From the New York Tribune, February 18, 1913. By W. J. Lampton. ’Twas on a January day When fair Toinette O’Keggs Fared forth to market for to buy A dozen new laid eggs. “I want them strictly fresh,” she said, “No other kind for me.” “Well, these are just out,” quoth the man, “You have our guarantee.” So guileless Toinette took the eggs Believing what he said, And when she opened up the box On one of them she read: “Whoever gets this egg please write To John Smith, Waterloo, N. J., and you can bet your life That he will write to you.” Now Toinette’s heart was all agog Her soul was filled with bliss For she had dreamed and dreamed and dreamed Of romance such as this. So when the shades of evening came And all her work was done She wrote a note which truly was A most romantic one. She waited for a month or more Then, when all hope had fled An answer came from John Smith, who In tones of anguish said: “Too late, too late; I’m married now, And I am full of woe; The words you read upon that egg I wrote two years ago.”
Month: February 2021
-
A Fantasy of Fresh Eggs
-
Lovely Mary Donnelly
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 17, 1913. By William Allingham. O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you I love the best! If fifty girls were around you, I’d hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Oh, you’re the flower of womankind, in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, And ask you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress— It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
-
Abou ben Adhem
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 16, 1913. By Leigh Hunt. Abou ben Adhem—may his tribe increase! Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace And saw within the moonlight in his room Making it rich and like a lily in bloom An angel writing in a book of gold Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head And, with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is my name one?” Said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.” The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light And showed the names whom love of God had blessed— And lo, Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!
-
O, Time!
From the Rock Island Argus, February 15, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight! Give me conceit again, just for tonight; Carry me back to the days when I wore Loud clothes and in fact, was a gay sophomore; Smooth from my forehead all traces of care Cover my poll with a thatch of dark hair; Put all the doubts that assail me to sleep Give back the self-love I neglected to keep. Tired of the hollow, the base and untrue. I long to be somewhere around 22, With the boundless conceit that enlivened me then, When I fancied I wielded a masterful pen; When I thought that the things which I wrote were sublime, And was sure that my fame must endure through all time— When I proudly believed that my wisdom was deep And that genius was resting when I went to sleep. Turn backward, O time, for tonight, won’t you please And let me be gladdened by youth’s ecstasies? Permit me to have the cock-sureness of yore That I had when I strutted, a proud sophomore, Believing I knew all a mortal might know And sure I was chosen to lead here below; Oh put all the doubts that perplex me to sleep, Give back the conceit I’ve neglected to keep.
-
Ballad of the Game’s Break
From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913. By Grantland Rice. The grey wind sings its song of hate— The white snow leads a spectral dance; We seek—but find no Open Gate Through which to make a last advance; Lost—on the Threshold of Romance— But not as heroes come to die— Just say for us—they took a chance And lost—without an alibi. The dusk grows deeper where we wait And homeward speed one final glance— ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate— The luck which broke us—lance by lance; Around us creep the endless trance Of silent heart and sightless eye— ’Tis but our score—we took a chance And lost—without an alibi. So, Scorer of the Final Slate— Last Marker of each circumstance— When at the Road’s end, soon or late, We stand before the mystic manse— Across the limitless expanse This is enough—from hell to sky— If you should write—“He took a chance And lost—without an alibi.”
-
An Opinion From Punkin Hollow
From the Rock Island Argus, February 13, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. There’s always something goin’ on to make the cowards quake with dread And set around and talk about the dangers that are on ahead; I’ll bet you that when Caesar fell the folks who kept the stores in Rome Expected that the mobs would rise to drive them out of house and home; But things kept goin’ right along, the old world never swerved a jot And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot. When Cromwell got his dander up and went to knockin’ things about I’ll bet that lots of folks supposed the world was goin’ up the spout; The radicals, I s’pose, were blamed for recklessly destroyin’ trade And probably wild howls went up for all the changes that were made. But England didn’t go to smash. In fact the rip-up helped a lot, And in a little while the crowds went back to workin’ and forgot. It’s always been the same old cry. We hear it every now and then; Some man that ain’t afraid steps out and does things for his fellow men. And they throw up their hands and say, because his way is strange or new, That he has knocked the bottom out and things will soon be fallin’ through. But gener’ly it happens that what needs upsettin’ gets upsot, And when the crowds get back to work the whole affair is soon forgot.
-
Big Game Hunters
From The Tacoma Times, February 12, 1913. By Berton Braley. We are looking, we are looking for the Masters of Finance, And it’s no use fleeing from us as we dauntlessly advance With a summons and subpoena and a warrant in our hand And with double-barreled questions and an air of stern command; We are trailing wily captains of the wicked system camp And the malefactors tremble when they hear our sturdy tramp; There are men of mighty millions who were never known to quail Till they heard us stepping softly as we hit upon their trail. Let the Wall Street powers thunder, we are not a bit afraid, We’re the bravest little hunters that you ever saw arrayed. We’ve been probing, poking, peeking through the jungle where they roam The fierce and savage monsters who are feared in every home; And when we’ve got ‘em captured through our skill and courage high We’ll put ‘em on the witness stand and make ‘em testify. We’re out for big game hunting—there’s a lot upon our list And when at last we’ve got ‘em, WE SHALL SLAP ‘EM ON THE WRIST!
-
When I Left School
From the Bisbee Daily Review, February 11, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I remember, I remember the day that I quit school I got a nice diploma for minding every rule. I was the wisest mortal who ever left the place There was no person like me in all the human race. I had old Homer faded and Solomon as well The real reach of my knowledge would take too long to tell. And I was downright sorry. It really seemed a shame That I should have to go out and teach the world its game. For I was tenderhearted and couldn’t bear to see The looks of jealous anger when people heard of me. The teacher, to assure me, was kind enough to say The other folks would manage to get along some way. I couldn’t quite believe him. You see that was before I’d taken my first toddle outside the college door. Then I set forth to conquer the poor old easy world With wind and weather charming and every sail unfurled. ’Twas several long years ago, how many I forget But still I don’t mind ownin’ the world ain’t conquered yet. I remember, I remember the day that I quit school; Since then I have been learnin’ how not to be a fool.
-
His Day of Triumph
From the Rock Island Argus, February 10, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. He left her at the gate, one day Because his plea she had denied; But as he turned to go his way His breast, though sad, was filled with pride. “Some time,” he said, “you shall regret; Some time the world shall grant me fame Upon a height my goal is set And well won honors I will claim.” She merely smiled and let him go. He went out in the world to strive. Though fortune dealt him many a blow He bravely kept his hopes alive. He toiled for years with all his might And thought of her and of his vow His goal still gleaming on the height And deep lines forming on his brow. At last his day of triumph came. He was rewarded with success; The world accorded him the fame Which he had sworn he would possess; Through ceaseless efforts he had won The crown of honor for his own; For splendid things which he had done His name o’er all the land was known. Then, having played a splendid part He turned from where his goal was set And started back to break her heart To overwhelm her with regret. He found her, but unhappily Discovered that she did not care. The crown of fame was his, but she Was married to a millionaire.
-
The Flow of the River
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 9, 1913. By Dr. W. E. Evans. I have followed the flow of the river From the springs and the rills, where at first Through the grasses and ferns all entangled As a stream into sunlight is burst; I have followed its devious windings ‘Neath the bending of boughs interlaced And have marked how it deepened and widened As its course to the ocean was traced: And so wide and so deep is the river As it surges and flows to the sea That the springs and the rills are forgotten— E’en the place where it first came to be. I had often o’erbounded the river, With a sportive and boyishlike pride But today only line as of shadow Marks the far away opposite side. We were children, and stood by the river, Then a narrow and silvery band— I suggested we follow the water While we held one another by hand: Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered By the banks of the musical stream As it tinkled, and murmured, and cadenced Like the mystical tones in a dream: Ah, the day was so fair! I remember It was early in blossoming June And the soft vernal zephyrs were fragrant— All the world with its God was in tune! And I loved her—as man loves a woman— Not as boys often love and forget; I was old for my years and was thoughtful And I fancied she loved me, and yet— Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered As we each kept an opposite side— Loosing hands just a little-by-little Where the water was swifter and wide; Till at last only tips of the fingers Could be touched—then the hands idly fell And she merrily said as we parted— “We shall meet nevermore,” and “Farewell!” O, the long, lonesome walk by the margin! O, the piteous call to return To the spot where the stream had beginning ‘Mid the grass, and the vine, and the fern! But away in the distance she faded— Where the river drops into the sea And dividing us rolled the wide waters Leaving memory and heartache to me.