From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 11, 1912. Most everybody’s busy— I pity him that ain’t— There are millions and millions of dolls to dress, And millions of pictures to paint; There are millions of knots of ribbon to tie And millions of loops to crochet; And the days and hours are galloping on Right up to Christmas Day. There are infinite numbers of bundles to wrap And millions of greetings to write; If we should attempt to count them all The figures would climb out of sight. And think of the millions of parcels to tie And the millions of stickers to stick ‘em. And think of the millions and billions of stamps That are waiting for people to lick ‘em. There’ll be millions and millions of tapers bright All over this great U. S.; As many as there are twinkling stars In the frosty heavens, I guess. And there’ll be millions of stockings small Whose hungry tops will be yawning And millions of jobs for Santa Claus ‘Twixt now and Christmas morning.
Month: December 2020
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Ad Infinitum
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Symbolic Dancing
From The Detroit Times, December 10, 1912. By Berton Braley. Symbolic dances are the fad On many hundred stages; We see the dancers, thinly clad, All sorts and kinds and ages. With filmy draperies that cling And weird, uncanny motions, They symbolize such things as spring And passions and emotions. They dance a poem writ by Poe With great poetic frenzy. Their lack of garments goes to show They scorn the influenzy; They’ll dance a tragedy clear through With motions most symbolic Although they may appear to you As suffering from colic. In dances they’ll portray the past, The future and the present, And they’ll present, with detail vast, The poet and the peasant; They’ll dance a painting or a play, A novel, grim or merry, And in symbolic wise, some day, They’ll dance the dictionary!
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Easing a Grouch
From the Omaha Daily Bee, December 9, 1912. A yard or two of stuff that’s called a skirt, A waist that’s made of some expensive lace, A pair of shoes that are so tight they hurt, Some padding out in just the proper place, A hat that costs nine times what it is worth; A peck or two of someone else’s hair; A complexion bought most anywhere on earth, A corset that is too tight everywhere, A bundle of artistic temperament, A flow of conversation that is light, A passing whiff of some delicious scent, A show of vanity from morn till night— And that’s a woman. A bag of wind inflated without cause; A blowhard and an ardent egotist Who knows more than the ones who made the laws; A set of teeth, a mustache and a fist; Some shoulders that are padded out of shape; A smell of burned tobacco that is stale; A blossom on the nose from festive grape; Some stories that make modest folk turn pale; A punk cigar that sizzles all day long; A thing whose chiefest aim is just to eat; A party who is right, all others wrong, Who’s always 99 per cent conceit— And that’s a man.
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The Question
From the Evening Star, December 8, 1912. My Uncle Jim has stood the test. He fought clear through the fray. He voted all his friends and kin upon election day. He knows the questions of the hour, with answers to them all, “Initiative,” “Referendum,” and likewise “Recall!” About the tariff question, too, he has a lot to say. He surely knows his alphabet both ways from schedule “K.” We’re waiting for the news. Suspense makes all our bosoms throb; We’re wondering if they’re going to give dear Uncle Jim a job. He knows exactly how to answer queries on finance. Some folks have tried to puzzle him. They never stood a chance. The questions of our foreign policy he takes in turn And answers them offhand to any one who wants to learn. He knows the way to set ‘em right when times get out of joint; This world to him is one sublime interrogation point. But the question now supreme—with all our nerves it’s playing hob— Is simply this: Is Uncle Jim in Line to Get a Job?
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The Traveler’s Bane
From The Seattle Star, December 7, 1912. By Berton Braley. The old Inns were pleasant In decades gone by, But just at the present There’s none of them nigh. When travel was rougher These Inns served full well, But NOW we must suffer The Small Town Hotel! When, wayworn and dusty We land at the door, The rooms are all musty, There’s mould on the floor. Ah, pity the drummer Who must stay a spell Both winter and summer At this shine hotel! Its beds are all bumpy (Infrequently clean), Its oatmeal is lumpy, Its lights kerosene; Its “linen” is spattered, Its dining rooms smell, It’s blowsy and battered— The Small Town Hotel. Whatever you eat there Is sure to be fried; The landlord you meet there Is weazened and dried; There’s no one to hop at The ring of your bell; It’s awful to stop at The Small Town Hotel.
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The Puritan Strain
From The Seattle Star, December 6, 1912. By Berton Braley. The artists and critics my rave as they will Of prudishness prim and precise, They claim that it hampers their art and their skill To have to be proper and nice. But for all of its squeamishness, all of its cant, It holds us to decency, plain, And I’m willing to lift up my voice in a chant, A hymn to the “Puritan Strain.” It may be a trifle too rigid and grim And hard on the spirit of Youth, But it keeps the commandments from growing too dim And it holds to the right and the truth. It’s harsh and unyielding in many a way That causes but worry and pain, But a man or a nation won’t go far astray If controlled by the “Puritan Strain.” It’s helped us to conquer the country we own Which stretches from sea unto sea, It’s sobered and tempered us while we have grown A nation united and free. It’s grappling undaunted with problems most vast, With power of hand and of brain; That grim, granite purpose will save us at last— Thank God for the “Puritan Strain!”
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Bohemia
From The Tacoma Times, December 5, 1912. By Berton Braley. They eat off a trunk and they sit on a box, The floor is all cluttered with fish-nets and socks, They live on spaghetti and red ink and cheese And talk about “Art” with some unction and ease. Their hair’s never trimmed, and it’s seldom they shave, At “puritan morals” they sneer and they rave; They care not to sweep or to scrub or to dust, They never pay bills till they find that they must, They go in for fads in their manner of dress, They revel in dirt and they’re fond of a mess. Of “base money grubbers” they frequently rant, Referring to artists who “sell”—which they can’t! Yet give them a chance where the cash is the test, They’re just as commercial as all of the rest. They strut and they swagger, they poise and they pose, And each has a horn which he constantly blows, Their minds and their rooms with disorder are rife— And they call this “Bohemian Life!”
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A Diagnosis
From The Topeka State Journal, December 4, 1912. I didn’t know I had it till a little while ago— I haven’t been sure of it till within a day or so. I’d felt some symptoms of it, in a dim, uncertain way, Since first I read the ad about the medicine one day. Last week, however, I struck on the most convincing ad And now I know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad. At first I thought I saw some floating specs before my eyes, And then I’d feel that lassitude each morning when I’d rise; And so I kept on reading ads about man’s awful ills Until I found I suffered from dumb fever, aches and chills; I noticed that full feeling for an hour succeeding meals— I felt the way a man in gravest illness aways feels. Why, I’ve had the symptoms; I’ve had buzzing in the head, And sudden loss of temper; can’t remember what I’ve read; My feet will often “go to sleep”; my fingertips get numb— I shouldn’t doubt if I should be both paralyzed and dumb. And, as I say, last week I struck the most convincing ad— I don’t know what may ail me, but I know I’ve got it bad. I’ve written to the doctor for that medicine of his— I’m ready to acknowledge that it’s what he says it is. I’ve got my letter written, telling what I have endured; My picture has been taken, and I’m ready to be cured. I’ve suffered all the symptoms that the other patients had— I only know I’ve got it, and I know I’ve got it bad.
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A Dream of Tophet?
From the New York Tribune, December 3, 1912. I had a dream. It was not all a dream. Methought I wandered in some dreadful land Where deep crevasses yawned on either hand, Belching forth clouds of hot, malodorous steam. O’er craggy piles of stone my path now lay, Oft forming barriers high above my head, ‘Mid smoky fires that burnt a lurid red, And pools of slimy mud that barred my way. The heavy air was filled with sulfurous stench; My nostrils spurned it, as I drew my breath, My heart turned faint, and I was sick to death. Such awesome smells might make the boldest blench! Where lies the land with horrors thus replete; Which gaping pits and piles of granite grace? Can you not answer? Lo, New York’s the place; I did not dream—I wandered down the street!
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A Sermon to the Traveler
From The Tacoma Times, December 2, 1912. By Berton Braley. Don’t be a clam when you travel, Don’t sit like a mute in your seat; There’s a lot you can learn If you’ll pleasantly turn And talk to the folks you will meet; There’s a heap of good tales will unravel If you’ll merely be cordial and kind, For a wise man can gain From his talks on the train A whole bunch of food for his mind. Some people could travel forever And never be wiser at all Though they covered the map While the sociable chap Will gain by a journey that’s small. It’s well to make every endeavor To let down the conventional bars, For you’ll benefit, if You don’t act like a stiff With the folks that you meet on the cars.