearfully mixed-up noise,</div>
-<div class="i0">Fifty times worse than the college boys,</div>
-<div class="i0">For the snake would hiss and the monkeys squeal;</div>
-<div class="i0">The lion would roar till one could feel</div>
-<div class="i0">The ground all tremble from noise he made</div>
-<div class="i0">Like soldiers marching on dress parade;</div>
-<div class="i0">The hyena let out such a mighty yell</div>
-<div class="i0">That the leaves most off the branches fell;</div>
-<div class="i0">The geese would cackle, the baboons chatter,</div>
-<div class="i0">And all for college and alma mater.</div>
-<div class="i0">“’Twill never do,” said the elephant sad&mdash;,</div>
-<div class="i0">For the cheer was really “righty” bad.</div>
-<div class="i0">He looked discouraged, with face awry,</div>
-<div class="i0">While a tear appeared in each small eye;</div>
-<div class="i0">He heaved a big sigh, then looking around&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">Awakened all trembling upon the ground.</div>
-<div class="i0">So ended his dream of a college fine,</div>
-<div class="i0">With parrots leading the cheering line.</div>
-<div class="i0">He looked at his keeper as if to say:</div>
-<div class="i0">“I’ll never again eat a bale of hay;</div>
-<div class="i0">For such overeating most always means</div>
-<div class="i0">The most impossible kind of dreams.</div>
-<div class="i0">Come take we a walk, good old Keeper Jack,</div>
-<div class="i0">With the kiddies a-hanging on my back;</div>
-<div class="i0">With the kiddies, dear old Keeper, I say,</div>
-<div class="i0">On my big broad back the livelong day.”</div>
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_033" id="Page_033"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE BLUES</div>
-
-<div class="i0">If you’ve ever a “grouch,” little girl,</div>
-<div class="i0">And your brain is all twisted and torn;</div>
-<div class="i0">If your nerves are all racked, little girl,</div>
-<div class="i0">And the world looks all blue and forlorn;</div>
-<div class="i0">Don’t commune with yourself, little girl,</div>
-<div class="i0">But just let me share it, please do,</div>
-<div class="i0">For I’m part of you, my little girl,</div>
-<div class="i0">And I love you, dear heart, yes, I do.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_034" id="Page_034"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE “I TOLD YOU SO CLUB”</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Old Winchester borough, in thriftiness thorough,</div>
-<div class="i0">Sits ninety miles back from the sea;</div>
-<div class="i0">’Tis famed for its learning and all things concerning</div>
-<div class="i0">Its people of high pedigree.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now some are quite clever, some brainy, scarce ever</div>
-<div class="i0">Are any thick-witted and “fat”;</div>
-<div class="i0">None over-contented, yet mighty well vented;</div>
-<div class="i0">Real satisfied, passe and pat.</div>
-<div class="i0">The world all around may astound, not confound them;</div>
-<div class="i0">“They’re there” in their insular way;</div>
-<div class="i0">You may laughingly drool them; but trip them or fool them;</div>
-<div class="i0">If you do they’ll admit it? Not they!</div>
-<div class="i0">Its dames real exclusive, though slightly abusive,</div>
-<div class="i0">Just deft subterranean digs.</div>
-<div class="i0">You can’t analyze them (noblesse), nor despise them,</div>
-<div class="i0">These quaint and bizarre periwigs.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now once I remember, ’twas late in November,</div>
-<div class="i0">A handsome young blade struck the town;</div>
-<div class="i0"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Distingué</i> he was this bold rusher, this crusher;</div>
-<div class="i0">He did up us rural swains brown;</div>
-<div class="i0">His hair was so curly, complexion so pearly;</div>
-<div class="i0">His eyes flashed a real soulful glow;</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d ancestors famous and average and heinous,</div>
-<div class="i0">Of the last though he spoke “sotto vo.”</div>
-<div class="i0">By profession a drummer, this hummer, this stunner;</div>
-<div class="i0">The mesdames and misses cast looks</div>
-<div class="i0">Of wild admiration and praise, adulation,</div>
-<div class="i0">As he glibly and smoothly talked books.</div>
-<div class="i0">When he’d quote a good rhyme or distich, they opine;</div>
-<!--Pg_035-->
-<div class="i0">Their souls all mesmerized, torn,</div>
-<div class="i0">“That say what you will, he cast doubts willy-nilly,</div>
-<div class="i0">Is sure to the real manner born.”</div>
-<div class="i0">They smiled on and wined him and frequently dined him,</div>
-<div class="i0">Which quite put a crimp in us beaux;</div>
-<div class="i0">Who all became hectic, enraged, apoplectic,</div>
-<div class="i0">As we found ourselves not <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">comme il faut</i>.</div>
-<div class="i0">We planned and we wondered and craftily pondered</div>
-<div class="i0">A plan of reprisal for quits,</div>
-<div class="i0">Then we thought if we waited real patient, more sated,</div>
-<div class="i0">We’d be than to throw fifty fits.</div>
-<div class="i0">No haste and bad temper, not even a whimper;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’d watch and we’d wait and we’d hope;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’d give him good tether, the stuffer, the bluffer,</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d hang himself high with the rope.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now slow was the turning, and with envy burning,</div>
-<div class="i0">We waited long weeks for his crown,</div>
-<div class="i0">When early one morning we heard, without warning</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d quickly and darkly left town.</div>
-<div class="i0">A check ’twas that threw him, became his undoing</div>
-<div class="i0">With Winchester’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">creme de la creme</i>.</div>
-<div class="i0">There was weeping and wailing and very much railing;</div>
-<div class="i0">“His likes just had never been seen.”</div>
-<div class="i0">Now when tea-pots were boiling; the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mesdames</i> were spoiling</div>
-<div class="i0">To square themselves&mdash;and not to squirm;</div>
-<div class="i0">With <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">demoiselles</i> mustered round tea cups they blustered:</div>
-<div class="i0">“I told you so,” each one in turn.</div>
-<div class="i0">“I sensed he was nothin’,” said portly Miss Tuffin;</div>
-<div class="i0">“I mistrusted,” said thin Aunty Gray.</div>
-<div class="i0">“I somehow got thinkin’,” said Grandma a-blinkin’;</div>
-<div class="i0">“He warn’t all he should be, that jay.”</div>
-<!--Pg_036-->
-<div class="i0">“I had intuitions, like needles in cushions,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Observed Ann, the good parson’s wife;</div>
-<div class="i0">“Same as me,” yapped sour Fanny; “I knowed ye did, Annie;”</div>
-<div class="i0">“Me too,” offered Miss Tilly Clife.</div>
-<div class="i0">“I told you so,” each one to this one, to that one;</div>
-<div class="i0">“I told you so,” chimed one and all.</div>
-<div class="i0">They’d never admit he’d deceived them nor peeved them.</div>
-<div class="i0">Nor out of them taken a fall.</div>
-<div class="i0">We snubbed swains laughed loudly, yet held ourselves proudly;</div>
-<div class="i0">We stood real aloof for a while.</div>
-<div class="i0">Things must have an ending; so slowly unbending</div>
-<div class="i0">We’d spar with a frown or a smile.</div>
-<div class="i0">The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entente</i> came duly, if slowly, but truly,</div>
-<div class="i0">And at last all were quite <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en rapport</i>.</div>
-<div class="i0">We dined well and wined well, and then all opined: “Well,</div>
-<div class="i0">We’d forgive and forget the old score.”</div>
-<div class="center">*&emsp;&emsp;*&emsp;&emsp;*</div>
-<div class="i0">Not Eve’s daughters only, but Adam’s sons lonely</div>
-<div class="i0">Are hipped on their judgment of men;</div>
-<div class="i0">They think they have got them, can size them or spot them,</div>
-<div class="i0">But mostly they don’t. Dinna ken?</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_037" id="Page_037"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">E PLURIBUS</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Some have sung of the days in Vienna,</div>
-<div class="i0">And others the strains “Wacht am Rhein;”</div>
-<div class="i0">Men have mellowed to old Finnish folk tunes,</div>
-<div class="i0">Kept step to Bavarian rhyme.</div>
-<div class="i0">Old Madrid set our Spanish friends boasting:</div>
-<div class="i0">Hungarian songs we’ve heard, too,</div>
-<div class="i0">Yet, spite of the singing and toasting,</div>
-<div class="i0">They <em>live</em> under Red, White and Blue.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">They never go back to Vienna</div>
-<div class="i0">Nor foregather again on the Rhine;</div>
-<div class="i0">Have ne’er seen their kin in bleak Finland</div>
-<div class="i0">Nor been o’er Bavarian line.</div>
-<div class="i0">They’re not in Madrid when they’re boasting;</div>
-<div class="i0">In Hungary things might not ring true.</div>
-<div class="i0">All fine are the singing and toasting,</div>
-<div class="i0">But they <em>live</em> under Red, White and Blue.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">The Old World says we are commercial,</div>
-<div class="i0">Yet “a dollar’s a dollar,” they say.</div>
-<div class="i0">Have done with your “green eyes,” my brothers,</div>
-<div class="i0">For world o’er achievement holds sway.</div>
-<div class="i0">Come, cease your irrational boasting,</div>
-<div class="i0">And stand by the land sought by you;</div>
-<div class="i0">Then when you are singing and toasting,</div>
-<div class="i0">Sing, sing for the Red, White and Blue,</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">From the Somme comes democracy’s pleading;</div>
-<div class="i0">The Thames takes up the refrain.</div>
-<div class="i0">The Scotch and the Irish are struggling;</div>
-<div class="i0">Brave Canada’s not called in vain.</div>
-<div class="i0">The Flemish not yielding or boasting;</div>
-<!--Pg_038-->
-<div class="i0">Proud Portugal fights her way through.</div>
-<div class="i0">And Italy’s brave sons we’re toasting,</div>
-<div class="i0">We’re coming, the Red, White and Blue.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">We’ll ne’er crook to yoke of a master;</div>
-<div class="i0">To superman never pay toll;</div>
-<div class="i0">We’ll never bow down like a vassal;</div>
-<div class="i0">No, better the hemlock, the bowl!</div>
-<div class="i0">The cause of humanity’s calling.</div>
-<div class="i0">Take heart, we have heard it; we’re true;</div>
-<div class="i0">For that cause brave men are now falling,</div>
-<div class="i0">The men of the Red, White, and Blue.</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_039" id="Page_039"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE MAN ABOUT TOWN</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Oh, the “Man About Town;” the “Man About Town;”</div>
-<div class="i0">He sometimes is “up,” and he’s usually “down.”</div>
-<div class="i0">He’s always well-dressed, and he’s real debonair</div>
-<div class="i0">And lives by his wits with a true <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">savoir faire</i>.</div>
-<div class="i0">He quotes from R. Kipling, R. Service and “sich;”</div>
-<div class="i0">Looks down on the poor, “plays up” to the rich.</div>
-<div class="i0">The wise cannot answer his fool questionings;</div>
-<div class="i0">His mental suggestions are terrible things.</div>
-<div class="i0">He “blows hot and cold” with his two-edged breath,</div>
-<div class="i0">And plays for your confidence “even till death.”</div>
-<div class="i0">He looks in your eyes in a terrible way,</div>
-<div class="i0">To find what you’ve “doped,” not because he’s O. K.</div>
-<div class="i0">He’s glib on eugenics, and smattered in all</div>
-<div class="i0">The games of cheap “con” on this old earthly ball.</div>
-<div class="i0">Some day you may meet him, a real mental clown.</div>
-<div class="i0">That cosmic creation, “The Man About Town.”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_040" id="Page_040"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">ELK CREEK</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Purling and winding midst balsam and pine;</div>
-<div class="i0">Hiding ’neath willow and spruce.</div>
-<div class="i0">Sinuous, singing a sweet crooning rhyme;</div>
-<div class="i0">Pleading to malcontents “truce.”</div>
-<div class="i0">Lilting the line of a sad roundelay,</div>
-<div class="i0">Presaging optimist’s prayer.</div>
-<div class="i0">Sun-lit, twisting its silvery way,</div>
-<div class="i0">Moon-kissed, ethereal, rare.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_041" id="Page_041"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">HOW THE VILLAGE CANARD STARTED</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Tom walked into a bar-room to have a quiet beer,</div>
-<div class="i0">Odds Bodkins! Jerry saw him, white-necktied Jerry Lear.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Now Jerry was an elder, a presbyter, you see,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who prated loud ’gainst drinking, but “sneaked one” frequently.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Tom Benton was no tippler, but took one when he would,</div>
-<div class="i0">No sweeter, kinder fellow e’er lived, nor half so good.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">His quiet deeds of kindness, a help now here, now there,</div>
-<div class="i0">A “candle under bushel” who always seemed to care</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">To help the weak and erring in unobtrusive way;</div>
-<div class="i0">To make the lowly happy, and aching hearts make gay</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">By quip or jest or story, by his own soulful smile,</div>
-<div class="i0">By merry rippling laughter, which heartened them awhile&mdash;</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">A law unto himself, then, this lovable old soul,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who treated men as humans, but couldn’t “Jordan Roll,”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">A bent and crooked body, but straight and pure at heart,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who loved the young and aged, whom tears could rend apart.</div>
-<!--Pg_042-->
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Now this is how it happened that poor old Tom was damned</div>
-<div class="i0">By Puritanic gossips through length and breath of land.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">“Drab” Jerry told the parson, who told his wife, you see;</div>
-<div class="i0">His wife informed Ned Nosy of Tom’s catastrophe,</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Ned was a devout deacon, a long, thin-visaged wight,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who’d sneak away <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">sub rosa</i> to train around at night,</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">But Sunday sat in church pew and bawled a mighty chant,</div>
-<div class="i0">Or railed against men’s vices with Puritanic rant.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Ned buttonholed old Bowser, a wily, canny runt,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who’d beat deserving clients by doing bankrupt’s stunt.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Old Bowser told his sister, the village gossip kind</div>
-<div class="i0">Quite “confidential-like” spake to her “who speak my mind.”</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Miss Bowser told the Hearts’ Club of wondrous pedigree,</div>
-<div class="i0">Who all exclaimed “how dreadful,” at poor Tom’s plight you see.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">The Club then told their “hubbies,” all men of great renown,</div>
-<div class="i0">Of more or less veracity, who quickly told the “town.”</div>
-<!--Pg_043-->
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">And so these old bucolics ripped poor Tom fore and aft;</div>
-<div class="i0">They sneered and jeered and pitied, and chaffed and leered and laughed.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">His quiet little “night-caps” grew to a mighty stream,</div>
-<div class="i0">A riotous, raw revel, a Bacchanalian scream,</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Now to the mighty truth, then, of all that canard crew,</div>
-<div class="i0">There wouldn’t be a feather left if each one had his due.</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_044" id="Page_044"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE SPRING VIOLET</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Nestling in sun-lit valley;</div>
-<div class="i0">Dew-kissed and petaled so rare;</div>
-<div class="i0">Dainty as Daphne’s divinest;</div>
-<div class="i0">Color cerulean, fair.</div>
-<div class="i0">Graceful, petite and suggestive;</div>
-<div class="i0">Urging the wooer’s behest,</div>
-<div class="i0">Tenderly, lovingly covering</div>
-<div class="i0">The heart in dear Mother Earth’s breast.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_045" id="Page_045"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">SANDY FLASH</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">A robber, in legend, S. Flash,</div>
-<div class="i0">Was chock full of pep, fire, dash,</div>
-<div class="i2">For he bluffed Chester County,</div>
-<div class="i2">Bamboozled big bounty.</div>
-<div class="i0">Some legend. Some brigand, one Flash.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Now this bold buccaneer, Sandy Flash,</div>
-<div class="i0">When chock full of pep, fire, dash,</div>
-<div class="i2">Made Abe Buzzard a piker,</div>
-<div class="i2">Also Jess James, “Red Mike” or</div>
-<div class="i0">The others a la Sandy Flash.</div>
-<div class="poemtitle"><br />(After reading Bayard Taylor’s “Story of Kennett.”)</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
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-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_046" id="Page_046"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE NEW SUIT</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Willie Fiddle D. D. boasted twenty-five years;</div>
-<div class="i2">He’d frittered his life quite away.</div>
-<div class="i0">He lisped in a manner which moved one to tears,</div>
-<div class="i2">And answered to all things, “I say!”</div>
-<div class="i0">He sported a monocle really <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de trop</i>,</div>
-<div class="i2">And dined at Martin’s every night;</div>
-<div class="i0">He talked of the gossip about “so-and-so”,</div>
-<div class="i2">But “nevvah, ah nevvah,” talked “fight”.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now grandfather D. had a plethoric purse</div>
-<div class="i2">Which grandson would “touch” now and then;</div>
-<div class="i0">For Willie since leaving his fond, doting nurse</div>
-<div class="i2">Had not had real work in his ken.</div>
-<div class="i0">Now once on a time, after dinner, at nine,</div>
-<div class="i2">Which is really the time for a “touch,”</div>
-<div class="i0">Old granddad sat reading of terrible war,</div>
-<div class="i2">Whose horrors had troubled him much,</div>
-<div class="i0">When Willie broke in, twixt a lisp and a squirm,</div>
-<div class="i2">And plead for the price of a suit.</div>
-<div class="i0">The old man turned red, white and blue, each in turn,</div>
-<div class="i2">And out shot his big heavy boot</div>
-<div class="i0">“You want a new suit,” roared the old man, aflame,</div>
-<div class="i2">“You want a new suit, you young fright;</div>
-<div class="i0">Your country is calling for men; it’s a shame.</div>
-<div class="i2">Get out in the trenches and fight!</div>
-<div class="i0">Get out in the trenches and fight like a man</div>
-<div class="i2">Don’t stand there, you simp, like a mute.</div>
-<div class="i0">Take a fall to yourself, and fight if you can;</div>
-<div class="i2">Uncle Samuel will furnish a suit!”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_047" id="Page_047"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE LIBERTINE</div>
-
-<div class="i0">He boasted a chivalrous birthright;</div>
-<div class="i2">“The ladies” he toasted in wine;</div>
-<div class="i0">He fumed at an off-color story,</div>
-<div class="i2">And spoke of “those sisters of mine.”</div>
-<div class="i0">Protected them all from designing</div>
-<div class="i2">Intrigue, conniving and pelf,</div>
-<div class="i0">Yet we all agreed in opining</div>
-<div class="i2">He’d protect no girl from himself.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_048" id="Page_048"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE LIBERTY CORNET BAND</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">I’s hyeahd ol’ Massa Sousa</div>
-<div class="i0">A playin’ wif his band;</div>
-<div class="i0">Seen Massa Herbert wavin’</div>
-<div class="i0">An’ beatin’ wif his hand.</div>
-<div class="i0">De Jazz Band of de Navy&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">Say, chile, dat bunch kin play.</div>
-<div class="i0">But has you hyeahd ouah Lib’ty</div>
-<div class="i0">Cawnet Band blaze away?</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Jess Williams de drum majah,</div>
-<div class="i0">Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,</div>
-<div class="i0">A struttin’ lak some rajah,</div>
-<div class="i0">Toot, toot, chile, hyeah dey come.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ol’ Goose Greek bridge a crossin’</div>
-<div class="i0">Zim, zam, de cymbals land.</div>
-<div class="i0">Keep step, coon, follow long now</div>
-<div class="i0">Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Today’s ouah day o’ days, chile;</div>
-<div class="i0">Heads up now, march away!</div>
-<div class="i0">De sidewalk we’s obstructin’?</div>
-<div class="i0">Go, long, boss; hyeah dem play.</div>
-<div class="i0">We’s just a clean fu’gotten</div>
-<div class="i0">We’s livin! Aint it grand?</div>
-<div class="i0">Chest out, eyes front, keep step to</div>
-<div class="i0">De Lib’ty Cawnet Band.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">I knows I’s retrospectin’,</div>
-<div class="i0">But den I’s growin’ old.</div>
-<div class="i0">I sawt o’ luv dem deah days</div>
-<div class="i0">When I was pea’t and bold.</div>
-<!--Pg_049-->
-<div class="i0">Jess Williams de drum majah,</div>
-<div class="i0">De fines’ in de land.</div>
-<div class="i0">A struttin’ an’ a leadin’</div>
-<div class="i0">Dat Lib’ty Cawnet Band.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Jess Williams de drum majah,</div>
-<div class="i0">Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,</div>
-<div class="i0">A struttin’ lak some rajah,</div>
-<div class="i0">Toot, toot, hark! hyeah dey come.</div>
-<div class="i0">Ol’ Goose Creek bridge a crossin’,</div>
-<div class="i0">Zim, zam, de cymbals land.</div>
-<div class="i0">Hats off, chile, Lawd bless evah</div>
-<div class="i0">Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band!</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
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-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_050" id="Page_050"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE PERIODIC</div>
-
-<div class="i0">A poor periodic,</div>
-<div class="i0">In mood episodic,</div>
-<div class="i0">Sat shaking with “nerves” one day,</div>
-<div class="i0">When a “pony” beside him</div>
-<div class="i0">Ran way down inside him,</div>
-<div class="i0">And chased old Neuritis away.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_051" id="Page_051"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">MRS. MURPHY’S PURCHASE</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Mrs. Murphy was on purchasing bent,</div>
-<div class="i0">So she hied to “The Great Big Store.”</div>
-<div class="i0">She gazed around, then finally went</div>
-<div class="i0">Towards a fellow just six-feet-four,</div>
-<div class="i0">A floor-walk man with legs that curved</div>
-<div class="i0">Till they looked like a mystic O.</div>
-<div class="i0">“He’d never be catching a hog,” she averred,</div>
-<div class="i0">“Nor shine at a greased pig show!”</div>
-<div class="i0">This much to herself&mdash;then she said to “that gint”</div>
-<div class="i0">In a raucous voice of command:</div>
-<div class="i0">“I want some gloves, of a pearl-gray tint,</div>
-<div class="i0">To be wearin’ upon me hand.”</div>
-<div class="i0">The man bowed low and had turned to go</div>
-<div class="i0">Towards the place where the gloves were sold,</div>
-<div class="i0">With “walk this way”&mdash;when Mrs. M. lo!</div>
-<div class="i0">Stopped and looked at that figure bold.</div>
-<div class="i0">She gazed at his legs, then fairly yelled,</div>
-<div class="i0">As she looked him o’er and o’er,</div>
-<div class="i0">“Me walk that way, no, not if I’m held;</div>
-<div class="i0">No! not fer yer whole blamed store!”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_052" id="Page_052"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE LEGEND OF<br />DEBORAH’S ROCK</div>
-
-<div class="i0">A rock sits by</div>
-<div class="i2">A stream.</div>
-<div class="i0">I don’t know why</div>
-<div class="i2">They call</div>
-<div class="i0">It Deborah’s Rock.</div>
-<div class="i2">I guess</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s not a “knock”</div>
-<div class="i2">At her.</div>
-<div class="i0">It’s hard and rough.</div>
-<div class="i2">’Twas once</div>
-<div class="i0">Of prehistoric stuff</div>
-<div class="i2">And then</div>
-<div class="i0">’Twas soft, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">on dit</i>.</div>
-<div class="i2">For me</div>
-<div class="i0">I don’t know, see!</div>
-<div class="i2">They say</div>
-<div class="i0">An Indian red</div>
-<div class="i2">Once fell</div>
-<div class="i0"><em>In</em> love with Deb-</div>
-<div class="i2">O Rah,</div>
-<div class="i0">Then <em>out</em>, and why?</div>
-<div class="i2">Just guess!</div>
-<div class="i0">(Here you must cry)</div>
-<div class="i2">She jumped</div>
-<div class="i0">Right off that rock,</div>
-<div class="i2">Kersplash!</div>
-<div class="i0">My what a knock</div>
-<div class="i2">She had.</div>
-<div class="i0">She died (Here blink)</div>
-<div class="i2">And left</div>
-<div class="i0">Deep print, they think,</div>
-<div class="i2">On top</div>
-<div class="i0">The rock, from place</div>
-<div class="i2">She jumped,</div>
-<!--Pg_053-->
-<div class="i0">Of foot. Now space</div>
-<div class="i2">Forbids</div>
-<div class="i0">I dare deny</div>
-<div class="i2">She did,</div>
-<div class="i0">But this I try</div>
-<div class="i2">To see</div>
-<div class="i0">In vain, how she</div>
-<div class="i2">Could sink</div>
-<div class="i0">Her foot, you see,</div>
-<div class="i2">Into</div>
-<div class="i0">That rock so rough.</div>
-<div class="i2">Now this</div>
-<div class="i0">Is quite enough</div>
-<div class="i2">To give</div>
-<div class="i0">The lie to tale.</div>
-<div class="i2">But here,</div>
-<div class="i0">Lest this grow stale,</div>
-<div class="i2">I say</div>
-<div class="i0">I just believe</div>
-<div class="i2">The maid</div>
-<div class="i0">Weighed tons! Perceive?</div>
-<div class="i2">Or else</div>
-<div class="i0">Was built dame, bold,</div>
-<div class="i2">In pre-</div>
-<div class="i0">Historic mould</div>
-<div class="i2">When rock</div>
-<div class="i0">Was soft and then&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">But there,</div>
-<div class="i0">“I dinna ken!”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_054" id="Page_054"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE ACTOR-MAN</div>
-
-<div class="i0">A fun-making, pun-making actor,</div>
-<div class="i0">Came out on the stage one night.</div>
-<div class="i0">In real histrionics, a factor,</div>
-<div class="i0">He came down the boards to the light.</div>
-<div class="i0">“I’m starving,” he cried; “I am needing</div>
-<div class="i0">Food for my body and soul.”</div>
-<div class="i0">He looked towards the ceiling in pleading,</div>
-<div class="i0">Then the curtain came down with a “roll.”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_055" id="Page_055"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">THE GANGSTER</div>
-
-<div class="i0">“Hand me the dream book,” the gangster winked;</div>
-<div class="i2">“Bring out the old harpoon&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">I mean the dead list, the men I’ve pinked;</div>
-<div class="i2">Bilged to the old time tune.</div>
-<div class="i0">Listen, I’ll tell you the system’s sin;</div>
-<div class="i2">Show you the way we do&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i0">God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in&mdash;</div>
-<div class="i2">Guess I’ll confess, I’m through.</div>
-<div class="i0">Open the dead list, begin with ‘A,’</div>
-<div class="i2">Andrews, the first one there;</div>
-<div class="i0">Beat me. I got him; crossed him, say,</div>
-<div class="i2">Tell me you’ll keep it, swear!</div>
-<div class="i0">No? Well, to Hell then! I just plain lied;</div>
-<div class="i2">Framed it his wife wasn’t true.</div>
-<div class="i0">Killed him? I know it; he up and died;</div>
-<div class="i2">Took a lead pill or two.</div>
-<div class="i0">Turn to the ‘B’s’ now, old Doctor Blight,</div>
-<div class="i2">Lord, how he caught us red,</div>
-<div class="i0">Square as ye make ’em, but ‘black is white’</div>
-<div class="i2">Or ‘white is black’ ’tis said;</div>
-<div class="i0">Least that’s our creed; we painted up</div>
-<div class="i2">Slip of his boyhood days;</div>
-<div class="i0">Sensitive man, Blight, he hit the cup,</div>
-<div class="i2">Took to the rum-dum’s ways.</div>
-<div class="i0">Look at the ‘C’s’ next, Judge William Clate,</div>
-<div class="i2">Straight as a ramrod, ‘Will;’</div>
-<div class="i0">Gave us ‘the double.’ Decision straight?</div>
-<div class="i2">Sure Mike. He paid the bill.</div>
-<div class="i0">We stuffed the ballot late in the fall,</div>
-<div class="i2">Presto! out went the Judge!</div>
-<div class="i0">Most broke his heart, his friends and all.</div>
-<div class="i2">Coolly we fed our grudge.</div>
-<div class="i0">You say it’s rotten? Sure, lad, I know,</div>
-<div class="i2">Yes, to the very core.</div>
-<!--Pg_056-->
-<div class="i0">Built on the weakness of ‘So and So.’</div>
-<div class="i2">‘Framing,’ ‘getting’ and more</div>
-<div class="i0">Words that a man hates dyed in sin,</div>
-<div class="i2">Lying as I do here;</div>
-<div class="i0">‘Dictographs,’ ‘trumping’ and ‘listening in,’</div>
-<div class="i2">‘Crafty,’ ‘foxy,’ ‘the queer,’</div>
-<div class="i0">‘Blackmailing,’ ‘crossing,’ ’tis only such,</div>
-<div class="i2">No other words I’ve known.</div>
-<div class="i0">Good things in life I ain’t seen much;</div>
-<div class="i2">What I have reaped I’ve sown.</div>
-<div class="i0">Laughed at the dreamers, the fighters clean,</div>
-<div class="i2">Men with no axe to grind;</div>
-<div class="i0">Scoffed at the white ones and have seen</div>
-<div class="i2">Others who’ve lost their mind.</div>
-<div class="i0">Snuffed out the gentle; smeared with mud</div>
-<div class="i2">Men with escutcheons fair;</div>
-<div class="i0">Joshed at the learned and cursed blue-blood,</div>
-<div class="i2">Sneered at their manners rare;</div>
-<div class="i0">Called them the ‘stuffed suits,’ laid my plot</div>
-<div class="i2">To safe and sure get mine.</div>
-<div class="i0">Men call me ‘self-made.’ A self-made what?</div>
-<div class="i2">Dough I’ve got and some fine</div>
-<div class="i0">Diamonds a sparklin’, but just know</div>
-<div class="i2">I ain’t so great; I’m small.</div>
-<div class="i0">Money does talkin,’ they say, but Joe,</div>
-<div class="i2">Money won’t do it all.</div>
-<div class="i0">Boot-licked the Trust, then twisted, swirled</div>
-<div class="i2">Up on the ‘reps’ I’d killed;</div>
-<div class="i0">Slimed along playing the underworld;</div>
-<div class="i2">Think of the blood I’ve spilled!</div>
-<div class="i0">God bless the self mades, who’re manly ones,</div>
-<div class="i2">Modest and generous, kind!</div>
-<div class="i0">Damn such as me, a self-made bum,</div>
-<div class="i2">Crafty, crooked and blind!</div>
-<div class="i0">Money’s all right if you’re right, see?</div>
-<div class="i2">Bad if you’re bad at heart.</div>
-<!--Pg_057-->
-<div class="i0">Right with yourself is the way to be;</div>
-<div class="i2">Don’t try to play too smart!</div>
-<div class="i0">Here’s where you need help, when you’re all in,</div>
-<div class="i2">Beaten down to a clod;</div>
-<div class="i0">Showing your hand and squaring up</div>
-<div class="i2">Yourself when you’re facing God.”</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_058" id="Page_058"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">TOM</div>
-<div class="poemtitle">(<cite>With apologies to Thomas and Quintus.</cite>)</div>
-
-<div class="i0">Oh, T. W. Pierce, scanner of Q. H. Flaccus,</div>
-<div class="i0">Delver in Socrates’ ways, greetings, best wishes from us.</div>
-<div class="i0">Juggler in dactyls and such; beating iambic tattoo;</div>
-<div class="i0">Aristotelian in thought; epic in quality too.</div>
-<div class="i0">Twin, in love for the old, with one “Scotty” Waddell,</div>
-<div class="i0">Give us the “once over,” friend. Think that you can’t? What the hell!</div>
-<div class="i0">Spellbinding classical clubs, Phi Beta Kappa’s delight,</div>
-<div class="i0">Give us a touch of your art while you are with us to-night,</div>
-<div class="i0">Better a touch of yourself, you who are true to Yale Blue.</div>
-<div class="i0">Health and a long life, old friend; all that is fine, Tom, for you!</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_059" id="Page_059"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">LA LANGUE ANGLAISE</div>
-
-<div class="i0">In French, she tattled like fury;</div>
-<div class="i0">Her Spanish was quite <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">comme il faut</i>.</div>
-<div class="i0">Italian she rattled like monkey;</div>
-<div class="i0">In German, she spoke “high” and “low.”</div>
-<div class="i0">Though born in Chicago, the windy,</div>
-<div class="i0">And trussed up in finishing school,</div>
-<div class="i0">Her English was really a shindy,</div>
-<div class="i0">And smashed each grammatical rule.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_060" id="Page_060"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">NE’ER MORE</div>
-
-<div class="i0">A reader of Poe yclept Lake,</div>
-<div class="i0">Quite often of ales did partake.</div>
-<div class="i2">Once he took most a score,</div>
-<div class="i2">Quoth he ravin’; “Ne’er more,”</div>
-<div class="i0">So they soon held a wake for one, Lake.</div>
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<div class="poem-container">
-<div class="poem"><a name="Page_061" id="Page_061"></a>
-<div class="poemtitle">WHEN “TY” COBB COMES TO TOWN</div>
-
-<div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat</div>
-<div class="i0">With a droop in his big blue eye,</div>
-<div class="i0">His collar wilted, tie askew,</div>
-<div class="i0">And his red face all awry.</div>
-<div class="i0">The beads of perspiration rolled</div>
-<div class="i0">And bathed him cheek and jowl;</div>
-<div class="i0">He fanned himself with palm leaf fan</div>
-<div class="i0">And mopped his face with a towel.</div>
-</div><div class="stanza">
-<div class="i0">Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat,</div>
-<div class="i0">And into a smile broke he.</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d been some working “mon” that day;</div>
-<div class="i0">He’d had funerals twelve, you see.</div>
-<div class="i0">“Not common-like of common folks,”</div>
-<div class="i0">He said, and his laugh beguiled,</div>
-<div class="i0">“But Grandmas twelve of office boys.”</div>
-<div class="i0">Bill stopped, then broadly smiled.</div>
-</div><!--end stanza-->
-</div><!--end poem-->
-</div><!--end container-->
-
-<h3 class="h3head break">Transcriber’s Note</h3>
-
-<p>Dialect, obsolete and misspelled words were not
-changed. Added an unprinted hyphen to “so-and-so.”</p>
-
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