From the Rock Island Argus, February 8, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. There’s a lot of folks who always keep a-growlin’ at the rich; Every man who has a million they’d have put in boilin’ pitch; They will not forgive a person who contrives to get along But I don’t believe that havin’ lots of cash is always wrong. Mind I don’t pretend to argue that the rich are always right; There are lots of men with millions that have souls as black as night; But I’ve studied the thing over, and I guess there’s one thing sure: It’s no sign a man is noble just because he’s keepin’ poor. I’ve a sort of crazy notion that there may be here and there Some rich man who’ll go to heaven and secure a crown to wear For I’ve met some wealthy people as I’ve traveled round about That I don’t believe that heaven can afford to do without. And I’ve got another notion which I’d like to have you know- All the poor may go to heaven; I can’t half believe it, though. There are poor men who are worthy, but I can’t help feelin’ sure That you’ll not get past St. Peter just because you have been poor.
Month: February 2021
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Cyrus Bottsford’s Candid Opinion
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The Indian Rancher
From the Washington Standard, February 7, 1913. My fathers roamed the prairie In the days when men were free, But a hundred and sixty acres Is the home that must do for me; I must master the plow and reaper, Nor look at the winding trails, And thousands there are to jeer me In case the red rancher fails. My fathers dwelt in the open, But I have a stifling shack; I dream of the shining tepees, But the morn brings sharply back The fences that clip one’s freedom— The ranch and the toil that waits— And I say farewell to my fathers When I open the barnyard gates. But visions still overwhelm me In spite of my will to win And the fences and buildings vanish And the village comes trooping in; The tepees gleam in the meadow The children shout by the stream But I wake at the clank of the harness— ’Tis only a red man’s dream!
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Bedouin Love Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 6, 1913. By Bayard Taylor. From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry; I love thee, I love thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! My steps are nightly driven By the fever in my breast, To hear from the lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold!
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When Pa Was My Age
From the Rock Island Argus, February 5, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. When pa was my age he was glad To do just as they told him He never made his parents sad They never had to scold him. He never, never disobeyed Nor punched his little brother And day and night he always made Things pleasant for his mother. When pa was my age he would clean His shoes when they were muddy. He never thought his folks were mean Because they made him study. He always tried his best to be For goodness celebrated And he was praised by all—but, gee! How pa’s degenerated!
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Parcel Postludes
From The San Francisco Call, February 4, 1913. O’er many a weary, aching mile The parcel postman ambled And when he reached our domicile The eggs he brought were scrambled. The hat he left for Mabel, too, Caused her poor heart to flutter; ’Twas saturated through and through With some one’s melted butter. And Brother Bill is tearing hot He doesn’t think it’s funny The socks and ties and shirts he got By mail were smeared with honey. But father’s smile is soft and bland; We all know by that token His snake bite cure, though contraband, Came through the mail unbroken.
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Grand Opry
From The Topeka State Journal, February 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Grand Opry as a form of entertainment can’t be beat. I love to cough up ten good bones and buy myself a seat. To hear some howling tenor from some low-browed foreign land Come forth and yell a lot of stuff that I can’t understand. I simply dote on listenin’ for several mortal hours While them high-priced sopranners exercise their vocal powers. I think I get my money’s worth. Oh yes, of course I do And I am always sorry when the jamboree is through. There’s nothing I like half so well and for a chance to go I’d walk five miles in my bare feet right through the ice and snow. I know what you are thinking, I’ve got your thought wave quite- You’re thinking I’m a liar and I guess you’re thinking right.
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A Wet Sheet and Flowing Sea
From the New York Tribune, February 2, 1913. By A. Cunningham. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While like the eagle free Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for the soft and gentle wind! I hear a fair one cry; But give to me the morning breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my lads, The good ship tight and free— The world of waters is our home And merry men are we. There’s a tempest in yon hornéd moon And lightning in yon cloud But hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashes free— While the hollow oak our palace is Our heritage the sea.
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Zoological Myths
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 1, 1913. Certain creatures oft heard of, pray who ever saw? There’s the camel whose back broke beneath the last straw. There’s the wonderful goose that laid eggs of pure gold, And the bull that got in where the china was sold. There’s the ass that the skin of a lion doth wear, And the wrong pig we frequently get by the ear. The wild horses that never, no never could drag Us somewhere—there’s the cat we let out of the bag. There’s the bird that goes whispering secrets around, Whoever has seen it, whoever has found? There’s the oft-mentioned dog in the manger that stands, And the elephant someone has got on his hands. There’s the ravenous wolf from our doors that we keep, And the wolf that goes round in the clothing of sheep. There’s the nightmare that somebody tells us they’ve had. There’s the cat with nine lives and the March hare that’s mad. And the fox that declared that the high grapes were sour, And the grim dogs of war—it would take quite an hour Just to list all the odd, freakish creatures that we Nearly every day hear of, but never once see.