From The San Francisco Call, April 20, 1913. By Lester J. Skidmore. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you. You’ve been a friend And joy to me; And now we must Part company. Yes, from the day I purchased you, You’ve never pinched like Some shoes do. Just like a glove You’ve fit my feet, And you were ever— Ever neat. You were quite dressy In your day, And on the street cut Quite a sway. And when your shape And beauty, too, Which I once prized, Deserted you, I clung to you most Faithfully, For you had been So kind to me. So many miles You’ve led the way And held your own, too, Day by day. A man’s best friend, None can deny. It breaks my heart To say goodbye. Farewell, old shoes! Though greatly I’ve abused you, I really get the blues To think I have to lose you.
Month: April 2021
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Farewell, Old Shoes
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The Unrealized
From the Evening Star, April 19, 1913. By Philander Johnson. They say our legislature Is going to find a way To conquer human nature And drive its faults away; To shield us from oppression— Although with some regret We note this sad confession: It never happened yet. Mankind has ever striven For sweet Perfection’s state. All power has been given To kings and princes great. On soldiers, saints and others Its hopes the world has set To make men dwell as brothers; It never happened yet.
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The Handy Man
From The Topeka State Journal, April 18, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Bill Simms was quite a handy man at any sort of trick, Could tinker up a balky watch or fix a windmill quick. Could whittle fancy ornaments or doctor up a calf, Or shoe a horse with lightnin’ speed or run a phonograph. An artist too with chalk or brush quite wonderful was he. The only thing Bill couldn’t draw was just a salary. Bill Simms could make a dandy churn that surely did the work. Could build an automobile that would run without a jerk. Could make a set of bobsleighs that would always run as slick as grease. Could cut a pair of trousers that would always hold their crease. But one thing that Bill couldn’t make at all to save his life— He couldn’t make a livin’ fer himself and kids and wife. Bill Simms could play the violin and almost any horn, Could imitate each bird or beast that ever had been born. The folks kept him busy doin’ odd jobs and all sich. He had no time to settle down in order to get rich. His neighbors all asked favors and he never turned one down; And Bill spent his declinin’ years in livin’ on the town.
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Around the Corner
From the Evening Star, April 16, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Just around the corner there is music soft and sweet; The sunbeams on a holiday go dancing down the street. You see a path where blossoms bend to greet you on your way Through the misty lanes of April to the splendors of the May. Though the sullen shadows linger you can sing a little song While you’re trudging on your journey, which will not be very long. Just around the corner skies are smiling warm and blue— The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue. There the butterflies are neighbors and the honeybees are friends, And the wind is sighing comfort where the weeping willow bends. The clumsy tortoise plods along, nor cares where he may roam, And when he’s scared or weary shuts his shell and calls it home. The grasses wave in billows like the flowing of the sea, And the birds are busy nesting, way up yonder in the tree; They are just around the corner, ‘mongst the perfumes and the dew, The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue.
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Occupation Provided
From the Evening Star, April 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Whenever Jabez Jones takes hold Of anything at all We find he cannot be controlled In matters great or small. He hollers and he waves his hands And sometimes he gets cross While issuing his loud commands. He has to be the boss. He isn’t much at chopping wood Nor with a rake or hoe. His judgement isn’t very good And his results are slow. But time is precious. It is clear We shouldn’t risk its loss. So long as he can’t interfere, We just let Jabez boss.
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Three Souls
From the Omaha Daily Bee, April 14, 1913. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Three souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate, And gained permission of the guard to wait. Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin, They did not ask, or hope, to enter in. “We loved one woman,” (thus their story ran); “We lost her, for she chose another man. So great our love, it brought us to this door; We only ask to see her face once more. Then will we go to realms where we belong, And pay our penalty for doing wrong.” “And were thou friends on earth?” (The Guard spake thus), “Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us. The dominating thought within each Soul Brought us together, comrades, to this goal, To see her face, and in its radiance bask For one great moment—that is all we ask. And, having seen her, we must journey back The path we came—a hard and dangerous track.” “Wait, then,” the Angel said, “beside me here, But do not strive within God’s gate to peer Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.” They waited year on year. Then, like a flame, News of the woman’s death from earth-land came. The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise. The well-beloved face in vain they sought, Until one day, the Guardian Angel brought A message to them. “She has gone,” he said, “Down to the lower regions of the dead; Her chosen mate went first; so great her love She has resigned the joys that wait above To dwell with him, until perchance some day, Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.” Silent, the lovers turned. The pitying Guard Said: “Stay” (the while his hand the door unbarred), “There waits for thee no darker grief or woe; Enter the Gates, and all God’s glories know, But to be ready for so great a bliss, Pause for a moment and take heed of this: The dearest treasure by each mortal lost Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed, And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place The shining wonder of her worshipped face. All that is past is but a troubled dream; Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.” Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate, Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.
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Pipe Song
From the New York Tribune, April 13, 1913. By Herbert Kaufman. A fig for your flagons of sour old wine! Let others seeks solace in beer— I don’t give a slam for the joys of the dram, It brings me no comfort nor cheer! I’ve no sorrows to drown, I am free from care’s frown, My morrows with promise are ripe, I don’t need a thing, I’m as good as a king, So long as I puff on my pipe. Just give me my pipe and a well laden pouch, And leave me alone with myself; I have more than enough while I sit here and puff, And forget about passions and pelf. You may toast as you please to the ladies who tease, And fuddle your senses with wine; But I know of no bliss that is equal to this— I’m content with this old pipe of mine.
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The Food Cure
From The Topeka State Journal, April 12, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Abijah Binks was noted for his great array of wealth; In fact he had most everything excepting perfect health. Long years ago the doctors said that he was doomed to die, And nothing seemed to do him good, no matter what he’d try. He left off eating anything excepting breakfast food, He never tackled corn beef hash or anything so rude. A pancake made him turn away in horror and disgust; To starve himself to death to live, it seemed Abijah must. His liver was all out of whack, his nerves were all askew, Dyspepsia racked his feeble frame, no matter what he’d do. He tried mud baths and went abroad to take a famous cure, But still he kept on fading in a manner slow but sure. He licked up patent medicines for twenty years or more, Until he felt just like he was a corner druggist’s store. He ate so much digested food, he often used to say He somehow felt that he was just a walking bale of hay. With all his wealth, life held but naught for this old man forlorn; He often wished that he was dead or never had been born. One melancholy day he thought his own life he would take; His suicide should come about by eating sirloin steak. He ate a nice big juicy one and laid him down to die, But got up feeling quite refreshed, and then he tackled pie. The pie refused to take him off, and in a frenzied mood He ate a can of pork and beans and quit his breakfast food. For seven weeks, he tried and tried to kill himself that way; He kept on growing heavier and each succeeding day He took a dose of hardy food that was a little worse; But even sauerkraut and pickled tripe refused to call the hearse. At last he gave up in despair for he was growing fat. He kept on eating fiendish things and then decided that If he must live, he’d do it right and eat whatever he liked, And seven doctors gave him up and packed their kits and hiked. This happened many years ago, and Bige is eighty-one, And feels just like a frisky kid whose life has but begun.
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The Happy Time
From the Rock Island Argus, April 11, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. The man who cannot rest today, But says he will tomorrow, Finds, when his work is cleared away, New tasks or sits in sorrow. The merry time, the happy time, The blissful day in view Is never gained by them that wait To triumph and to celebrate, With nothing more to do. The man who folds his hands today And contemplates with sorrow The pressing task that’s put away Unfinished ’til tomorrow Has neither rest of heart nor mind, For he that looks ahead To duties long delayed destroys The sweetest of sweet leisure’s joys, But borrows doubt and dread. The man who mixes work and play At present and tomorrow Keeps life’s poor little ills away And finds new cares to borrow. The merry time, the happy time, The blissful day in view Is every day for him whose hand Is turned each day to fair deeds and Who plays in reason too.
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The Crew
From The Seattle Star, April 10, 1913. It’s pleasant on the upper deck Where ocean breezes blow To lazy in a steamer chair And watch the waves that flow; It’s pleasant on the upper deck, But mighty hot below. There’s fun upon the upper deck There’s mirth and laughter free, There’s music on the upper deck As gay as it can be. But it’s the boilers down below That drives her through the sea. It’s fine upon the upper deck While downward, near the keel, The blaze will make you nearly blind, The heat will make you reel. But we’re the boys who make the steam That drives the shaft of steel. The people on the upper deck, They only pays their way; We stokers in the boiler room, We envies such as they. But we—we drives the bloomin’ ship, While they—they only play! There always is an upper deck And boilers down below, And them that’s on the upper deck, They think they’re all the show. But it’s the fellows near the keel That makes the vessel go.