From the New York Tribune, October 31, 1912. Ah! What a night was Halloween At our home up the state! The night we told ghost stories, Huddled close about the grate. Odd taps came on the window pane, Queer creakings on the stair; You never knew what minute You would get an awful scare. On Halloween, in our old home, We daren’t raise the shades For fear we’d see a pumpkin head, With eyes and nose ablaze. But here in town we raise the shade, And all that we can see Is ‘cross the shaft, a table set And people having tea. At our old home on Halloween The gate would disappear And hide itself behind the barn. That couldn’t happen here. Our home is in a Harlem flat, Up five flights, down the hall; We have no gate, no yard, no barn; Just doors and stairs and wall. On Halloween, in our old home, We had a feast of grub; We ate our fill of nuts and ducked For apples in a tub. But here we play no tricks at all; No ghosts are heard or seen. New York’s a lonely place to be On dear old Halloween!
Month: October 2020
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Halloween
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The Dog Under the Wagon
From the Omaha Daily Bee, October 30, 1912. “Come, wife,” said good old farmer Gray, “Put on your things, ’tis market day; And we’ll be off to the nearest town, There and back ere the sun goes down. Spot? No, we’ll leave old Spot behind.” But Spot he barked and Spot he whined, And soon made up his doggish mind To follow under the wagon. Away they went at a good round pace, And joy came into the farmer’s face, “Poor Spot,” said he, “did want to come, But I’m awful glad he’s left at home. He’ll guard the barn, and guard the colt, And keep the cattle out of the lot.” “I’m not so sure of that,” thought Spot. The dog under the wagon. The farmer all his produce sold And got his pay in yellow gold; Home through the lonely forest. Hark! A robber springs from behind a tree: “Your money or else your life,” says he. The moon was up, but he didn’t see The dog under the wagon. Spot ne’er barked and Spot ne’er whined But quickly caught the thief behind; He dragged him down into the dirt And tore his coat and tore his shirt, Then held him fast on the miry ground; The robber uttered not a sound While his hands and feet the farmer bound And tumbled him into the wagon. So Spot he saved the farmer’s life, The farmer’s money, the farmer’s wife, And now a hero grand and gay, A silver collar he wears today. Among his friends, among his foes— And everywhere his master goes— He follows on his horny toes, The dog under the wagon.
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The Leaves Give Thanks
From The Topeka State Journal, October 29, 1912. By Georgia Wood Pangborn. All the cheerful little leaves Were lying mute and slain, Their tender summer faces Marred with age and pain. Through the threadbare forest Strode the wind and rain. I wept because the sky was gray, Because the leaves were dead, Because the winter came so fast, And summer’s sweet was sped; And because I, too, was mortal— “All flesh is grass,” I said. But while I was lamenting The woods began to sing. The voice of all dead leaves came up As when they sang in Spring: “Praise God,” they sang, “for Winter And stormy harvesting: “Praise God, who uses old things To serve the new things’ need And turns us into earth again That next year’s roots may feed; Roots but for us and our decay Would shrivel in the seed. “To the thousand summers Our summer has been thrust, But the snow is very gentle Above its rags and rust. Lie down, lie down, oh, brothers, With the thousand summers’ dust.”
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When Nellie Dresses
From The Topeka State Journal, October 28, 1912. When Nellie goes upstairs to dress, I take a magazine, And read about the wonders of Some far-off foreign scene; An article of men who graft, The Wall Street system, too; Also the editor’s remarks On what next month he’ll do. I light my pipe and puff away The while the page I scan, And read a Robert Chambers tale About some love-sick man. A muck-rake expert leads me through A bale of torrid stuff Explaining how a lot of men Got rich upon a bluff. I read the advertisements next, Of collars, kodaks, cars, And breakfast foods and underwear, Tobacco and cigars. A liberal education I Obtain, I must confess, The evening we are going out And Nellie starts to dress.
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Halloween
From The Washington Herald, October 27, 1912. I’ve often wished I could go back To childhood’s happy hours, When life’s illusions were not lost; No thorns among the flowers. But never have I longed so much To live that glad time o’er, As when on Halloween I hear “Tick-tack” on pane or door! What elfin pranks we boys did play Upon the neighbors ‘round Until they thought us sprites let loose To tease, torment, confound! Oh, never can I quite forget The joy that would elate, As when we stole to schoolmaster’s And carried off his gate! What traps for the unwary laid; We plotted and connived, And in the twilight’s misty gloom Our evil deeds would thrive. And then the jolly games we played! Again I hear the glee That rang throughout the crowded hall When ghostly sights we’d see. And then the fun of roasting nuts— If I never had enough— Upon that night I’d have my fill Of apples and sweet stuff! Then in a circle round the hearth, We’d in the future peer. Forebodings evil made us quake, And “good luck” signs would cheer. I oft, amid life’s strife and care, From memory’s storehouse gleam That night most dear to all boys’ hearts— The night of Halloween!
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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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Evolution
From the Evening Star, October 25, 1912. By Philander Johnson. Men used to laugh at telephones, And called them idle toys. They railed in rude sarcastic tones At things the world employs To meet its constant needs today Yet nature does not change. We still salute with laughter gay Each proposition strange. They laughed to hear the world was round; They laughed at talk of steam; The airship once the public found A vastly humorous dream. So as we glance about the earth, Where marvels rise anew, We find the things of greatest worth Are jokes that have come true.
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Pixy Wood
From The Topeka State Journal, October 24, 1912. By Madison Cawein. The vat-like cups of the fungus, filled With the rain that fell last night, Are tuns of wine that the elves distilled For revels that the moon did light. The owlet there with her “Who-oh-who,” And the frog with his “All is right,” Could tell a tale if they wanted to Of what took place last night. In that hollow beech, where the wood decays, Their toadstool houses stand, A little village of drabs and grays, Cone-roofed, of fairy-land. That moth, which gleams like a lichen there, Is one of an elfin band That whisks away if you merely dare To try to understand. The snail, which slides on that mushroom’s top, And the slug on its sleepy trail, Wax fat on the things the elves let drop At feast in the moonlight pale. The whippoorwill, which grieves and grieves, If it would, could tell a tale Of what took place here under the leaves Last night on the Dreamland Trail. The trillium there and the May-apple, With their white eyes opened wide, Of many a secret sight could tell If speech were not denied: Of many a pixy revelry And rout on which they’ve spied, With the hollow tree, which there, you see, Opens its eye-knots wide.
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Lest We Forget
From The Tacoma Times, October 23, 1912. By Berton Braley. While the contest rumbles all about, While the leaders hurry to and fro, While the speakers agitate and shout, While the streams of oratory flow, ‘Mid the talk that no one understands, ‘Mid the noise that all the country fills, Don’t forget the weary hearts and hands, Don’t forget the children in the mills! While we talk of tariff and of trust, Dream of referendum and recall, Down amid the clamor and the dust Childish toilers labor till they fall. While the war for ballots rages on, While the keen excitement ever thrills, Don’t forget the faces pale and wan, Don’t forget the children in the mills! These, who never know the joy of play, These, whose youth is filched away by greed, Turn to us their faces pinched and gray Asking us for comfort in their need. So, amidst the tumult and the press, Don’t forget the cruel toil that kills; Hear them moan in utter weariness, “Don’t forget the children in the mills!”
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His Greatness
From the New York Tribune, October 22, 1912. He didn’t climb the hills of fame, But kept the middle ground; On history’s pages ne’er his name By any will be found. But he was brave and he was good, And always did his best; And through his life he always stood Face front to every test. Go ask his wife if you would know The record that he made; And to his little children go, Ask them how daddy played. And then go ask his neighbors, too, And hear them sing his praise; They’ll tell you he was kind and true, That honor marked his ways. Greatness is not by numbers told, Nor always written down On history’s pages; all that’s gold Goes not into a crown. But men are great who day by day Are cheerful, kind and true, And give their best along life’s way Of service to the few.