Category: Evening Star

From the Evening Star, July 31, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Inventive genius undertook
    To make our labors lighter.
The oldtime way mankind forsook
    For methods much politer.
With speech and print we made in vain
    Our protests and predictions,
So now a cannon’s mouth we train
    To utter our convictions.

Unto the future of the race
    We turned with deep reflection,
And bade eugenics take the place
    Of natural selection.
Such problems are dismissed offhand
    With confident elation.
You simply press a button and
    Exterminate a nation.

From the Evening Star, July 24, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

The Dove of Peace exclaimed one day:
“Conditions fill me with dismay,
I will disguise myself and seek
The quiet dear to one so meek.”

On land she hoped, afar from strife,
To lead a simple barnyard life,
But shuddered with incessant dread
As cannon rattled overhead.

She trimmed new plumage and in state
The eagle sought to imitate,
Until an airship hurried by
And sent her trembling from the sky.

Then as a sea gull forth she flew
Where waves were still and skies were blue
Until a shock disturbed the scene
Caused by a reckless submarine.

And so she turns on weary wing,
Still hopeful that her wandering
On land or in the sky or sea
May find some spot from terror free.

From the Evening Star, July 22, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

One time we had an uplift down to Pohick on the Crick.
The talk of art an’ culture came a-flyin’ very thick.
We bought a lot of handsome books whose covers plainly showed
That when their authors talked of art, they talked of what they knowed.
We felt that we had found the way unto a life refined,
Whose object would be beauty an’ a disposition kind.
We were strong for classic painting an’ for sculpture so sublime,
An’ architecture that defied the ravages of time.

Then from a mighty shock the world stood trembling and afraid.
It came from the headquarters where the classic art was made.
The painter dropped his brushes and the sculptor left his clay
An’ the singers marched in silence to the fierce, incessant fray.
We learned how works of beauty that were built through patient years
Were swept into destruction in a storm of rage and tears—
So maybe it’s the old-time way to which we’d better stick
An’ jes’ live plain an’ humble down to Pohick on the Crick.

From the Evening Star, July 14, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

If all the men who talk of fish
    Were fishermen for sure,
If fact were equal to the wish
    That stoutly doth endure,
If all the men who sit and write
    Of fish, in verse so fine,
Had sought the waters that invite
    The patient hook and line,
If all the tackle that is made
    And every year turned loose
‘Mongst sporting goods to be displayed,
    Were put to active use,
The situation could be told
    In language quite succinct:
The fishing yarns would all be old;
    The fish would be extinct.

From the Evening Star, June 12, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

“It’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete,
“The bank whose solidity can’t be beat—
The bank o’ the stream that reflects the glint
Of the golden coin from the sunshine mint,
Where the jewels don’t need a safety box,
But are tossed where the water hits the rocks
Into the air with a sparkle gay,
With plenty to spare and some more next day.
Oh, there’s never a thought of gain or loss
As you sit on a cushion built of moss.
The stately pillars are trees that grow
With a grace that your builders may never know.
There I may draw from the mighty store
All that I need an’ come back fur more
With a welcome endurin’ an’ complete;
So it’s me fur the bank,” said Plodding Pete.

From the Evening Star, June 11, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

“Wait a little,” said the robin,
    “For the song I have to sing.”
“Wait a little,” said the rosebud,
    “For a bit of blossoming.”
I know the world is busy,
    But the sunshine and the smile
Shouldn’t wholly be forgotten.
    Let us wait a little while.

Wait a little on the beauty.
    Wait a little on the song.
They will leave you better fitted
    For the tasks that need the strong.
Life holds nothing for the laggard,
    But the road is many a mile,
And there’s hope and strength in halting
    Only just a little while.

From the Evening Star, June 9, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Si Woggles was a grocer’s clerk,
Who grew superior to his work.
He got to thinking more and more
That he knew how to run the store.
He pointed out with feelings grim
The profits that were due to him,
And he attributed each loss
To interference by the boss.
It fairly made him weep to see
How obstinate the boss could be.
Si reasoned with him and he tried
To check those efforts misapplied.
That careless boss, he answered back
And said that He would Run the Shack!
The conscience of Si Woggles burned,
His thoughts to desperation turned,
Till finally his fretted mind
Became so fierce that Si resigned!
Sad was the day when Si no more
Came ‘round to open up the store,
And weigh the merchandise with care
And gossip with a friendly air.

And yet the people came to buy.
Some few said, “What’s become of Si?”
But somehow that old grocery store
Keeps doing business as of yore.

From the Evening Star, May 30, 1915. By Philander Johnson.

Civilization! Mighty word,
Which with all reverence is heard!
You teach the world to read and write
And into day transform the night.
And yet ’tis ever in your name
That armies march to fearful fame.
As we your blessings great compute,
We ask one favor more: Don’t shoot!

As pictures fair entrance our eyes,
And splendid buildings swiftly rise,
Some of your skill you set apart
For guns to shatter works of art.
As Science seeks our lives to save
She digs anew the soldier’s grave.
As you are wise and resolute,
We pray, be generous, Don’t shoot!