From the Washington Standard, July 11, 1913. Start the day right. When the sun comes to greet you Give it a smile for each ray that it sends. Shake off the worries that long to defeat you, Strengthen your faith in yourself and your friends. Yesterday’s ghost will be striving to haunt you; Yesterday’s errors may come to your brain. Throw off the worries that trouble and taunt you. Start the day right; begin over again. What a brief span is the longest existence, One flashing journey from nothing to night! Show while you may the old Roman resistance— Off with your drowsiness—into the fight! Never an empire was won by the laggard; Never a prize was obtained but by worth. Heed not the sneers of the misanthropes haggard. Start the day right and they’ll know you’re on earth. Start the day right and you’ll find as it passes Something to live for and something to love. View not the future through indigo glasses. Note the bright streams and the blue skies above. Failure may mock you through years of endeavor, Fame and success may not come at your will, But nothing can baffle a climber forever. Start the day right and you’re half up the hill.
Month: July 2021
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Start the Day Right
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Lost
From The Tacoma Times, July 10, 1913. By Berton Braley.
(Several hundred girls disappear every year in the big cities.)
Rosa’s gone—and who will ever find her? Rosa’s gone—the way so many go; Not a trace did Rosa leave behind her. That’s the way—THEY always fix it so. Rosa—she was young and very pretty (That’s the kind of girl THEY like to snare); So she’s posted “missing” in the city, God knows where! Rosa, being young, was fond of pleasure, Life to her was something blithe and sweet, So THEY planned and plotted at their leisure, So THEY set the trap beneath her feet; Innocent and gay and all unknowing, Trusting to the friends that led her on, Unaware the road that she was going. Rosa’s gone! Rosa’s gone—and patiently we’ve sought her, Vainly followed every trail or clue— Mothers, think of Rosa as YOUR daughter, Think of this as happening to YOU! Rosa’s gone—like other girls before her, Knowing not the net till it was drawn. How shall all our mourning now restore her? Rosa’s gone!
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Spinning
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 9, 1913. By Helen Hunt Jackson. Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask. I do not know the name or use Of that I spin; I only know that some one came And laid within My hand the thread, and said, “Since you Are blind, but one thing you can do.” Sometimes the threads so rough and fast And tangled fly. I know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fail; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind. I know not why, but I am sure That tint and place In some great fabric to endure Past time and race My threads will have; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accursed. I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From one short word Said over me when I was young— So young, I heard It; knowing not that God’s name signed My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not. The bond divine I never doubt. I know he set me here, and still, Am glad, and blind, I wait his will. But listen, listen, day by day To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread And bring God’s message in the sun, “Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.”
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The God of War
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 8, 1913. By Israel Zangwill. “To safeguard peace we must prepare for war”— I know that maxim; it was forged in hell. This wealth of ships and guns inflames the vulgar And makes the very war it guards against. The God of War is now a man of business, With vested interests. So much sunk capital, such countless callings: The Army, Navy, Medicine, the Church— To bless and bury—Music, Engineering, Redtape Departments, Commisariats, Stores, Transports, Ammunition, Coaling Stations, Fortifications, Cannon Foundries, Shipyards, Arsenals, Ranges, Drill Halls, Floating Docks, War Loan Promoters, Military Tailors, Camp Followers, Canteens, War Correspondents, Horse Breeders, Armorers, Torpedo Builders, Pipeclay and Medal Vendors, Big Drum Makers, Gold Lace Embroiderers, Opticians, Buglers, Tentmakers, Banner Weavers, Powder Mixers, Crutches and Cork Limb Manufacturers, Balloonists, Mappists, Heliographers, Inventors, Flying Men and Diving Demons, Beelzebub and all his hosts, who whether In Water, Earth or Air, among them pocket When Trade is brisk a million pounds a week!
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Fresh Air
From the Evening Star, July 7, 1913. By Walt Mason.
The country’s full of wholesome air, undoped, uncolored, undefiled; it’s blowing round us everywhere, enough for woman, man and child. And yet we box ourselves up tight the whole year round in dusty rooms; and sickness gets the foolish wight who in this way stale air consumes. And then he blows his wad for pills, and things you shake before you take, and tells long tales about his ills, describing every grievous ache. Fresh air preventive is and cure of half the ills beneath our hats, within the reach of people poor, as well as that of plutocrats. And that’s the reason why, no doubt, the fresh air cure-all doesn’t win; it’s why we keep the pure air out, and try to keep the stale air in. We can’t have faith in any dope that doesn’t cost like old Sam Hill; and so we anchor faith and hope to plaster, potion and to pill. We’ll buy the old expensive drugs until some faker sees ’twill pay to sell fresh air in gallon jugs, and then we’ll buy it every day. And, while the smiling faker thrives, in testimonials we’ll declare that fresh air saved our fading lives when all the docs were in despair. So let us wait for that glad day when fresh air’s bottled in New York; we’ll want it when we have to pay a plunk a throw, and pull a cork.
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A Small Philosopher
From the Evening Star, July 6, 1913. By Philander Johnson. A little baby laughed one day; I paused and wondered why. None of the wealth could it display For which the grown folk sigh. Its wardrobe seemed exceeding slim. No jewelry it wore. Its home was up a side street dim, Behind a dusty store. It hadn’t even teeth or hair. Its hands were frail and small. And yet it sat goo-gooing there, As if it had them all. It seemed to say that happiness Rests not with pomp or pelf; It comes not from what you possess, But from your real self.
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Public Enemies
From the Evening Star, July 5, 1913. By Walt Mason.
If you build a line of railway over hills and barren lands, giving lucrative employment to about a million hands; if you cause a score of cities by your right of way to rise, where there formerly was nothing but some rattlesnakes and flies; if, when bringing kale to others you acquire a little kale, then you’ve surely robbed the peepul, and you ought to be in jail. If by planning and by toiling you have won some wealth and fame, it will make no odds how squarely you have played your little game; your success is proof sufficient that you are a public foe; you’re a soulless malefactor, to the dump you ought to go; it’s a crime for you to prosper where so many others fail; you have surely robbed the peepul and you ought to be in jail. Be a chronic politician, deal in superheated air; roast the banks and money barons—there is always safety there; but to sound the note of business is a crime so mean and base that the fellow guilty of it ought to go and hide his face; change the builder’s song triumphant for the politician’s wail, or we’ll think you’ve robbed the peepul, and we’ll pack you off to jail.
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Gettysburg
From The Seattle Star, July 4, 1913. By Berton Braley. Here, in the rays of the blazing sun And the heat of the summer weather, The Cause that Lost and the Cause that Won Met on the field together; And the Boys in Gray and the Boys in Blue Fought for the cause they thought was true In the battle’s smoke and smother, And the blood ran red and the fields grew black And the dead lay still in the cannon’s track, As brother fought with brother. There were deeds of daring on either side ‘Mid the big guns’ crash and thunder, Which thrill the heart with a mighty pride And the brain with a sense of wonder, To think of the gallant lads and gay Who fought for the blue or the somber gray With a bravery fine and splendid— And then we shudder to think, in truth, Of the thousands slain in the flower of youth When the long hot day was ended. The battle was won and the price was paid In agony, blood and treasure, And wife and mother and sorrowing maid Knew pain that we may not measure, For thus we learned at a fearful cost That the brave Lost Cause was better lost, Though gallant in song and story, Lost, that the Union might not die But South and North alike might fly The Flag that we call Old Glory! Here in the rays of the blazing sun And the heat of the summer weather, Was fought the battle that made us One, A people close-bound together! God grant that never again may we Know such a struggle to keep us free, With all of our hearts we pray it, But if the summons should come again To pay the price as we paid it then, God grant us the strength to pay it!
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The Bosses Speak!
From The Tacoma Times, July 3, 1913. By Berton Braley. Keep women away from the polls For the sake of their lily-white souls, Forever forbid them to roam For the sake of the washtubs at home, Let ‘em tend to the clothes and the grub, Let ‘em dust, let ‘em bake, let ‘em scrub, Let ‘em raise up the girls and the boys, Let ‘em share all your troubles and joys, But we beg, with a sob in our throat, Don’t give ‘em, don’t give ‘em the vote, For they might interfere if you please, With the three great political “B’s,” Whose graft we’d be sorry to lose— Breweries, Brothels and Booze! Keep women away from the polls, They vex and they trouble our souls, The home is their foreordained place Which they deck with their beauty and grace; If you go and you give ‘em the vote They’ll start to get after our goat In a wholly undignified way, Which ain’t like a lady, we say. So we beg, with a sob in the throat, Don’t give ‘em, don’t give ‘em the vote. They’d never give comfort or ease To the three great political “B’s” Whose graft we’d be sorry to lose, Breweries, Brothels and Booze!
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The Sage and the Troubadour
From the Evening Star, July 2, 1913. By Philander Johnson. The person who always insists on the facts Met a troubadour singing his lay; His mood was not rude with intent to intrude As he caroled so light and so gay. And this was the song that came floating so free As he journeyed along without care: “Oh, the Nightingale Sweetly is Singing to Me As the Violets Perfume the Air.” Said the person who thinks in statistics and tracts, “I am sorry that I must arise And say that your lay is from truth far away. It fills me with grief and surprise. For the violet, when it is blossoming wild, No perfume possesses; that’s clear. And it’s proved by the data which I have compiled That we do not have nightingales here.” So, the person who strictest adherence exacts To the precepts by learning laid down Told the throng how the song was essentially wrong And should not be allowed in the town. We heard with respect and we thanked him full loud For the lesson he gave us that day— And then we forgot him and followed the crowd That danced to the troubadour’s lay.