From The Washington Herald, November 10, 1912. By John Anschute. Dan would have wooed either Madge or Ann If it had not been that Each girl had another suitor: there Was Tim and there was Pat. Dan met his rival Tim one day—said Tim to Dan with a frown: “I’ll throw up a brick and you can court Madge, if it don’t come down.” Tim threw the brick, Dan lost the girl; ’Twas a cinch for him, of course. But Dan didn’t mind it. “Tim,” said he, “I’ll wurk that trick on Pat Bourse.” Dan and Pat stood talking loudly Near an unfinished brick wall, All unmindful of the mortar the masons Above let fall. “We looks aloike to Ann,” said Pat, “an’ The wan that gets her han’ Will have t’ foight an’ whip the other Wan. Do you understand?” “Yes!” said Dan, “but there’s a better way; I learnt it from Tim Troors; I’ll throw a brick up in the air; if the Brick stays up she’s yoors.” “Agreed!” said Pat, and up flew the brick. “O what a cinch!” said Dan; “I’ll go straight way an’ buy the ring, T’ give t’ me Mary Ann.” When the brick had spent its force ’Twas close to the top of the wall; A bricklayer caught and layed it in. Of course, it did not fall. “A fool for luck!” said Dan to Pat, with Passion rough and stormy; “The brick stayed up, bad cuss t’ Troors; Oim goin’ t’ join the ormy.”
Month: November 2020
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Dan and Tim and Pat
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The Plains of Mexico
From the New York Tribune, November 9, 1912. By C. Fox Smith. There’s a country wide and weary, and a scorching sun looks down On the thirsty cattle ranges and a queer old Spanish town, And it’s there my heart goes roving by the trails I used to know; Dusty trails by camps deserted where the tinkling mule trains go, On the sleepy sunlit ranges and the plains of Mexico. Is it only looking backward that the past seems now so fair? Was the sun then somehow brighter, was there something in the air Made no day seem ever weary, never hour that went too slow, When we rode the dusty ranges on the plains of Mexico? Then the long, hot, scented evenings, and the fiddle’s squeaky tune, When we danced with Spanish lasses underneath the golden moon, Girls with names all slow and splendid, hot as fire and cold as snow, In the spicy summer night time on the plains of Mexico. I am growing tired and lonely, and the town is dull and strange— I am restless for the open sky and wandering wings that range; I will get me forth a-roving, I will get me out and go, But no more, no more my road is to the plains of Mexico. For the sun is on the plateau, and the dusty trails go down By the same old cactus hedges to the sleepy Spanish town, But I’ll never find my comrade that I lost there long ago, Never, never more (O, lad I loved loved and left a-lying low!) Where the coward bullet took him on the plains of Mexico.
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After Rud Kip
From The Topeka State Journal, November 8, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. When the husband meets his helpmeet every morning in debate, And he’s trying to explain to her why he was out so late, There never is any question that his arguments will fail, For the female of the species can talk longer than the male. When the argument is hottest and they get down to brass tacks, And they land each other’s relatives a lot of pungent whacks; You would think that hers were angels and that his should be in jail, For the female of the species can think faster than the male. When they’re whacking up the boodle that he’s earned throughout the week, And deciding how to spend it, he’s a pretty helpless geek; It is hard for him to look at his percentage of the kale, For the female of the species can grab quicker than the male. When they do their weekly shopping and they linger ‘round the store, Till the husband thinks that living is a most decided bore; She can take her a 50-cent piece and get dry goods by the bale, For the female of the species can buy cheaper than the male. When it comes to information on the gossip of the day, On the neighborhood activities and things that people say, She has got her husband beaten when she gets up on the trail, For the female of the species can “hear” lots more than the male.
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Responsibility
From The Seattle Star, November 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us, However we may try to shift the shame, It’s you and I that really are to blame If things are in a tangle and a muss. If Might is Right, if Goodness yields to Greed, If Mammon thrives, and God is quite forgot, If evil reigns in many a beauty spot, It is because We have not taken heed. The wrongs that live are those we tolerate Because we have not tried to make them right; If Darkness rules where Justice calls for Light, If Love is trampled out by Wrath and Hate, If little children toll and women slave, If some men starve while others feast and waste, If Truth is lost and Liberty disgraced, If millions fast from childhood to the grave, It is because, for all our noise and fuss, We stay content with matters as they are, We have the final choice to make or mar— Well, after all, the whole thing’s up to Us!
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My Boy
From The Topeka State Journal, November 6, 1912. By Olive Martin. Gone is the loud din and noise, Put away are all the toys. All youthful things are out of sight, One can’t find a ball or kite. No cap lays on the parlor chair, No jacket on the front hall stair. No one slams the kitchen door, No one spots the hallway floor. I strain my ears to catch the sound Of footsteps down the stairway bound, But all is quiet overhead; I cannot hear the slightest tread. I miss my boy’s loud, cheery call, His whistle, merriment and all. I miss the boyish face so dear, The big gray eyes, serene and clear. You wonder that I am not sad And that my heart is very glad? You think I should regretful be, And in my loss no goodness see? To you the secret I will tell, Assuring you with me all’s well; My boy has grown to manhood tall, So I am happy after all.
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Grandpa and Me
From the Omaha Daily Bee, November 5, 1912. My grandpa says that he was once A little boy like me. I s’pose he was, and yet it does Seem queer to think that he Could ever get my jacket on Or shoes, or like to play With games, and toys, and race with Duke, As I do every day. He’s come to visit us, you see, Nurse says I must be good And mind my manners, as a child With such a grandpa should. For grandpa’s very straight and tall, And very dignified. He knows most all there is to know, And other things beside. So, though my grandpa knows so much I thought that maybe boys Were things he hadn’t studied They make such an awful noise. But when at dinner I asked for Another piece of pie, I thought I saw a twinkle In the corner of his eye. So yesterday, when they went out, And left us two alone I was not quite so much surprised To find how nice he’d grown. You should have seen us romp and run; My, now I almost see That perhaps he was long, long ago A little boy like me.
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Beyond the Sunset
From The Washington Herald, November 4, 1912. By John A. Joyce. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the summer never ends And ingratitude is absent Among all celestial friends And our earthly tribulation Is forgotten on that shore, With happiness in splendor And sweet rest forever more. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where the flowers ever bloom, And pure love is everlasting To dispel the shades of gloom, Where the soul is plumed with beauty In an atmosphere of peace, And greed and vicious malice Shall forever fade and cease. There’s a land beyond the sunset Where suspicion cannot go And hypocrisy is never known To entrap with nameless woe, And where conscience ever lingers As transparent as the sun With hope and faith forever When this sordid life is done. There’s a land beyond the sunset And as bright as morning dew, With immortal angels singing For the faithful, brave, and true, Who never sold their honor On this venal, vernal sod But in the silence of their soul Held worship for their God. There’s a land beyond the sunset And another land up higher Where the soul is ever soaring And infused with heavenly fire, Where other suns and planets Roll around in mystic sway In their brilliant evolution And eternal right of way.
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The Alchemist
From the Evening Star, November 3, 1912. By Marlin Ward. My simple say-so makes the truth, It also makes the lie; And all things bad transmute to good When they are done by I. Bill Flinn was just a common boss Until he followed me, But now he’s clean and beautiful As any one can be. Perkins had predatory wealth Until I sanctified His tainted cash and made it pure By use upon my side. Thus, that all men and measures, too, Are made, for bad or good, As they are for me or against, Is plainly understood. By all who get pure politics Direct from Flinn and me, The grand originators of Political purity.
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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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Compensation
From the Evening Star, November 1, 1912. By Philander Johnson. For the leader of a nation There’s a wonderful elation When he gets the news of victory complete; But there’s also comfort waiting For the man who hears them stating That his efforts have resulted in defeat. He can be an eight-hour sleeper, He can sit down to his “three per,” Far distant from the bustle and the roar. It will not be found essential To meet people influential Who hammer with petitions on his door. He can play the games that please him, And indulge the moods that seize him If he wants to take a trip to foreign lands. He can give a cheery greeting To each friend he may be meeting And not put in the whole day shaking hands. There is joy in the endeavor To be powerful or clever; But when the struggle has been gotten through There is surely compensation In the blissful relaxation Of the man who hasn’t very much to do.