From the Rock Island Argus, November 26, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. What a crisscross maze is life Take it any way you choose In the never ending strife As you gain and as you lose! Luck is with you now and then As you hurry for your goal Twisting through the maze again You are pitched into a hole. Out of it you scramble up, Hoping to do mighty deeds Still of sorrow you must sup Ere your budding hope succeeds. How you struggle, how you groan, As you buckle to your task Just to make success your own, Just in fortune’s smile to bask! But it isn’t all a frost. There are seasons to be gay. Hope is never wholly lost Joys are blooming on your way. There’s a path to your success You will find it after while If you seek with cheerfulness And you don’t forget to smile.
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In the Maze
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Possibilities
From the Rock Island Argus, November 25, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. If you cannot win a fortune That will feather well your nest You at least can earn a living If you work your level best. If you cannot make a million Where the highest stakes are played You can knock out several dollars Working daily at your trade. What’s the use of having money That you never hope to spend? It will only bring you trouble It is not your truest friend. If you settle with the grocer And can pay the butcher’s score With a little left for pleasure What can any one do more? For the man who has a million Only has one pair of eyes To behold the wondrous picture As old earth before him lies. He can only eat one breakfast Only occupy one bed Only wear one pair of slippers Have but one hat upon his head. If you cannot own an auto That will travel double quick You can stroll along the highway Where the autumn leaves are thick And whatever your situation In whatever niche you fit You can have a lot of pleasure If you make the best of it.
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Just Gladness
From the Rock Island Argus, November 23, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Oh, gladness is a splendid thing For bards to write about When they are very sorely pressed And subjects have run out! Their souls may not be soaked in joy To match the gentle strain And they may have a grouch so large That it would block a train. But still they write of cheerfulness As though it were a part Of their existence and it gushed In torrents from their heart. They put aside their aching tooth, The bill they cannot pay, The rent that’s always overdue, And then they work away. Great gobs of gladness is their theme, The first that comes to hand. They tell the people they should use This one and only brand. But do they use a bit themselves— I mean outside their rime— With which to make a brighter world? I fear they haven’t time. O gladsome gladness, you’re the goods For use in daily life Far better than the grim old grouch Which leads to care and strife! And if the poet does not feel The impulse of his song You’ll find that the advice is good Enough to take along.
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Scattered
From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I have cousins in Missouri I have uncles in New York I have sisters in Chicago And an aunt who lives in Cork Second cousins in Australia And in any other place That offhand you might mention. My, but we’re a scattered race! When my father was a youngster In a little Scottish town He was blessed with several brothers— Eight it was; I marked it down— And about as many sisters— Ten I think I heard him say— And when they had grown and married Each one went a different way. And they had—how many children? Goodness knows, for I do not As I never took a census But it must have been a lot. And the children, grown to manhood As myself, for time has flown And we all are growing ancient, Must have children of their own. So the stock is widely scattered From the palm tree to the pine Nearly every state and country Has some relative of mine. And with almost every family It’s the same old tale again, For the world is getting ready For a common race of men.
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Temptation
From the Rock Island Argus, November 14, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I always want to read a book When I have work on hand. A most alluring volume then Is lying on the stand. If I have nothing on my mind And work is rather slack The selfsame book a week can lie Unopened on the rack. How tempting when I ought to be So busy making hay Is any book that happens to By lying in my way! I want to cast my pen aside And take a furtive look For just about a half an hour In that alluring book. It doesn’t matter to me what The volume is about. It may be poetry or prose, A treatise on the gout, A little book on fancy work, On how to till the land, Just so it serves to turn me from The work I have in hand. But that is not the worst of it— Oh, no, that isn’t all!— For when temptation thus appears The truth is that I fall. Nor do I read for half an hour And then the covers bang— I keep it up for half a day And let the work go hang!
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On the Move
From the Rock Island Argus, November 11, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Some are going farther south For a climate new; Some seek cooler northern lands To their strength renew; Some are hiking for the west After health and fame; Western men are going east With the selfsame aim. Some from Mexico are bound For Alaska’s shore; From the north some journey down Where the gulf waves roar; On the warm Pacific slope Some are there from Maine; Others from the far, far west Take the eastern train. In the town where they were born Very few remain. Others come and take their place In the hope of gain. And their paths are often crossed, Touching here and there, As they zigzag back and forth Going everywhere. What a restless age it is For the man perplexed. Stopping first in this man’s town, Striking for the next! Don’t you wish that you could have Planted safe and sound Half the money that it costs For this running round?
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Serving It
From the Rock Island Argus, November 2, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Lift up your eyes and look about And get your money’s worth, For lying fair before you see A great old little earth. The view is very wide and bright And pulsing everywhere, And not a picture in the world Can with the sight compare. Lift up your eyes. Don’t focus them Upon the lowly ditch The while you brood upon your woes And wish that you were rich. Before you lies a waiting world, All joyous, bright and fair, And, with the others of your kind, In it you own a share. Lift up your eyes and take a look, For everything is free, And no admission need be paid And no outgoing fee. The brook, the meadow and the lake, The clouds that grace the air, The mountains and the restless sea Are there for you to share. Lift up your eyes unto the hills And let your soul expand As in the broader, wider view A man newborn you stand. Take heed of nature’s wondrous works, Whose beauties you now miss, And, though you may be poor in purse, You shall be rich in this.
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Everyday Art
From the Rock Island Argus, October 26, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Art may paint a picture, Art may carve a stone, Art may write a poem That is long on tone. Art may put on canvas Earth and sky and sea; Art that cooks a chicken Is the art for me. In the world artistic, Where the artists fare, There are many castles, Mostly in the air. But for building houses You would rather pick On the one artistic Who can lay a brick. Art that’s for the artists Who are sad of eye And have flowing neckties Is in big supply. But of art more homely That can mend a chair For its fat old uncle There is none to spare. Schools of art are turning Out the graduates In alarming number, Light and heavy weights. But for daily plugging We would rather meet With a line of artists Who can mend a street.
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Lucky Kid
From the Rock Island Argus, October 17, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. My pa he handles popcorn balls, And he sells peanuts, too, And lots of other things like that That make you want to chew. And sometimes I can go along And help him wait on trade, Especially if it’s a time He’s selling lemonade. My pa he fills his basket up, And he goes everywhere. When other people have to pay He walks right in the fair. Sometimes he lets me go along The gatemen they just grin And say when pa says, “That’s my kid,” “Just take him right on in.” My pa he has a lot of friends For everywhere he goes It seems that every one he meets Is some one that he knows. They chat with him a little while And then most always say, “I guess I’ll take some peanuts or A ball of corn today.” I’m awful sorry for the kids Whose fathers work in banks Or blacksmith shops or offices Or where they fill the tanks. They never get to go along, They must feel mighty bad. But I can go most anywhere, Because I help my dad.
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Pride of Ancestry
From the Rock Island Argus, October 12, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. His ancestor a pirate was, And proudly he gave tongue Unto the fact that his forbear Had from a yardarm swung. For if you take it in the days When history was made A pirate was, you are aware, A very decent trade. He had his picture on the wall Where every one could look; His history was written up And printed in a book. And he was just a trifle proud And thought that he was great Because he had descended from That tough old ancient skate. He had a sort of pity for The person who came down From ancestors who never robbed A coast or burned a town. They might be all right in a way, But it was understood They couldn’t be so much, because Their ancestors were good. He wouldn’t hurt a worm himself; He wouldn’t kill a fly. He was a modest man without A wicked, piercing eye. I often wondered, could we turn Back to the ancient crowd, If that old fiery ancestor Of him would have been proud.
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Midnight Attack
From the Rock Island Argus, October 8, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Oft in the stilly night When the cats begin to fight On the fence behind the lot Then I form a little plot As the window wide I throw And the yard I knee-deep sow With lots of bric-a-brac That was resting on the rack. Do the cats in wild alarm Run lest I should do them harm? Do they let the concert slide And proceed in haste to hide? No; they do not seem to know As I throw and throw and throw That a single thing is wrong With their piercing midnight song. Then I heave a pair of shoes That I wouldn’t care to lose, And I throw a kitchen chair, Followed by my wife’s false hair, Books and tables, sofa, rugs, Pots and kettles, pans and mugs, Writing pads, my rubber stamp, The piano and the lamp. Then the bedding and the bed From the tail piece to the head All are hurled into the gloom Till there’s nothing in the room. But the cats are good as new On the job when I am through. Nor do they a moment pause. They regard it as applause.
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Much Impressed
From the Rock Island Argus, October 7, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I took my little hopeful And sat him on my knee And tried to get the six-year-old To take advice from me. “I want you,” I said softly, “Always to be polite, And with the rude and naughty boys You must not scrap and fight. “With others do not quarrel And do not in your play Get angry with another boy Who wants to have his way. Give in without protesting, For you will always find That lasting friendships you will win By being true and kind. “Thus by your good example The other boys will see That it is better to be good And with their mates agree. Should one be so forgetful As to be rude or rough Turn on your heel and go away And he’ll feel bad enough.” ’Twas thus the lesson ended, And then I asked him, “Now, What would you do if some rude boy Should try to pick a row?” He thought about a minute, Then answered plain and clear: “I’ll tell you if you want to know. I’d biff him on the ear!”
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The Suffragette
From the Rock Island Argus, October 5, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. And this woman, soft of voice, Of whom the poets sung, Who in the ages long ago Was forced to hold her tongue. Good sooth but she is making up And paying back the debt Piled up through all those silent years! Behold the suffragette! Our mother sat around and smiled When men in meeting rose, And when they grandly aired their views Her tongue was in repose. But now the words so long suppressed No longer clog her throat. She fires them out with emphasis And says she wants a vote. No longer will she sit at ease And let him have his way About affairs of church and state, For she will have her say. For when there is a talking fest You find her in the swim, And oftentimes, to his dismay, She knows as much as him. Yes, woman, you have grown a bit And learned a lot of things. You fly as high as any one Since you have spread your wings. Is it for better or for worse? We can’t exactly say: But, though man is a little dazed, He likes you anyway.
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The Silvery Lining
From the Rock Island Argus, October 4, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. There’s no use in moaning In weeping and groaning. The sun may be shining Ere yet it is noon. His warm rays may cheer you And hope nestle near you, So cease your repining And look for it soon. Make end to the sighing For swift years are flying And joy at your casement Is calling to you. Make haste, then, to meet it. Go smiling to greet it. Give care its effacement And hide it from view. Oh, turn your face sunward And listen for one word, A message of sweetness, Of love pure and true! Be happy, my dearie; Be smiling and cheery, And then with completeness Will joy come to you.
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Song of the Road
From the Rock Island Argus, October 1, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. I love the open road that down The river winds away And reaches on from town to town Through fields with flowers gay, That offers here and there a nook Beneath a shady tree Where proper folk ne’er think to look Nor prying eye may see. I love the high and open sky; I love it when it’s gray. I love the swallows as they fly, The fishes when they play. I love the crashing thunderstorm When ‘neath a stack content, All snuggled up, serene and warm, I watch it till it’s spent. I love the wind that comes and goes With soft and slumb’rous sigh And flutters hollyhock and rose Whene’er it passes by. It kisses tramp and money king Alike in open day. The praises of the road I sing And tramp upon my way.
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The Daily Grind
From the Rock Island Argus, September 16, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. Writing pieces for the paper, Mostly foolishness and vapor; Sometimes reason may slip in, Nor is that a deadly sin, But it is a sad mistake That a writer should not make, Lest the reader go to sleep Or declare it is too deep And the paper fling aside, Going forth to take a ride. Writing for the public print, Gossip, story, beauty hint— Anything to fill the space That a streak of blues will chase; Anything that’s light and not Clogged with too involved a plot; Anything that’s not designed To make labor for the mind Or to air high sounding views, Lest the reader take a snooze. Writing for the public mart, For the eye and for the heart, Something simple, straight and plain That will rest the reader’s brain And will put him in the mood For the predigested food That adorns the printed page In this restless, rushing age; That will feed him something light Ere he goes to sleep at night. For we do not read to learn— We have knowledge, yes, to burn— But we read to be amused And to hear our foes abused. There is work enough, indeed, Where we toil at breakneck speed. So when we sit down at night With a paper and a light Nothing we are after then That will make us work again.
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The Great Event
From the Rock Island Argus, September 14, 1912. By Duncan M. Smith. The county fair is now on tap And all the porkers proud Are showing off their very best Before the gaping crowd. The cattle in the narrow stalls, The horses on the track, Are showing, each and every one, How lofty they can stack. The barker at the circus tent Is tearing in the air Great jagged holes, that each and all May know that he is there. The peanut and the popcorn man Are chasing far and wide To see that every hungry child Is with lunch supplied. Up in the building on the hill, Where cabbage is displayed Beside the pumpkins and the corn And goose eggs, freshly laid, The folks who raised it stand around To hear its praises told, And each one swells and feels as gay As any two-year-old. The father and the mother come, And all the kids are there. The listen to the big brass band And at the players stare. They take in everything in sight That gives them thrills or mirth, And you can bet most anything They get their money’s worth.