From The Washington Herald, March 21, 1913. By John A. Joyce. God is near upon the ocean God is near upon the land; He is all both rest and motion; We are only grains of sand— Little mites upon life’s billow, May flies buzzing out the hour, Dreams upon a fevered pillow, Dew drops on a withered flower, Only waiting for tomorrow That has never come to man Here we live in joy and sorrow, Chasing phantoms as we can, Chasing pleasure, chasing greatness Over tangled walks and waves, But we learn the bitter lateness Just before we find our graves. Hope is nigh with fairy fingers, Tracing sunbeams on the way; Magic memory ever lingers, Busy with bygone day; Life and death are but the portals To a realm of endless rest, God is working through his mortals, All in some way shall be blessed!
Month: March 2021
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God is Near!
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Do It Now
From The Seattle Star, March 20, 1913. By Berton Braley. If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing, If you like him or you love him, tell him now! Don’t withhold your approbation till the parson makes oration As he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow; For, no matter how you shout it he won’t really care about it, He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed. If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead! More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny And the hearty, warm approval of a friend. For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver, And it gives you heart and spirit to the end; If he earns your praise—bestow it; if you like him, let him know it; Let the words of true encouragement be said. Do not wait till life is over and he’s underneath the clover, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead!
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The World’s Great Want
From the Rock Island Argus, March 19, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. They are trying to arrange it so that man may safely fly; They are trying to learn more about the stars up in the sky; They are digging up old ruins so that each of us may know What people did for pleasure and for profit long ago; Here and there is some one trying to revive the love of art, Here and there some poet bravely sings a song that’s from the heart. But away with art and science and the Babylonian brick, What we want is some sure way in which to Get Rich Quick. Men are fighting still for freedom, fighting still to have the right To address their God unhindered when they kneel to pray at night; They are chafing ‘neath oppression as their fathers did before, They are tugging at the fetters which their luckless parents wore; Here and there some man arises and attempts to let us know How to make fair peace forever the sweet mistress here below, But we have no time to bother over such affairs; we stick To the hope of finding ways in which to Get Rich Quick. The preachers keep on preaching of the glories over there Where the boodlers cease from troubling and the prospects all are fair; The anxious, eager doctors keep on striving to defy Grim Nature and arrange it so that people needn’t die; But away with all the dreamers and the foolish ones who preach. Who cares what the stars are made of, or what ancient tablets teach? We are looking for the hero who will show us all the trick, Who will kindly point the way in which to Get Rich Quick.
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The Cost of Living
From the Rock Island Argus, March 18, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. “Man wants but little here below”—once that perhaps was true; I have no right to think I know, no more, indeed have you; Man may have once been satisfied to skimp along somehow, But it is not to be denied that much is needed now. There was a time when eggs were not quite worth their weight in gold, When bacon did not cost a lot and steaks were cheaply sold. When beans and bread and milk and cheese had not, in fact, obtained A place among the luxuries from which the poor abstained. Man needs a fortune here below to live in comfort now; No wonder that the wrinkles show so plainly on his brow; He has to have a lot to drive starvation from his door, And month by month they still contrive to keep him needing more.
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The Bowlers
From The Tacoma Times, March 17, 1913. By Berton Braley. We started in at half-past two To roll for “just a little while,” As bowlers very often do, An idle moment to beguile; At three o’clock I said, “Let’s quit.” (I’d won in nearly every frame.) My comrade answered, “Nixy. Nit! Come on, let’s roll just One More Game!” And then we bowled along till four. My friend by that time, forged ahead. “Aw, say!” he murmured, “It’s a bore. Let’s cut it out and quit,” he said. But no, it was my turn to shout, And so I made my boastful claim: “Give me a chance! I’ll beat you out, Come on—let’s roll just one more game.” We rolled and rolled and rolled and rolled And then we rolled and rolled again. At home our dinners both grew cold; We rolled till nine, till half past ten; We rolled until the dawn grew gray And searching parties for us came; We shrieked as we were dragged away, “Come on, let’s roll just ONE MORE GAME.”
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Wearin’ of the Green
From the Evening Star, March 16, 1913. Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear The news that’s going round? The shamrock is forbid by law To grow on Irish ground. And Saint Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep, His color can’t be seen; For there’s a bloody law against The wearin’ of the green. I met with Napper Tandy, And he took me by the hand, And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, And how does she stand?” She's the most distressful country That ever you have seen; They’re hanging men and women there For wearin’ of the green. Then since the color we must wear Is England’s cruel red, Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget The blood that they have shed. You may take the shamrock from your hat, And cast it on the sod; But ’twill take root and flourish still, Tho’ under foot ’tis trod. When the law can stop the blades of grass From growing as they grow, And when the leaves in summertime Their verdure dare not show, Then I will change the color I wear in my corbeen; But till that day, please God, I’ll stick To wearin’ of the green. But if at last our color should Be torn from Ireland’s heart, Her sons with shame and sorrow From the dear old soil will part. I’ve heard whisper of a country That lies far beyond the say, Where rich and poor stand equal in The light of freedom’s day. Oh, Erin, must we leave you? Driven by the tyrant’s hand, Must we ask a mother’s welcome From a strange but happier land, Where the cruel cross of England’s thralldom Never shall be seen, And where, thank God, we’ll live and die Still wearin’ of the green?
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Not a Cent
From The Topeka State Journal, March 15, 1913. By Thomas F. Porter. Happy is the man who is content With moderate wealth and store; Unhappy he whose mind is bent On ever gaining more. The road of endless greed is long, The journey dark and rough; So he but does himself a wrong Who seeks more than enough; For, with the piling up of wealth, There comes the added care, That when shall fail his strength and health, Will every joy impair. And yet on one the habit grows To dig, to drudge, to save; And ere a mortal hardly knows His call comes from the grave. Then people wonder and surmise, When he has passed from earth; And some are startled with surprise When told what he was worth. For, when his will is read, they find, Whate’er his heart’s intent, All that he had he left behind, Nor took with him a cent.
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Arcadia
From The Topeka State Journal, March 14, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. I don’t want to live in Arcadia, Quite willingly I confess; The realm that the poets rave about, The kingdom of happiness; Where all is serene as a morn in Spring, Birds singing in every tree. There must be a catch in the thing somewhere. It doesn’t look good to me. The work in Arcadia is a cinch; They watch the sheep all day, And when they need music to while the time They hunt up their flutes and play. They work on a very peculiar plan. The salaries there are nil. No one ever saw an Arcadian Who had a two dollar bill. They wear sheepskin togas so very brief They reach only to the knees, And caper about in a care-free way No matter how chill the breeze. There’s nothing but happiness in that land With the proletariat, But I couldn’t ever be happy enough To dress in a rig like that. The life in Arcadia listens tame With no moving picture show, And never a single league bowling game, And never a chance to go And see a good circus and eat peanuts Or laugh at the chimpanzee. There may be pure joy in Arcadia, But this town looks good to me.
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Business Amenities
From The Topeka State Journal, March 13, 1913. Farmer to claim agent: A cow of mine stood on your track About a week ago, And now old Bessy’s in the land Where all good bovines go. Your engine poked her in the ribs And left her stiff and still; You bought old Bessy then and there, So kindly pay the bill. Claim agent to farmer: Old Bessy never should have stood Upon the railroad track; You cannot blame old Twenty-Four For hitting her a crack. We didn’t drive old Bessy there, It’s not our fault she died, So bury her and mark the grave: “A bovine suicide.”
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The Old Home Yonder
From the Rock Island Argus, March 12, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. We hurry through the busy days, We that within the cities dwell, And, having won a little praise For toiling hard or planning well, Turn homeward with a pride that dies Before another day has dawned And we again pursue the prize That always lies so far beyond. We have our little triumphs who Among the eager thousands strive; Each busy day brings something new To keep our feeble hopes alive, But sweeter than the fairest gains The cities yield us are the joys That come in dreams of country lanes Down which we strolled when we were boys. We nurse ambitions that are fair, And struggle on to win renown, But when the day ends with its care, We still dream of the little town Or of the orchard where the breeze Once stirred the fragrant buds in May; We keep the sweet old memories, It matters not how far we stray.