From The Topeka State Journal, May 31, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. The office boy’s grandmother dies At least three times a week; The bookkeeper develops ills Of which he’s apt to speak. The ribbon clerk abruptly jumps His job at 3 p. m. He says his kids have got the mumps And he must go to them. The boss does not feel well himself, And thinks he needs fresh air; He goes out to the baseball park And finds his help all there.
Month: May 2021
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An Epidemic
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Poor Young Man
From the Rock Island Argus, May 30, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Ah, poor young man! He has no chance to show his worth; No undiscovered continents are left on earth; Columbus, had it been his fate to live today Might serve beneath some section boss for little pay. Oh, poor young man! He cannot use his gifts, alack! No Austerlitz remains to lose, no Rome to sack. The past has both Thermopylae and Waterloo— What is there that the poor young man may hope to do? Newton, Galileo, Morse, have lived and wrought; Homer, Shakespeare, Milton, Pope, and Burns and Scott! Ah, if they had not written all there was to write He might take up his pen and give the world delight. Raphael, Titian, Rembrandt—how with paint and brush May be expected to be supreme? Huge vessels rush From hemisphere to hemisphere, the winds defying Because a Fulton had a plan he thought worth trying. Oh, poor young man! He sits downcast, no chance remains For him to nobly free a race from galling chains. The great things have been done, alas! By craft or stealth The magnates have become possessed of all the wealth. The world has ceased to need men who were born to lead; He may not join the splendid few. ’Tis sad indeed! He came too late to win renown or claim applause; He has no chance to be supreme in any cause. Ah, poor young man! How sad his fate, how drear his lot. To have no hope of being great!—And yet, why not? At Homer many, many a man stuck out his tongue And told him that the greatest songs had all been sung.
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The Tender Passion
From The Washington Times, May 29, 1913. By Eugene Geary. Pat Clancy’s in love! He’s a sight to behold; An’ his life—he wants some wan to fill it. Instead o’ being crowded wid blessin’s untold, ’Tis as empty an’ dry as a skillet. A short while ago he was gay as a lark, An’ the boss was his wages advancin’; Till he strolled of a Sunday to see Celtic Park An’ join in the games an’ the dancin’. ’Twas when he took part in an eight-handed reel And danced, as they all tell me, so splendid, His head remained clear, not to mention his heel, But his heart was clean gone when ’twas ended. A pair o’ blue eyes was Pat Clancy’s downfall; ’Tis a sorrowful mortal they’ve made him. He’s cut all his friends an’ relations an’ all, An’ he won’t take a drink if you paid him. The boss of his gang, from the town o’ Kanturk Don’t know what to make out o’ Clancy; Says the divil himself couldn’t keep him to work Wid sighin’ for the girl of his fancy. An’ ’tis all for a purty young colleen from Clare— She hails from the border of Ennis. Well, if that’s what’s called love, for my part I declare Sure I’d rather have spinal magennis.
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Happy Days for Pa
From the Rock Island Argus, May 28, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Pa is feeling rather chipper; every day he wears a smile Though he has no public office and keeps working all the while; They have not increased his wages, and they never will, I guess, But his look is always cheerful and he’s full of hopefulness. His overcoat is seedy and his pants bag at the knees; We are not among the people who can travel overseas; The price of living’s higher than it ought to be, ’tis true, But pa’s clinging to his courage and he takes a hopeful view. The folks next door have lately had to cut expenses down; It seems they’ve been unlucky—it’s the talk all over town; They have sold their new electric—ma pretends it was too bad— So it seems pa needn’t buy one, and it makes him mighty glad.
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Hot Air
From the Evening Star, May 27, 1913.
By Walt Mason.The man who deals in rainbows has come to town by stealth, to catch the village vain beaux with tales of sudden wealth. I hear his gorgeous ravings, his winter dreams and sich: “Bring me,” he says, “your savings, and I will make you rich; I’ve coal mines in Nebraska (where coal does not exist), and peach groves in Alaska (no peaches there, I wist); the nectarine and prune shine on trees I have for sale, and I can sell you moonshine, so hand me out your kale.” The easy marks are digging their kopecks from the jar, for hot air, never twigging what easy marks they are. They hope to rake in riches and never pay the price; a sucker always itches to be a sacrifice. I sidestep such disasters as these men have in view; to my hard-earned piasters I stick like patent glue. I cannot be enchanted by any hot air crank; my coin is safely planted down in the village bank. I buy no dazzling ophirs a million miles away, no Belgian hares or gophers in Persia or Cathay. No fish in the Nyanzas, no ice plants up in Nome; no ginseng farms in Kansas, no silk works far from home. I save my clammy rubles till there’s a seemly pile, and sidestep lots of troubles, and dance and sing and smile.
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Alexander Selkirk
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 26, 1913.
By William Cowper.Alexander Selkirk, the Scottish sailor, was the prototype of the marooned traveler in Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe (1719).
I am a monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute. From the center all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place. I am out of humanity’s reach; I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet music of speech— I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with men, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love Divinely bestowed upon man, O had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth; Might learn from the wisdom of age And be cheered by the sallies of youth. Religion! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford, But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard— Never sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared. Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial, endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is the glance of a mind! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind; And the swift-winged arrows of light, When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there But, alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea fowl is gone to her nest; The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There’s mercy in every place; And mercy, encouraging thought Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.
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Gentlemen of the Road
From the New York Tribune, May 25, 1913.
(An Oxford don declares that walking is the form of exercise most often associated with high intelligence.)If I might leave my dull abode And all the strife and cares of town, And, light of heart, essay the road That leads by wood and open down, Then, as I spread those pinions wide That bear me through the realms of song, My soul would surely soar and glide The while my body jogged along. The lofty mind can ne’er abide In hooting car or roaring train; Only the rhythmic swinging stride Can vivify the sluggish brain. Come forth, O muse! and let us fare By vale and hill through scented ways To fill our lungs with scented air And witch the world with wondrous lays! And as I speed on winged feet Thrumming the while my gentle lyre, A glorious band I there shall meet In unconventional attire, Unrazored men with shaggy hair Whose faces show a healthy tan; Not tramps, indeed, as some declare But dons of Oxford to a man!
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Still With Us
From the Evening Star, May 24, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Oh, the dear old funny story Still appearing in its glory— What a train of memories it will invite! It will bring fond recollections Of the humorous reflections That the lecturers would stand up and recite. Each comedian rehearsed it After-dinner speakers nursed it We would hear it set to music light and gay. Even leaders of the nation As a means of illustration In their speeches kept it going on its way. Ivy climbs upon the steeple And the faces of the people Are wrinkling and their hair is turning gray; And the landmarks of each city Slowly crumble—more’s the pity— Till improvements come and sweep them all away. But that good old comic whimsy Though it seemed so wan and flimsy Still provides a glint of fiction or of truth. It’s a wondrous demonstration Of the one thing in creation That rejoices in an everlasting youth.
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Song of the Wind
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 23, 1913. By Robert Loveman. The wind has a mind of his own He’s a lover and rover free He mutters among the clouds He flutters above the sea; He ravages regions rare Where savages leap in glee He strips the forests bare In autumnal ecstasy. The wind is a child of earth Of ocean, air and sky, He joys at a young world’s birth He moans when the old ones die; He can woo a nodding rose to rest Or trample an empire down, He’s sceptered king of everything And the high stars are his crown.
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Back to the Hotel
From The Washington Times, May 22, 1913. By Helen Rowland. I know a little bachelor, with lots and lots of pelf And all the pennies that he gets he spends upon himself; But oh, how he can moralize! And oh, how he does pine For the “sweet old-fashioned woman,” and extol the “clinging vine!” And when, each night, he meets “the boys,” where golden beakers foam He cries in tones dramatic, “Woman’s place is in the home!” I know a lot of lovely maids, oh quite a score or more And each would make a charming wife for this same bachelor. But the “horrid things” insist on trotting downtown every day And slaving in an office—just to keep the wolf away. They should be darning someone’s socks or knitting baby-shoes. Their place is “in the home,” of course—somebody’s home—but whose? I know a girl of scarce sixteen, who rouses me to scorn She never stays at home at all, but trudges off each morn And pounds a little type-machine—oh, “just to pass the time”— And help her mother pay the rent. Such folly is sublime! Some one should really tell her to her pretty little face That girls were made for “ornaments.” The home is woman’s place! I live, myself, within a big luxurious hotel; And, when I want my dusting done, I simply ring a bell. I never do a single thing, but scribble all day long. I know, alas, this “idle” life is very, very wrong. I should be doing fancy work, or polishing my nails. But how I’d pay my bills that way—Well, there my fancy fails! What are the women coming to—to go at such a pace! The “sweet old-fashioned girl” sat ‘round and just massaged her face, Worked cushion-tops, and curled her hair, and gossiped by the hour; But lo, the modern woman goes at sixty-five horse-power! Ah, well, I trust that some of them will read this little “pome,” And realize, at last, that “Woman’s place is in the home!” Then Katy will not come back each day to put away my clothes, And who will write my quips for me—well, Heaven only knows! The typist and the laundry-maid, the waitress and the clerk Will stay at home, like ladies then, and do “a woman’s work.” And all the men will gather where the golden beakers foam— And wonder who on earth will do the work outside the home?