From The Topeka State Journal, November 20, 1912. By Wilbur D. Nesbit. Carve me an angel, sculptor, and let your stone be white So white that it will shimmer, reflecting back the light— Give it semblance, sculptor—a form and shape like this: A lassie wee and drowsy, who gives a good-night kiss. Too weary from all her playing to open her lips to speak— And carve the chubby fingers that touch her mother’s cheek. Ah, she needs no halo—simply a wayward curl. That is an angel, sculptor—somebody’s little girl. What for an angel, sculptor? Get you marble fine Carve it with patient purpose, coax it to curve and line Drape it with flowing garments, give it the simple charms— Carve us a mother holding her baby in her arms. Wonderful, tender, hopeful, sweet she must be and wise And with the light of heaven glimmering in her eyes. That is an angel, sculptor—see that you carve it sure Showing the love that surges out from a soul all pure. Carve me an angel, sculptor. Carve us a woman, old And grave in all the wrinkles her withered cheek must hold— Wrinkles that tell of sorrow, lines that the laughs have left Give her the knotted fingers no longer quick and deft Bend her with years of toiling, bow her with weight of years Show us the golden beauty wrought of her smiles and tears. Tell in the stone the story, how she is wan and worn Through all her self-denial for the ones that she has borne. That is an angel, sculptor. Grave it, and carve it so And all the world will see it—see it, and bow down low.
Month: November 2020
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The Angel
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Optimism
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 19, 1912. Never heered him blame the world Fer the troubles that it brought Never heered him rail at life Or express a gloomy thought Seen it rainin’ pitchforks, when Outside labor he had planned All he said wuz: “After this Won’t the sun be simply grand?” Seen his shoulders high with care Didn’t know which way to turn Troubles, troubles everywhere Never, far as I can learn Wailed an’ whimpered at his fate Took ‘em smiling, one by one Telling folks: “When these are past What comes next’ll jes’ be fun.” Seen him to the hubs in mud Wagon stuck an’ hosses tired Never growled about the road Never kicked ‘coz he was mired Rested for a while an’ said To the hosses: “Never mind, Jes’ a rod or two ahead Easier goin’ we shall find.” Seems his woes appealed to him Jes’ as sugar does to boys Used ‘em too, in jes’ that way Made ‘em sweeten up his joys. Allus lookin’ jes’ beyond The edge of trouble to the day (Havin’ known the pangs o’ strife) He’d appreciate his pay.
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The Singer’s Apology
From The Seattle Star, November 18, 1912. By Berton Braley. I have heartened your soul for battle, I have turned your face to the fray, I have stirred your blood to a seething flood with many a valiant lay; I have made your songs of conflict and slogans to lead you on, I have chanted you forth to victory when all your hope was gone. You march to the beat of songs I sing, they comfort your sleep at night And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight! If I go forth to the battle field and join in the conflict there I am only one of a thousand men who does his little share But the songs I make in my sheltered tent as I toil with brain and pen Are the breath that fans the fighting flame in the hearts of a thousand men. And, though I take not to the field or stand in the battle line The word that carries the warriors on to victory is mine! I have lifted your souls from fell defeat to battle again—and win I have sounded a clarion call of faith amid the fighting din What matters it if my hand is weak when I make ten thousand strong By the thrill of a magic chant of words and the rhythm of a song? I keep the private’s courage high, the captain’s eyes alight— And yet you call me a weakling soul because I do not fight!
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No Upheaval
From the Evening Star, November 17, 1912. By Philander Johnson. We’re feelin’ purty cheerful down to Pohick on the Crick. At first the town was lookin’ fur some unexpected trick Such as Fate likes to play on folks that gets well satisfied In order to prevent ‘em from the ways of too much pride. We thought the election was a-goin’ to turn things loose An’ leave us in a state where nothin’ wasn’t any use. Each said that if his party was defeated in the fall Us ordinary people wouldn’t stand no show at all. But there isn’t any sign of an excuse to be forlorn. The stock ain’t lost their appetites fur oats an’ hay an’ corn., An’ people keep on eatin’ jest as in the other days, Creatin’ a demand fur everything thet we kin raise. An’ I’ve noticed it was much the same in ‘lections of the past. We always got a skeer which proved without a cause, at last. Although a governmental change sets rumors flyin’ thick, We keep on goin’ jes’ the same at Pohick on the Crick.
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The Compendium of Knowledge
From The Seattle Star, November 16, 1912. By Berton Braley. I bought a cyclopedia (Ten volumes, bound in calf). Said I, “My reading’s been too light; All froth and useless chaff; I’m really ignorant, I’ve been Too frivolous, by half!” Upon the shelf I placed the set And gazed on it with pride, And I was awed to think how much Of wisdom was inside; What harvestings of wondrous lore, That came from far and wide. Upon that self-same shelf it stands, And it will linger there; For, though I studied patiently, Then wept and tore my hair, At last I gave the problem up, In anguish and despair. For every highbrow in the world Had writ of various things, “Of ships and soap and sealing wax, And cabbages and kings.” I couldn’t understand a word, And still my poor head rings. They wrote in seven syllables, With formulae abstruse; They wallowed deep in Delphic words, Which scared me like the deuce. Among their curves and diagrams, I muttered, “What’s the use?” From out its shelf that set of books Looks down with aspect grand And, gazing at it, I remark: “Is there no soul at hand To write a cyclopedia Which folks can understand?”
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Nothing Serious
From The Seattle Star, November 15, 1912. There’s many a man who kicks against The price of pork and steak, Who says that the cost of chalky milk Gives him a constant ache, Who howls when he buys a dozen eggs And roars a half an hour When buying a cake of laundry soap Or half a sack of flour, Who threatens to cause someone’s arrest And rails against the trust, And says that the cost of living soon Will make the nation bust— BUT Who’ll blow a good five dollar bill For one of the latest shirts And pick out a swell three-dollar tie And make no sign it hurts. Who’ll stand at a bar with twenty men And buy round after round In treating the crowd to foamy drinks And never make a sound!
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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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The Arrow Head
From The Washington Herald, November 13, 1912. By Calvin Dill Wilson. They loved their land, broad set between the seas; They hunted, fought, and roamed in careless ease; In native joys the fearless years were spent— The red men owned and ruled a continent; And when we drove them back with hissing lead They left this lasting sign, the arrow head. By storm or glowing sky their souls were stirred; They knew and dearly prized each beast and bird; Their human hearts held love for maidens fair; The warrior gave his child a brave man’s care; Another race has come their land to tread; Of Indian braves there’s left the arrow head. The bark canoe the restless waters skimmed; The hunter watched his prey with eyes undimmed; He mastered nature for his simple need; He reared a daring race of strongest breed; And now into devouring night he’s fled, And left no sign but this, his arrow head. We might have spared to him his valiant pride, Or left him breathing space in land so wide; We something might have learned of him, the free— We owed him manhood, spirit, liberty; But, cruel, we o’er all his soil have spread; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. The panther-footed, lithesome Indian brave We thought not worth our while to try to save. But welcomed hither hordes of king-crushed souls, The worn-out serfs who cringed to lords for doles; We gave an eagle race the grave as bed; Our fields yet hold his sign, the arrow head. He passes, cowed and scorned; we, careless, read Unmoved his tale. “A savage! Let him bleed And eat his heart and weep and swiftly go; Our strength’s our right. The tale is old.” E’en so! For him no tears, no honor! Ghosts have sped; His only lasting sign’s the arrow head. We pick the flaked flints from far and near; Museums hold them. “Weapons? Tools? How queer!” Yet, aimed with flashing eye and iron arm, Once flew that flint to keep his child from harm, Or oft it felled the deer that wife be fed; A heart’s own tale has every arrow head. All rich he was, most rich; we made him poor; His ways to him were good; his meat was sure; His tribe was all—we made him stand alone; We could have given bread, we gave a stone. We’re rich, but he has well-nigh vanished— And yet his sign abides, his arrow head. Look on that sign of his once mastery; Have pity now, before he die, all ye; Yet breathe upon the embers of his pride; Restore his manhood ere it quite has died; Be just; take thought, lest we be visited, And fate smite us as with his arrow head. Some day avenging fate may string its bow, And pluck the fields for flints, take aim, and so Send singing on the winds the feather reeds, Straight sighted, true, to smite us for our deeds— Through foes return the ill our lives have bred— And to our hearts send deep the arrow head.
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A Picture
From The Topeka State Journal, November 12, 1912. By Alice E. Allen. I’ve a little picture— Artist? No one knows— Just a winding country road Where a glad wind blows; With a bit of forest, Cool and green and still Set against a morning sky, Rose and daffodil. There’s a brook that dances Underneath a bridge; There’s a wood-thrush singing Somewhere up the ridge. All the wind is honey-sweet With the wild sweet clover. ’Tis the place to pause and dream All your old dreams over. Oh, I wish that artist Somehow could be told Of the happiness he’s hid In his skies of gold; Could but know the joy it is Just to drop your load, And to go a-wandering Up his forest road.
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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?