From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 21, 1913. By Tennyson. Sunset and evening star And one clear call for me, And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a tide, as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark, And may there be no sadness or farewell When I embark. For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
Month: May 2021
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Crossing the Bar
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The Tramp
From the Evening Star, May 20, 1913.
By Walt Mason.He’s idle, unsteady, and everyone’s ready to throw him a dornick or give him a biff; he’s always in tatters, but little it matters; he’s evermore happy, so what is the diff? He carries no sorrow, no care for tomorrow, his roof is the heaven, his couch is the soil; no sighing or weeping breaks in on his sleeping, no bell in the morning shall call him to toil. As free as the breezes he goes where he pleases, no rude overseer to boss him around; his joys do not whither, he goes yon and hither, till dead in a haystack or ditch he is found. The joys of such freedom—no sane man can need ‘em! Far better to toil for the kids and the wife, till muscles are aching and collarbone breaking, than selfishly follow the vagabond life. One laborer toiling is worth the whole boiling of idlers and tramps of whatever degree; and though we all know it we don’t find a poet embalming the fact as embalmed it should be. The poets will chortle about the blithe mortal who wanders the highways and sleeps in the hay, but who sings the toiler, the sweet spangled moiler, who raises ten kids on a dollar a day?
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At Last
From The Topeka State Journal, May 19, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. In eighteen hundred and twenty when Jim Purdy was nineteen, He wrote a comic story for a well known magazine. The story was accepted by the editor and when Jim Purdy got the news he was the happiest of men. He thought of course his story would within a month appear, But strange to say it didn’t get in print at all that year. Ten years he waited, then he wrote quite anxiously to learn The reason, and they told him that his yarn must wait its turn. He called upon the editor along in sixty-nine, And was informed his story was still waiting in the line. He asked for information as to when it might appear. They told him that it might perhaps, come out most any year. Jim Purdy waited patiently and lost his teeth and hair And bought each issue hoping he would find his story there. He talked about it all day long and dreamed of it at night; His great-grandchildren’s children could not understand him quite. One day the mail man brought a check. Old Jim pricked up his ears. ’Twas what he had been waiting for nigh on to ninety years. That week was sure a lucky one. The magazine came too; He trembled with excitement as he looked its pages through. His one hundred and seven years all seemed to leave him when He let a warwhoop out which seemed to make him young again. “I’ll write some more,” he cackled, as he quite forgot the past. “I’ve lived to see the thing in print. They’ve published it at last.”
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San Francisco
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 18, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. A pall hung over the broad blue bay; In smoking ruins the city lay— The splendid city so bravely planned— And Horror hastened from land to land And Sorrow’s sign was on every door For the far-famed city that was no more. And tearful men to their brethren said: “Its glory is gone and its greatness dead; Its marble halls and its stately homes Its towering walls and its lofty domes Its well-won pride and its careless glee Forever and ever have ceased to be!” But another city has risen there; They have made it great, they have made it fair; Its wharves have called to the wide world’s fleets And traffic roars through its crowded streets; Still glorified by the old romance It grieves no more o’er its sad mischance. They have left no trace on the flame-swept hills Of the twisted beams and the blackened sills, And over the haunts where vice was bred The glittering roofs of trade are spread; With matchless courage and splendid zeal They have made a marvel of stone and steel. They have planned with hope, they have wrought with pride And the spirit lives that men thought had died And they who were stricken so sorely dwell In a fairer city than that which fell And all that was lost in that day of despair They have bravely reclaimed and glorified there. The high hills gleam that were desolate And riches stream through the Golden Gate; A splendid city superbly planned Sends forth her greeting to every land, And fleets are sailing from every shore To the far-famed city that grieves no more.
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My Pa
From the Rock Island Argus, May 17, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. My pa is not a millionaire, He’s never been elected yet To any office anywhere, There’s lots of things that we can’t get; Ma often wishes we could buy The costly things the neighbors do; The price of livin’ is so high We have to skimp and worry through. I guess my pa was never meant To be a leader in the strife; Ma says he’ll not be president Nor get ahead much in this life. But he can make a whistle, though Just from a piece of willow tree; I wish that you could see the bow And arrow that he fixed for me. My pa gets paid so much a week Because he doesn’t own a store; Ma says if he was not so meek And mild he might be drawin’ more. We have no car nor runabout And nearly always have to save; Ma’s heart is often full of doubt, But pa keeps hopin’ and is brave. Sometimes I help him in the yard When he comes home on Saturdays; I’m sorry he must work so hard And wish that he could get a raise; Most all the time ma needs a lot Of things we can’t afford, and which The neighbors nearly all have got Because they managed to get rich. My pa sometimes takes me away Out in the country for fresh air; We build dams in the streams and play That both of us are boys, out there; Ma says that pa, long, long ago Just got to be a mere machine; I wouldn’t want to trade him, though For any pa I’ve ever seen.
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Would It Not Be Well?
From the Rock Island Argus, May 16, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. We speak in accents kind and fair Concerning those who have departed; We praise the ones who travel where The shoreless seas are all uncharted. Oh, it is well that we should raise Our voices in a grand, sweet chorus And passing o’er their foibles, praise The worth of them that go before us. But would it not be better still If men might sometimes gladly hear us Give forth expressions of goodwill And kindness while they lingered near us? ’Tis well to praise the dead, to be Respectful to them and forgiving; But would it not be good if we More often spoke well of the living?
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The Missing Flowers
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, May 15, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. There was a little woman flower Sweeter far than all The violets and the daffodils That come at Springtime’s call. All the blossoms loved her, Even the happy birds; They piped their little hearts to her Because they had no words. ’Tis spring again. The skies are blue; Blossoms and birds I see But the little flower maiden— Oh tell me where is she! The sorrowing Wind low-answered: “Flower, and bird, and fern, And in the year, the autumn leaf— They only may return.” “’Tis true, tis true, O Wind,” I sighed, “Tis bitter, too, alack: In life what we love most and lose Can nevermore come back.”
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Blessed Damozels
From the Evening Star, May 14, 1913.
By Walt Mason.Full soon the sweet girl graduates in white attire will rise, and tell, in forty-seven states, where Italy now lies. The beauteous maidens of the land, the bold, aspiring youths, on platforms flower-bedecked will stand and hand us vital truths. Life seems to them an easy thing; a banner’s all they need; a motto in the air to fling, so he who runs may read. A watchword couched in ancient Greek will smooth the road to fame; ah, me, when roses tint the cheek, life seems an easy game! But mark these women old and worn, who, at commencement time, gaze on the festival and mourn—their presence seems a crime! They found this life a harder road than e’er they dreamed it was, with more of whip and spur and goad than of the world’s applause. There is a shadow on each brow, stilled is their buoyant song; their eyes are weak and faded now, for they have wept so long. They’re bent from bearing heavy weights, from toiling day and night; they once were sweet girl graduates, serene in snowy white. “Beyond the Alps,” we heard them say, high purpose in their eyes, upon a bygone happy day, “the land Italian lies!” Life leads through tangled wilderness, and not through bosky dells, but who’d discourage or distress the Blessed Damozels?
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Homely Recipe
From the Evening Star, May 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. When you’re feelin’ kind o’ lonely An’ you’re gettin’ sort o’ blue An’ you think that life is only A great blunder through an’ through Don’t rely on publications Full o’ philosophic dreams Or on novels or orations Built on socialistic schemes. If you’re threatened with “conniptions” Of a violence intense Just obtain a few prescriptions From old Doctor Commonsense. He’ll advise a little laughter, Just as much as life can spare To be followed quickly after With some sunshine and fresh air.
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The Lonely Little Boy
From the Rock Island Argus, May 12, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. The little boy whom you forget To play with when the days are fair The child whose hopes are sinless yet Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer Will soon leave off his childish ways And learn the things that men must learn; Why do you waste the precious days That never, never can return? You never lead him by the hand Nor make his little joys your own Ambition sends you her command And he is left to play alone; He never climbs upon your knee Delighted at the long day’s end To find that you have time to be His fond and sympathetic friend. You never can afford to waste A precious hour arousing him The prizes after which you haste Are always far away and dim; You must be ever pressing on Forgetting, while you strive and plan How soon his childhood will be gone How quickly he will be a man. You never pause with him to hear The breeze that sings among the reeds You have no time to give the dear Sweet sympathy for which he pleads; You never rush with him in wild Pursuit of fairies through the glen Yourself again a careless child Freed from the cares that worry men. Have you no treasured memories Of one who gladly played with you Before you had been robbed of ease And when your cares were small and few? Ah, will you rob him of the joy Of looking back along the years When he has ceased to be a boy And Duty’s call rings in his ears? The little boy whom you forget To play with when the days are fair The child whose thoughts are sinless yet Who kneels to lisp his evening prayer Will soon leave off his childish ways And you will sit somewhere alone Regretting precious wasted days And joys that might have been your own.