From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 28, 1913. By Ted Robinson. “I shudder yet,” the driver said, “whene’er I tell the tale— I’ll think of it till I am dead! Its memory turns me pale. ’Twas when I drove old Brown’s imported high-power racing car— And I was young and reckless—courted all the thrills there are! “Upon the day this occurred, I’d fifty miles to go Ere lunch and you can take my word, I wasn’t driving slow. The road was good but narrow. A rail fence on either side And the car sped like an arrow in a swift and easy glide. “I took the curves at forty miles, then at our highest speed— I shot along those forest aisles with just the road to heed— When suddenly there stepped into our track a little child With golden hair and eyes of blue—just looked at us and smiled! “Not fifty feet ahead was she—and I, too scared to touch Or think of the emergency, or e’en throw out the clutch; And even when it was too late—no time to turn aside— No space, no field, no open gate—the road was ten feet wide! “All these I saw as in a dream—the lassie’s happy face One of those moments that will seem to hold a lifetime’s space— ’Twas just one smile of innocence—ah, would it be her last? And then—she climbed up on the fence and watched me thunder past!”
Month: February 2021
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The Chauffeur’s Story
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A Long Wait
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 27, 1913. “In twenty years from now,” said Pete, “Just look for me on Easy street.” The time went by, with hopeful air We looked and found he wasn’t there. But one whom we did question said, The while he wagged a hoary head, “I once did know a fellow who Lived back this way, a mile or two, “He might have been the man you seek. He earned, I think, twelve plunks a week. “And had so large a family, From debt he never did get free. “And when at last he closed his eyes And went, I hope, to Paradise, “He whispered, ere his spirit passed, ‘I’ve come to Easy street at last!’”
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Living Too Long
From the Evening Star, February 26, 1913. By Walt Mason. I would not care to live, my dears Much more than seven hundred years If I should last that long; For I would tire of things in time And life at last would seem a crime And I a public wrong. Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom you know Was born a hundred years ago And states the fact with mirth; He’s rather proud that he has hung Around so long while old and young Were falling off the earth. But when his boastful fit is gone A sadness comes his face upon That speaks of utter woe; He sits and broods and dreams again Of vanished days, of long dead men, His friends of long ago. There is no loneliness so dread As that of one who mourns his dead In white and wintry age; Who when the lights extinguished are The other players scattered far Still lingers on the stage. There is no solitude so deep As that of him whose friends, asleep Shall visit him no more; Shall never ask, “How do you stack,” Or slap him gaily on the back As in the days of yore. I do not wish to draw my breath Until the papers say that death Has passed me up for keeps; When I am tired I want to die And in my cozy casket lie As one who calmly sleeps. When I am tired of dross and gold When I am tired of heat and cold And happiness has waned, I want to show the neighbor folk How gracefully a man can croak When he’s correctly trained.
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Well and Ill
From the Rock Island Argus, February 25, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. When I am well I think with pity Of those who have to work away As I do, in the busy city Week in, week out, day after day. It seems so futile to be moiling And I am tempted to rebel Against the ones who keep me toiling Relentlessly—when I am well. I think with envy of the wealthy Who for their health seek distant climes And wish that I were not so healthy So that I might fare sometimes; I long to leave the noise and rattle To get away from all the strife Forgetting that the ceaseless battle The toilers wage is all of life. I see about me weary faces That show the need of change and rest; I wonder why men cling to places Whose profits are but small at best. “Poor fools,” I say, “they are but wasting Their strength where toil is profitless When each might far from here be tasting The sweets of well-earned carelessness. When I am ill, and cannot hurry With those who haste away to town To toil and moil and scheme and worry I curse the fates that keep me down; It seems a pity to be quiet While there the wheels are whirring still; And thinking of the rush and riot I scorn repose—when I am ill.
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Restraint of Trade
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 24, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. “Oh, what’s our country coming to?” The trade restrainer cried, “What may a man hereafter do to bring him wealth and pride? They’re sending millionaires to jail and fining them because They happen now and then to fail to keep within the laws. It’s awful, simply awful! Have the judges gone insane? Once a thing was always lawful If it brought sufficient gain; But they’re scolding men of millions for the methods they pursue And they’re sending them to prison—what’s the country coming to? “We keep attorneys who should know how far we may proceed— How far it may be safe to go in satisfying greed; They point the loopholes out, they find the technicalities And yet the courts are not inclined to listen to our pleas! It’s frightful, simply frightful! Have the judges lost their wits? Have they suddenly grown spiteful That they wish to give us fits? They are fining men of millions—that would bother very few— But they’re sending us to prison! What’s the country coming to? “We’ve got to have another deal. That’s getting very plain; Why, even now, when we appeal it sometimes is in vain; This can’t go on—the thing must cease! If courts are pitiless How can we rapidly increase the millions we possess? They pain us, deeply pain us! What has made the judges sore That they wish to thus restrain us? Never was the like before! Once they merely lightly fined us and we paid without ado; Now they threaten us with prison—what’s the country coming to?”
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When the Tide is Out
From the Omaha Daily Bee, February 23, 1913. By Alexander Blackburn. I stood by the shore at the ebb of the tide When the beach grew each moment more ugly and wide— There were moss-covered rocks, slimy weeds and black mud All the beauty was gone from the place where I stood; With the salt-laden breeze came the stench of decay And I said, “The sea’s charm has been taken away.” Then there came for my cheer this truth which all know: As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow. On the shores of the ocean of life there are days When the tide is at ebb and heart has no praise. When the flotsam and jetsam are strewn on the strand And our hopes are but wrecks on the sin-blackened sand; When the fragrance of joy has a sickening taint And we turn from the scenes with eyes wet and heart faint; Till there comes from above the blest truth we all know: As sure as the ebb of the tide is its flow.
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‘Twas Always Thus
From The Topeka State Journal, February 22, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I dwelt within a palace grand With hired help on every hand I ran the place at large expense The luxury was just immense. I lived on porterhouse and quail My chef knew no such word as “fail.” I had a splendid limousine A seven-passenger machine I also owned a racing car And there was not a thing to mar My peace of mind. I knew no toil I didn’t have to do a thing From spring to fall and fall to spring. I had no worry on my mind Or vain regret of any kind. My castle was a sight to see I had ten men to wait on me And when I got a bill, by heck, My secretary wrote a check. I lolled about and took my ease With bank notes piled up to my knees. Then something happened suddenly My wife came in the room and she Said as she gave my hair a jerk: “Wake up, you chump, and go to work.”
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The Pendulum of Time
From The Topeka State Journal, February 21, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I remember back in the eighties when Hank Frisby went to school Everybody in the village had him doped out for a fool. Fer he was so gol dum homely, all the critics in the place Said there wasn’t no intelligence or larnin’ in his face. He was tall, rawboned and knockneed and as awkward as a cow And the gals they always passed him by and never smiled nohow. He was bashful and was awkward and he seemed to have no vim And the fellows round the school house always poked their fun at him. Nuthin’ much was said about it when he left our town one day Hardly anybody knowed the fact that he had gone away. Once in a while they’d mention Hank and wonder where he went But nobody ever found out, fer they didn’t care a cent. Nigh a dozen years passed by and then one day a thing occurred And it caused more lively gossip than the town had ever heard. Great big auto came a-tearin’ down the main street with a yank And the feller in the back seat givin’ orders—he was Hank. Hank had been out west and struck a vein of ore both wide and deep And he picked up half a million while our town folks were asleep. When he jumped out of his auto full of vigor and of vim You should have seen the town folks all a toadyin’ to him. He put up a splendid mansion and he wed the village belle And he has his dinner evenin’s—or at least that’s what they tell. He’s mayor now and owns a mill, a railroad and a bank And there’ no one in the village who ain’t mighty proud of Hank.
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Easy
From The Topeka State Journal, February 20, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. It isn’t so hard to be happy And have everything that you need A yacht and a fine automobile Which grinds out a wonderful speed; Fine porterhouse steak every evening And eggs for your breakfast each morn; A fine house and lot in the suburbs And clothes that are not patched and worn A lot of hard coal in the cellar A library full of fine books A houseful of excellent servants Including the finest of cooks A trip to the seashore each summer And Europe whene’r you would go; No, it isn’t so hard to be happy If you’ve got nine millions or so.
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Sauerkraut
From the Evening Star, February 19, 1913. By Walt Mason. Who was it first invented kraut, and put it in a barrel? Some scientist should find it out, and deck his tomb with laurel. For kraut’s a good old honest dish, and when, with eager talons, We throw it in our holds we wish that we could eat three gallons. For sauerkraut’s savory and clean, and not the least corrody And it contains no nicotine, or benjamin of sody. I always give a joyous shout, glad are my feelings inner When grandma says she’ll cook some kraut (with other things) for dinner. And toward the stove, throughout the day, with anxious eyes I’m looking; And neighbors seven miles away all know just what’s a-cooking. The incense that you read about around the dump is gropin’ When granny cooks a mess of kraut and leaves the windows open. I see the neighbors going by, they sniff the sauerkraut boiling, And often I can hear them sigh: “For kraut I’m fairly spoiling!” Ah, sauerkraut is a noble dish, beloved of wise old fogies! And why do foolish people wish their weed in plugs or stogies?