From the Evening Star, April 9, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Spite of all the churlish chatter It is quite a serious matter To become a proper guardian of the peace. You must have a disposition That would fit you for a mission To Turkey or the Balkans or to Greece. You must treat the children kindly, And when people jostle blindly At a crowded crossing ‘mid the dust and noise, You must grab a perfect stranger And convey him out of danger In a way that won’t disturb his equipoise. You must learn the regulations, And likewise the laws of nations, To avoid the chance of diplomatic jar. You must listen uncomplaining, All your sense of mirth restraining, While they come to tell you what their troubles are. You should have a fund of knowledge More than could be learned at college, To assist each weary wanderer in distress. And your compensation should be All a bank director’s could be— Though I fancy it’s considerably less.
Month: April 2021
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The Policeman
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Curtain
From The Tacoma Times, April 8, 1913. By Berton Braley. And so we part in friendship, yes, With neither pain or bitterness. And, unbewitched, we plainly see The meaning of our comedy; Yet this we know—and knowing, smile, At least we loved a little while! The vows we made, the faith we swore, To love—and love forevermore, Are quite forgot; we turn and go Certain that it is better so, Yet, though Romance cannot beguile, At least we loved a little while. Because you loved me, I have known A world I could not find alone. And from my love you did not gain A glimpse of palaces in Spain. What if we missed the Blissful Isle? At least we loved a little while. Good-bye—upon your brow I press The kiss of faithful friendliness. For, though we part from sorrow free, We lived a space in Arcady, And we can whisper, with a smile, “At least we loved a little while!”
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The Schoolteacher
From The Seattle Star, April 7, 1913. By Berton Braley. She’s much more important than presidents are Or other officials of state; In HER hands is power to make or to mar Our national future and fate; The men of tomorrow are hers for today To counsel and pilot and guide. With patience and love she will show them the way To lives that are worthy of pride. She is molding the thoughts of the girls and the boys To whom we must leave our tomorrows; She learns of their every-day pleasures and joys And shares in their pains and their sorrows; The youth of the country is put in her care To learn of the way they should go; She gives them her best—and a little to spare Which only the children can know. We know how she works and how nobly she serves With all of her soul and her heart, Devoting her strength and her health and her nerves To playing her excellent part, And so it’s our pleasure and even our boast The way we are paying our debts, Since we give her a salary equal (almost) To that which the janitor gets.
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The Fighting Blood
From The Washington Herald, April 6, 1913. By C. P. McDonald. Into the maelstrom of Rosy Thoughts and into the Valley of Dreams He entered, a youth with a happy heart, to follow life’s rainbow gleams; Ever and ever he looked ahead toward the glare of the beckoning heights, Toiling and moiling through days of hope far into the fathomless nights; Alert to the precepts of stern success that thrive in the hearts of men, Crushed to the earth by the iron hand of fate he would rise again. Bruised by adversity, goaded by chance, each day he would grimly smite, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in an uphill fight! Courage was his as he carved his path sans cheers of his fellow men, Stemming his way through each turbulent day that closed but to dawn again; Shoulder to shoulder with mutable luck, undaunted by jests and jeers, He carried his cross with a patience born of failure throughout the years; Building his castles and seeing them fall, he builded anew and smiled; Sounding the depths of his pluck, he knew with faith he was reconciled. Some day achievement all-infinite would dazzle and blind his sight, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a fearless fight! Year after year as his fathers forged, he struggled and staggered on, Over the path of the countless throngs where his sanctified betters had gone; Out of the smoke of each battle fought emerging to war anew, For the things they had done and the conquests won were naught to the deeds he’d do! What of the failures of yesteryear, the wrecks of a long dead day? Should they serve to swerve him and keep him back from the strife of an endless fray? Heaven forfend! He would strive to the end with the last of his curtailed might! For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a losing fight!
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Reflections of a Bachelor Girl
From The Washington Times, April 5, 1913. To wed or not to wed, that is the question. Whether ’tis better, after all, to marry And be cajoled and bullied by a husband, Or to take up stenography or clerking, And slave, alas! for SOME ONE ELSE’S husband? To love—to wed—and by a wedding end The struggles and the thousand petty cares That “slaves” are heir to—’tis a rare vocation Devoutly to be wished for! To love—to wed— To wed—perchance DIVORCE! Aye, there’s the rub! For in that dream of bliss what jolts may come When we have cast aside our little jobs, Must make us wary. There’s the sorry thought That makes so many spinsters hesitate; For who would bear the long, eternal grind, Th’ employer’s jokes, the chief clerk’s contumely, The insolence of office boys, the smoke Of last week’s stogies clinging to the hair, When she herself might quickly end it all By GETTING MARRIED? Who would not exchange A dingy office for a kitchenette— A keyboard for a cook stove or a cradle— But that the dread of something worse to come After the honeymoon—that life of CHANCE From whose dark bourne so many have returned By way of Reno—fills us with dismay, And makes us rather bear the jobs we have Than fly to evils that we know not of? Thus cowardice makes spinsters of—so many!
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The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 4, 1913. By Thomas Moore. The time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman’s eyes Has been my heart’s undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought me I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me. Her smile when beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft met in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, beauty won me But while her eyes were on me If once their ray Was turned away Oh! Winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! The endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.
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Hypnotism
From The Topeka State Journal, April 3, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. He fell upon his bended knees And said: “Oh Agnes, wed me please.” He told her that she was his queen The grandest gal he’d ever seen That no one had no eyes like her’n— At least so fur as he could learn. He said he’d never seen so rare And gorgeous a display of hair. He said her figger was immense And hoped she wouldn’t take offense Because he mentioned such a thing, For of it poets often sing. He said he’d traveled all around And never had he heard a sound So musical as was her voice. She was his one and only choice. He’d give her all he had to give, Without her he could never live. No friend was by, his speech to stay. He wound up in the usual way. She gave to him her maiden heart— It was a cinch right from the start. For, while she let him have his say, He had no chance to get away. She had him lashed right to the mast And tied and shackled hard and fast. He didn’t know what he had said, He simply knew that they were wed; And when to breakfast she came down, Years later in an old house gown, Without a sign of curl or rat, And ready for the daily spat, He wondered how in thunder she Could have inspired the ecstasy Upon that great momentous night On which he made and won his fight. And then it percolates his brain As it has done time and again That she just had him hypnotized Until he raved and idolized.
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The Washer Woman’s Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 2, 1913. By Tronquill. In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope; Working, singing all alone, In a sort of undertone, “With a savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” Sometimes happening along, I had heard the semisong, And I often used to smile More in sympathy than guile; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard, As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. Not in sorrow nor in glee, Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long, “With the savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” It’s a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she, Just as poor as poor could be, But her spirit always rose Like the bubbles in the clothes. And, though widowed and alone, Cheered with the monotone, Of a Savior and a friend, Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub On the washboard in the tub, While the baby sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools With old scissors stuck in spools, She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I would not wish to strip From that washer woman’s lip Any song that she can sing, Any hope that song can bring. For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end.
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Consistency
From The Tacoma Times, April 1, 1913. By Berton Braley. He raved at women’s folly In following the fads, Declared, with melancholy, His money went in scads To sate his wifie’s passion For shoes and hats and those Materials of fashion Like lingerie and hose. At corsets he was sneering, At powder and at paint, Tight shoes would set him jeering With words not few or faint; He laughed at bogus tresses; He scorned the hobble skirt, Condemning women’s dresses With vim and vigor curt. So wifie dressed one morning To please her hubby’s taste, All artifices scorning, Uncorseted her waist; Her shoes of size most ample (A hygienic last) She meant, she said, to trample Her follies of the past. Her nose was free from powder, Her hair was all her own, Yet far from feeling prouder At how her sense had grown, Her husband bellowed, “Woman, You look a perfect fright; Go dress like something human; You surely are a sight!”