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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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