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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a0a573d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66892 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66892) diff --git a/old/66892-0.txt b/old/66892-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index cf51284..0000000 --- a/old/66892-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1866 +0,0 @@ -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_. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: 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> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: 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--> -<!--Pg_002--> - -<div class="break"> - -<p class="p4 center">Copyright, 1918, by Howard F. Brinton</p> -<hr /> -<p class="center">All Rights Reserved</p> - -<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> -</div> -<!--Pg_003--> - -<div class="break"> - -<p class="p4 center"><span class="sc lowercase">TO</span></p> - -<p class="center larger">THOMAS WILSON PIERCE, M. A.,</p> - -<p class="center"><span class="sc lowercase">AND</span></p> - -<p class="center larger"><span class="sc">WILLIAM MacFUNN BAIRD</span></p> -</div> -<!--Pg_004--><!--blank page--> -<!--Pg_005--> -<div class="p4 break"> - -<table summary=""> - -<tr><td class="center">CONTENTS</td></tr> - -<tr><td colspan="2" class="right"><span class="smaller">PAGE</span></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Pacifist</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_009">9</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">“Adam’s Apple”</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_011">11</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Mac’s (Psychologic) Cigar</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_012">12</a></td></tr> - -<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> - -<tr><td class="left">Sol</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_017">17</a></td></tr> - -<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> - -<tr><td class="left">On “Gungha Din”</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_021">21</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Why?</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_022">22</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Barney</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_023">23</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Come, Little Girl</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_024">24</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">I’ll Come, Little Boy</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_025">25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Chenoweth</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_026">26</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">You Wonder</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_028">28</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">In “Del’s”</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_029">29</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Mother</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_030">30</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Jumbo’s Dream</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_031">31</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Blues</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_033">33</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The “I Told You So Club”</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_034">34</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">E Pluribus</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_037">37</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Man About Town</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_039">39</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Elk Creek</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_040">40</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">How the Village Canard Started</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_041">41</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Spring Violet</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_044">44</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Sandy Flash</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_045">45</a></td></tr> -<!--Pg_006--> - -<tr><td class="left">The New Suit</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_046">46</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Libertine</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_047">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Liberty Cornet Band</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_048">48</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Periodic</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_050">50</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Mrs. Murphy’s Purchase</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_051">51</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Legend of Deborah’s Rock</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_052">52</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Actor-Man</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_054">54</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">The Gangster</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_055">55</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">Tom</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_058">58</a></td></tr> - -<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> - -<tr><td class="left">Ne’er More</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_060">60</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td class="left">When “Ty” Cobb Comes to Town</td> - <td class="right"><a href="#Page_061">61</a></td></tr> -</table> -</div> -<!--Pg_007--> -<div class="break"> - -<h2 class="h1head">THE PACIFIST</h2> -</div> -<!--Pg_008--><!--blank page--> - -<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—</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,—</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> -<!--Pg_010--> -<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—</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—</div> -<div class="i2">The opal-eyed vampires of hell!</div> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> -<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">*  *  *</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,—</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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<div class="poem-container"> -<div class="poem"><a name="Page_012" id="Page_012"></a> -<div class="poemtitle">MAC’S (PSYCHOLOGIC) CIGAR</div> - -<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,—</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”—</div> -<div class="i0">MacDee, I mean—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--> - -<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">*  *  *</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--> - -<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”—</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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—</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--> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—</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--> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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,—</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—</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—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—</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—,</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—</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> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—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">*  *  *</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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—</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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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--> -</div><!--end poem--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—</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--> -</div><!--end container--> - -<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—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”—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—</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—</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—</div> -<div class="i0">God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in—</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. 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