From The Seattle Star, October 21, 1912. By Berton Braley. I feel I am needing a change in my reading; I weary of tales which describe The poor east side tailor who lives in his squalor Amid all the rest of his tribe; I also am weary of stories more cheery Which chiefly—yes, wholly—concern The beautiful heiress with gowns made in Paris And the youth who has money to burn. I long for narrations of people whose stations Are not so extreme either way. The people I meet in the office and street in The course of my business and play; I don’t care for stories of wealth and its glories Nor tales of acute misery; I long in my fiction to find the depiction Of commonplace people—like me!
Month: October 2020
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The Plea of the Ordinary Reader
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The Tiger
From the New York Tribune, October 20, 1912. By William Blake. Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forest of the night! What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form’d thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile on his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
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Contradiction
From the Evening Star, October 19, 1912. By Philander Johnson. As orators with words so fair And promises so fine With eloquence filled all the air And thrilled your heart and mine, We’d listen for a little while Before we turned away And murmured with a cynic smile, “They don’t mean all they say.” The eagerness of good intent That kept their hearts so warm Led them to promise as they went More than they could perform. In hope’s glad sunshine they came out To make ambition’s hay. They never heard our word of doubt, “They can’t mean all they say!” Now darker banners they unfurl, Their words bring strange regret. Instead of promises they hurl An angry epithet. But to our comment old we cling, And vow with hearts all gay That time its usual change will bring, They don’t mean all they say.
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The Hired Girl’s Way
From The Topeka State Journal, October 18, 1912. The nights our hired girl stays home, An’ don’t expect her beau t’ call, She’s jes’ as nice as she can be, An’ doesn’t hustle round at all. Sometimes she takes me on her knee And tells me tales of pirates bold That used t’ sail upon the sea In search of silver and of gold. An’ she don’t pack me off t’ bed As soon as supper time is through. Or tell me that I’m in her way Becoz she’s got her work t’ do. But in the kitchen I can stay An’ she jes’ tells the finest things Of soldiers fightin’ every day An’ princes bold, an’ evil kings. But when her beau is comin’ up T’ take her out t’ see a show, She makes us hustle through our tea So’s she can get dressed up to go. An’ you jes’ orter see her frown If Paw sits talking very long, An’ you should hear her bang around T’ let him know he’s doin’ wrong. An’ Maw don’t dast t’ say a word, An’ Paw jes’ swallers down his tea, An’ then she grabs the dishes up, An’ says she ain’t got time fer me. You orter hear her rattle plates An’ see her grab each dish and cup, An’ wash ‘em clean as quick as that The nights her beau is comin’ up. She don’t have time for stories then, Or nothin’ else I want t’ do. Paw says there is no stoppin’ her When she is eager t’ git through. An’ I git hustled off t’ bed, An’ I don’t like it, not at all, I can’t see why she acts that way Jes’ coz her beau is goin’ t’ call.
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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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A Comparison
From The Detroit Times, October 16, 1912. By Ida M. Budd. Old Biddy Minorca was out on the fallow, Briskly digging out worms for her downy young brood, Working now on the hillside and now in the hollow, (She found no small task to provide them with food.) When suddenly, out of the somewhere-or-other, A flash and a wide-sweeping circle of wings; ’Twas a great hungry hawk, and the chicks flew to mother With the cry of alarm such a happening brings. With great self-possession she called them to shelter, Just settling herself, with a cluck, on the ground, While her babies ducked under her, helter-te-skelter, And when the hawk swooped not a chick could be found. Then old Biddy turned on him, the principal factors Of her lightning maneuvers, her fierce beak and claw, And, when you consider the size of the actors, ’Twas as handsome a battle as ever you saw. And the hen came off best—oh, but say! how they praised her And called her a “jewel” and all the nice things! I am sure their attentions must quiet have amazed her As she hovered her brood ‘neath her motherly wings. Then, seeing no more of the dreaded sky-ranger, She led them away, clucking softly and low To assure them that she would protect them from danger At the risk of her life, let who might be the foe. But here’s Mrs. McBlankton who wishes the ballot And modestly asks for it—yes, suffragette— Not the kind that resort to the hammer or mallet, But she has boys and girls and the district is “wet” Or from other conditions she seeks to defend them, Yet you call her unwomanly, wanting a voice In her country’s laws, either to make or amend them, And you claim that the men have the sole right of choice. Now, why should a hen be considered a jewel For protecting her children so nobly and well, And a woman unwomanly (ah! that sounds cruel!) For the very same reason? Can anyone tell? You have them before you—the bird and the human. Just study them please, for a moment and then If you charge that the one’s an unwomanly woman I insist that the other’s an unhenly hen.
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Courage
From the New York Tribune, October 15, 1912. By Edgar A. Guest. Discouraged, eh? The world looks dark, And all your hopes have gone astray; Your finest shots have missed the mark, You’re heartsick and discouraged, eh? Plans that you built from all went wrong, You cannot seem to find the way And it seems vain to plod along, You’re heartsick and discouraged, eh? Take heart! Each morning starts anew, Return unto the battle line; Against far greater odds than you Brave men have fought with courage fine. Despite the buffetings of fate, They’ve risen, time and time again, To stand, face front and shoulders straight As leaders of their fellow men. And you, now blinded by despair, Heartsick and weary of the fight, On every hand beset by care, Can, if you will, attain the light.
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The Disappearing Balance
From The Seattle Star, October 14, 1912. By Berton Braley. I never can figure my bank account out, I’m always in trouble and always in doubt, And just when I think I have lots to go on The bank sends a notice—“account overdrawn.” I don’t understand it; I fuss and I fret, But I can’t make the bank “get me,” you bet. They point to their figures and I must remit, Although I can’t see any reason for it. I’m sure I am right in the balance I claim, But they make me come through when they ask, just the same. And they smile in a way condescending and bland, When I say that their system I can’t understand; For this is the puzzle my brain cells to vex— Why doesn’t my money keep pace with my checks?
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To the Passing Seasons
From The Washington Herald, October 13, 1912. By George Sands Johnson. There are no blossoms left to tell The happy days of Spring! While parting anthems of farewell Through haunted chambers ring. Amid vast shrines where ages dwell In peace and joy, unseen, Deep voices of glad visions well And sparkle through the green. Sweet memory of joyous hours That charm the backward gaze, Clusters around the folded flowers, Still gleam through autumn haze. And as the summer passes by, Where autumn’s shadows brood, Gray specters of dead beauty sigh In solemn solitude. How fleet and strange is fate and time! As life is swept along Through seasons dreary and sublime To join the vanished throng.
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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.