From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 21, 1913. By Minna Irving. The day was bright and sunny, And business going well. But Reuben in his office A prey to dreaming fell. He thought of woods and meadows With all their sylvan charm. “Good bye, old town,” he murmured, “For Reuben buys a farm.” He found a roomy dwelling With roses round the door. A covered well behind it, A picket fence before. And ancient apple-orchards Where sang, secure from harm, An orchestra of robins, So Reuben bought the farm. But getting up so early To milk by lantern-light, And feed the pigs and chickens, Was not unmixed delight. A pain was in his shoulder, A cramp was in his arm, And life was full of trouble For Reuben on the farm. He loved his growing garden And pleasant pasture lands; But not his aching muscles And badly blistered hands. The household gathered round him And viewed him with alarm. “We all,” they said, “should hustle When Reuben buys a farm.” Now Paul attends the horses, The cows are Mary’s care, The pigs and geese and chickens Jeannette’s attention share. And George in ducks discovers A never-failing charm. So everybody’s happy While Reuben runs the farm.
Month: January 2021
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Reuben Buys a Farm
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Walk Cleaned
From the Perth Amboy Evening News, January 20, 1913. By Bosco. He held her hand, the hour was late, ‘Twas time for him to go. It was a wintry night outside And it began to snow. Still he stayed on, his ardent love With burning words to tell. The storm increased, the whirling snow Faster and faster fell. He still remained and eloquent, He praised his Heart’s Delight. The snowdrifts ever deeper grew, The town was buried quite. At last her father called: “Young man, You seem to like to talk! But you can stay to breakfast if You’ll shovel off the walk!”
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Prolonged Agitation
From the Evening Star, January 19, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We’re livin’ calm and peaceful down to Pohick on the Crick. We remember last November when the talk was flyin’ thick, But we’ve settled down to duty and a proper share of rest, With every one a-hopin’ an’ a-doin’ of his best. There ain’t no apprehension ‘bout what’s goin’ to be done In conferrin’ new distinctions over there in Washington. We wrote our ballots plainly, as becomes men brave an’ free; Since the vote has gone on record, we jes’ say, “Let bygones be.” There’s a heap of agitation—we kin hear it from afar, Even though our own existence moves along without a jar. There are big committee meetin’s. Speeches fill the air again. They are sometimes most as thrillin’ as they were in the campaign. There are new ideas started with determination bold, An’ there’s eager agitation in defendin’ of the old. But we have our own ideas an’, I guess, to them we’ll stick, Heaven be thanked! Election’s over here at Pohick on the Crick!
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Dawn of Peace
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 18, 1913. By John Ruskin. Put off, put off your mail, O kings, And beat your brands to dust, Your hands must learn a surer grasp, Your hearts a better trust. Oh, bend aback the lance’s point, And break the helmet bar; A noise is in the morning wind, But not the note of war. Upon the grassy mountain paths, The glittering hosts increase; They come, they come! How fair their feet— They come who publish peace. And victory, fair victory, Our enemies are ours; For all the clouds are clasped in light And all the earth with flowers. Ay, still depressed and dim with dew, But wait a little while; And with the radiant deathless rose The wilderness shall smile. And every dainty tender thing Shall feed by streams of rest; No lamb shall from the flock be lost, Nor nursling from the nest.
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The Song of the Camp
From The Detroit Times, January 17, 1913. By Bayard Taylor. “Give us a song!” The soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said, “We storm the forts tomorrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.” They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.” Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong— Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Rained on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot, and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars! And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” Sleep soldiers! Still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest— The loving are the daring.
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Sweet Relationship
From the Rock Island Argus, January 16, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. A lovely girl whom I could name, but who shall not be here betrayed, Remained within a nook with me one evening when the harpist played; Perhaps it was the pleasing air, emerging from the tuneful strings That caused me while we lingered there to speak to her of love and things. I slipped my arm around her waist and felt her soft cheek close to mine; I think she sweetly yielded thus because the music was divine; I whispered in her dainty ear things she no doubt had heard before, But she was glad, it seemed, to hear and listened patiently for more. We lingered there, not caring what the others, missing us, might say; We stood within a shaded niche and listened to the harpist play. Alas! The sequel I’d suppress if I might do as I’d prefer; But while our lips were joined I guess I got some active germs from her. I’ve been flat on my back a week, but one thought comes to make me glad; Within my being I possess germs that the lovely maid once had— Germs that were part of her, in fact, therefore it seems that we somehow Must bear relationship we lacked, and may be cousins germ-an now.
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Interference
From the Evening Star, January 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Father was reciting A speech he had to make. For days he had been writing For patriotism’s sake. With noble self-reliance ‘Gainst tyrants he rebelled And uttered fierce defiance— Just then the baby yelled. Mother was declaring That women ought to vote, Her arguments preparing All earnestly to quote. With reasons energetic, Which could not be dispelled, She spoke in tones prophetic— Just then the baby yelled. They both forgot their speaking And hastened swiftly there To that small infant, seeking To soothe him with their care, Forgetting the oration In which they both excelled— They might have saved the nation If the baby hadn’t yelled.
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The Answer
From The Tacoma Times, January 14, 1913. By Berton Braley. If “business” cannot thrive unless It works a child to weariness, If “business” to be “good” demands The toil of little baby hands, And takes the tiny child away From sun and fields and merry play; If “business” makes the young its spoil And drags the mother forth to toil At tasks that rob her eyes of light From bitter morn to gloomy night; If “business” can’t afford to give A wage on which a girl can live, But drives her out upon the street To gain her clothes—and food to eat; If “business” only thus can feed By heartless shame and ruthless greed, Then “business” is a foul disgrace, A menace to the human race Which should be fought with will intense Like some vast, spreading pestilence. But business can be cleansed and purged, Its evils fought, its scoundrels scourged; The Plunderbund may rage and rant, Swearing, “It can’t be done, it can’t!” Proclaiming Ruin and Despair If we should make the game for Square; But, spite of Scribe and Pharisee We strive for right that is to be!
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Father Time
From the Evening Star, January 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We all know a fellow called Old Father Time. He has taught us in prose, he has frivoled in rhyme. One day he will give us a song or a laugh And the next he is writing a short epitaph. The way he jogs on is so quietly queer We seldom remember his presence so near. But he measures our steps as we falter or climb. He keeps tabs on us all, does this Old Father Time. But his hand is so gentle, although it is strong, That he helps us a lot as he leads us along. And the ruins that rise on the hills of the past He covers with ivy and roses at last. He teaches the smiles of the present to glow, While the sorrows are left to the long, long ago. And the knell turns to joy in its merriest chime— He’s a pretty good fellow, is Old Father Time.
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Suffragettes
From the Evening Star, January 12, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Oh, a suffragette will suffer And you need not try to bluff her With remarks about her being out of place. The ballot she will better, She will hand-paint every letter Till it proves a work of rare artistic grace. It is true that some are dashing Madly in for window smashing, And we tremble at reports from far away. But the ladies bent on voting, We are happy to be noting, Manage matters better in the U. S. A. When they go about campaigning They don’t start in with complaining That a man is nothing but “a horrid brute.” It is such an easy matter His intelligence to flatter Till he thinks he’s very wise and something cute. While they’re mighty in convention They can also claim attention By a smile and by a twinkle of the eye. They don’t make ferocious speeches. They’re not lemons. They are peaches. And no doubt they’ll all be voting by and by.