From the Evening Star, June 20, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We’ve got a railroad problem down to Pohick on the Crick. We’ve heard about stock tickers an’ manipulation slick, But we ain’t a-takin’ sides with any bulls or any bears. If we get ours we won’t object to them a-gettin’ theirs. Whenever we are drivin’ through the rough an’ heavy road We wish we could get out an’ help the horses pull the load; An’ we’re haunted by the echoes of a whistle far away, Where folks kin see a locomotive passin’ every day. We held a meetin’ an’ discussed the railroad problem there. We didn’t say a word about the freight rates or the fare. We didn’t talk of watered stock or policies unjust. There’s time enough to kick. You want to get your railroad fust. A cozy little station an’ some trains a-makin’ time Would lift us for the present to a height of joy sublime. Jes’ any kind of railroad, runnin’ slow or runnin’ quick, Is all that we demand to date, at Pohick on the Crick.
Month: June 2021
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The Original R. R. Problem
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The Problem
From the Rock Island Argus, June 19, 1913. By Henry Howland. Our troubles have increased of late; Alas, how problems vex us; It seems as if a stubborn fate Delighted to perplex us. We fondly wished our son to be A man of deepest knowledge; For years we’ve struggled patiently To pay his way through college. We’ve watched his progress with a pride That fully has repaid us For all the luxuries denied And all the care he’s made us. But by a problem hard and grim We are at present weighted; We don’t know what to do with him Since Willie’s graduated.
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Jogging Along
From the Evening Star, June 18, 1913. By Walt Mason.
The old world is wagging along to the bragging of those who have won in the battle of life; their vaunting and crowing we hear as we’re going to do what we can in the flurry and strife! But Midas and Croesus have all gone to pieces and millions of winners have crumbled to dust; the old world, still wagging, has heard legions bragging whose names are forgotten, whose riches are rust. The old world is flying along to the sighing of those who have troubles too heavy to bear; and loud sounds the wailing of sick souls and ailing, the chorus of sorrow, the dirge of despair. But millions are sleeping who one time were weeping and cursing their gods in the caverns of gloom; the old world, still flying, has heard so much sighing—has heard so much prating of dolor and doom! The old world is rumbling along to the grumbling of those who can tell how it might be improved; the kicking and carping that way have been harping since first in the dawn of the ages it moved. But millions are planted who once gallivanted around on the surface with croakings and kicks; the old world, still rumbling, has seen them go tumbling, has heard the small splashes they made in the Styx.
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Tale of the Jolly Mariner
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 17, 1913. He was a jolly mariner That sailed the seven seas; By skill and pluck and sheer good luck He had escaped disease, And death in strife by gun and knife And other things like these. Alas! This gallant sailor man Was knocked down by a car! “You’ll soon be dead,” the doctor said, “Perhaps there’s one afar To whom you’d send some word, my friend.” Up spake the gallant tar: “You take this message, mate,” he said, “Ere I my moorin’ slips. And find my bride and say I died With her name on my lips! Her name, you say? Well, one is May; But I’ve sailed several trips! “There’s Sally Brown, of Dover town, And Milly, Jane and Nell; If you will look in that there book You’ll find out where they dwell. There is a score, or maybe more— You won’t? Then I’ll get well!” He was a jolly mariner That rose up, strong and fit, And then, said he, “Well, hully gee! I’m bruised a little bit; But I’ve my life and nary a wife Is left a widow yit!”
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The Summons
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 16, 1913. By Reginald Wright Kauffman. Oh, Summer’s in the land again, and Summer’s on the sea; Across the blue horizon rim the old gods beckon me; The little ships ride restless at their anchors in the bay; The birds are trooping northward, dear, and I must be away. I see the Savoy mountains white; I hear the sheep bells ring Below me in the valley where the little children sing; And high above the timber line, along the glacier track, The ice field and the summit snows, they whisper me: “Come back.” It’s well I know your tender heart and kindliness and grace, And well I know the gentle light that sanctifies your face; Unworthily, yet truly, I love you, Heaven-sent, And nowhere dear, save in your arms, shall I secure content; But sun and wind are calling me throughout the livelong day From distant lands I used to know - from all the Far-Away; Oh, Summer’s in the hills again and Summer’s on the sea, And summer’s in my heart, and you — well you must set me free!
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One Way to Be Content
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 15, 1913. A happy hearted citizen Went gaily to his work; He had no wish to lie in bed And no desire to shirk. His daily duties brought him cheer Because he did them well And let no hard luck cast him down, No matter what befell. This happy hearted citizen A good example set, Who simply had no time, he said, To cherish vain regret. And when his earthly race was run, Most always with a smile, The many years he’d spent in toil Seemed just a little while.
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Worldly Hopes
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 14, 1913. “I’m climbing from the lowlands,” A weary pilgrim said, “Far up the hills of morning, Whose tops are tipped with red. I see the sun’s rim blazing Beyond the highest peak; There lies the goal of all my dreams, The goal for which I seek.” He climbed up from the lowlands, He scaled the peak he sought, Through many a whirling tempest, Through many a battle fought. High on the hills of morning He faltered in dismay; They were but foothills after all, And darkness closed the day. ’Tis ever so with dreamers With eyes fixed on some goal, For which they strive through many years And times of heat and cold, And spend their lives and break their hearts, To find when all is past, The prize is not worth half the toil By which ’tis won at last.
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The Best Seller
From the Evening Star, June 13, 1913. By Walt Mason.
The latest book by Mr. Gush has made a killing grand, and to the bookstores people rush, with money in each hand. “We want the best of Gush’s works,” they cry, “and here’s the mon!” And so the sad, soul-weary clerks dispense it by the ton. The village library’s in a stew, for all the dames are there; they want that book—none else will do—and they are pulling hair! In street cars, in the busy mart, and in the social crush, they talk, until they break your heart, about that book by Gush. And all the tiresome low brow dubs discuss it in the street; and women, at their culture clubs, read extracts and repeat. You hear of it from every bore, and in the evening’s hush you sadly sit before your door and curse the name of Gush. And then the talk all dies away, as sudden as it rose; a new best-seller is in sway, and Gush turns up his toes. If in the bookstore you should look, next month, for Gush’s work, “We never heard of such a book,” will say the weary clerk. Today a book may be a scream that holds the public mind; it passes like a winter dream and leaves no trace behind.
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A Suspicious Circumstance
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 12, 1913. I met a happy fisherman Exhibiting his catch; He seemed to think his finny spoils Were very hard to match. I did not see him pull them out Of any lake or brook; I did not see him drop his line Nor lightly bait his hook. I did not even see him go And come back laden down; But simply met him as he strolled Quite chestily through town. I do not seek a method of Discrediting his tale, But he was near a market place Where there were fish for sale. And as I poked a finger out Remarking, “This one’s nice,” It felt so cold I could have sworn That fish had been on ice.
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Outside Interference
From the Evening Star, June 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We are feelin’ some excited down to Pohick-on-the-Crick. We used to run the village in a manner smooth an’ slick; But we suddenly discovered with astonishment profound We had a lot o’ lobbyists a-campin’ on the ground! You see, a lobbyist ain’t always one that works for pay. He’s just a man that hangs around an’ wants to have his say. He’ll flatter or persuade you or he’ll rile you an’ make fun In hopes to make you do things jes’ the way he wants ‘em done. You can’t repair your fence or break a colt or shoe a mare Without Joe Struthers gives the job his supervisin’ care. An’ old Zeb Tunkins drops around not meanin’ any harm An’ tells you what’s the matter with the way you run your farm. Si Simlin criticizes all the efforts that you make An’ Huldy Woggins wants to teach your wife to broil an’ bake. We want investigatin’ an’ we want it good and quick. There’s too much lobbyin’ down here to Pohick-on-the-Crick!