From The Tacoma Times, September 20, 1912. By Berton Braley. Of all of the nuisances known unto man Since old Doctor Noah saw land, The worst it has been my misfortune to scan Is always right near to my hand; And though I have tried it again and again, I never shall care for the postoffice pen. It’s sticky and clotted and gummy and old, It’s cluttered with shavings and hair; In damp, muggy weather it’s covered with mould, And though you may handle with care, You’ll find, when you’re through, that your fingers — all ten Are blackened with ink from the postoffice pen. It scratches and sputters and stutters in spots, It spatters your cuffs and your sleeve; It tears through the paper, it smudges and blots, And a trail of distress it will leave; For never in all of humanity’s ken Could anyone WRITE with a postoffice pen.
Month: September 2020
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The Poor Tool
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The Observer
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 19, 1912. I like to sit beside the road A-waitin’ fur the mail. Each day the driver will unload His treasures, without fail. And, be the weather dry or wet, A-standin’ in the row, Amanda Boggs is there to get A letter from her beau. I’ve watched her now fur quite a while, An’ lately I perceive She’s lost her laughin’, careless smile, And seems inclined to grieve. I can’t help sharin’ her regret, That seems each day to grow. I wish Amanda Boggs would get A letter from her beau. Her eyes were never made fur tears, However light their mist. These ought to be the happiest years In all her birthday list. Her feet should dance an’ never set A solemn pace an’ slow. I wish Amanda Boggs would get A letter from her beau. Why, there’s Amanda, ‘cross the way, With sunshine in her face! I haven’t seen in many a day Such joyous, girlish grace. I share her happiness, and yet I’d never let her know How glad I am to see her get A letter from her beau.
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A Bachelor’s Outburst
From the New York Tribune, September 18, 1912. Dear Sir, I am a bachelor; My income is twelve hun’. ‘Tis small, no doubt, yet I contrive To have a deal of fun. You’ll think me selfish, yet until I’m richer, I must own, I’d rather be a bachelor, And jog along alone. Far be it from me to deride Or scoff at wedded bliss; I’ve thought the matter over well, And my opinion’s this: Though bachelors are selfish things, ‘Twould just as selfish be To take a wife, and bring her to A life of drudgery. Suppose I loved a girl (I do), D’you think I’d care to see Her toil, and soil her pretty hands The livelong day for me? If I grow rich, I’ll crave the hand Of her whom I adore; If not, dear sir, I must remain A lonely bachelor.
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Sure Fire
From The Tacoma Times, September 17, 1912. By Berton Braley. My son, when you go to a vodyville show You’ll notice that people will shriek At jokes they have heard since the long, long ago And heard twenty times every week; The moral is plain, if you’ll read as you run; A novelty adds to our zest, But when it comes down to extracting the “Mon” The old stuff gets over the best! It may be all right when you’re courting a dame To talk about Ibsen and such, But take it from me—if you’d win at the game, You won’t stick to Ibsen so much; You’ll tell HER that SHE’S of a beauteous mold, A stunner becomingly dressed; You’ll tell all the lies that men always have told The old stuff gets over the best. In politics, business, society, art, However the world has progressed, It still remains true to the words I impart, “The old stuff gets over the best!”
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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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Instruction
From the Evening Star, September 15, 1912. By Philander Johnson. By hard experience we learn, Whatever our position, And pay, whichever way we turn, Right dearly for tuition. Before we walk we have to creep; We rise with many a tumble; Before we learn life’s road to keep How often must we stumble! Ere we can learn to think we grope Through much fantastic folly. Our smiles of friendship and of hope Are earned through melancholy. And so it is with every man, And so with many a nation; It is a part of nature’s plan— Compulsory education.
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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.
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Back to the Soil
From the Bisbee Daily Review, September 13, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. They’re urgin’ weary city men to go back to the soil, To tinker up their shattered nerves by good old honest toil. They say it does a feller good to live close to the ground With not a high-toned French cafe for fifty miles around. That may sound fine and dandy when a feller is town-bred, And doesn’t know a spring tooth harrow from a foldin’ bed, But to us fellers on the farm who’ve been agin’ the game All of our lives, that sage advice sounds purty doggone tame. It ain’t so gol dum dandy and it ain’t so gol dum fine To hop out of the hay at four instid of eight or nine. It ain’t so ‘tarnal cheerful to do three hours’ work before The farmer’s wife yells: “Breakfast” from the old farm kitchen door. It ain’t no sort of easy snap to work right through till night, And do back-breaking stunts as long as there is any light. They say it is a rest-cure and it possibly may be, But as a rest it never yet has quite appealed to me. The poets write quite purty of the everlastin’ hills, The wooded glens and lowin’ kine and little babbling rills. Of course, it is the only life that’s healthful right along, But still it ain’t what you would always call a glad sweet song. There’s plenty of the other thing, the hard, heartrendin’ toil And I guess that them city guys who go back to the soil Would about one good hot day with sun a-beatin’ down, And then they’d pack their grips and gladly yell, “Back to the Town.”
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Creeping Up the Stairs
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 12, 1912. Author Unknown. In the softly fading twilight Of a weary, weary day, With a quiet step I entered Where the children were at play; I was brooding over some trouble Which had met me unawares, When a little voice came ringing: “Me is creeping up the stairs.” Ah, it touched the tenderest heart-strings With a breath and force divine, And such melodies awakened As no wording can define. And I turned to see our darling, All forgetful of my cares, When I saw the little creature Slowly creeping up the stairs. Step by step she bravely clambered On her little hands and knees, Keeping up a constant chattering, Like a magpie in the trees, Till at last she reached the topmost When over all her world’s affairs She delightfully stood a victor After creeping up the stairs. Fainting heart, behold an image Of man’s brief and struggling life, Whose best prizes must be captured With a noble, earnest strife; Onward, upward reaching ever, Bending to the weight of cares, Hoping, fearing, still expecting, We go creeping up the stairs. On their steps may be no carpet, By their side may be no rail; Hands and knees may often pain us, And the heart may almost fail; Still above there is the glory, Which no sinfulness impairs, With its joy and rest forever, After creeping up the stairs.
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The Real Friend
From the Omaha Daily Bee, September 11, 1912. If ever I find a people’s friend, Who does not brag about himself; And doesn’t seek some selfish end; Is not acquiring wads of pelf, But strives in honor day by day And always does the best he can To smooth the rough and rugged way, Over which must pass his fellow-man, I’ll cling to him with all my might, And sing his praises as I go. His speech will not be stale and trite, And in his eyes a light will glow. He will not spend his days in ease, While busy men are at their work. Mouthing the phrases thought to please To hide the fact that he’s a shirk. Nor will his bank account grow fat The while he fights the people’s cause; He will not seek the glory that Depends alone on men’s applause. But if he loves his fellow-men, And tolls for them, he will not care That he must labor often when There’s neither cheers nor spotlight’s glare. Too many pose as public friends Who merely work their tireless jaws, And use, to cover selfish ends, The mantle of the people’s cause. Too many drop all useless work To thrive upon this empty plea, That all the burdens now that irk Some day they’ll take from you and me. A people’s friend is one who strives Without a thought of gain or fame, To happier, better make our lives Than what they were before he came.