From the Evening Star, May 24, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Oh, the dear old funny story Still appearing in its glory— What a train of memories it will invite! It will bring fond recollections Of the humorous reflections That the lecturers would stand up and recite. Each comedian rehearsed it After-dinner speakers nursed it We would hear it set to music light and gay. Even leaders of the nation As a means of illustration In their speeches kept it going on its way. Ivy climbs upon the steeple And the faces of the people Are wrinkling and their hair is turning gray; And the landmarks of each city Slowly crumble—more’s the pity— Till improvements come and sweep them all away. But that good old comic whimsy Though it seemed so wan and flimsy Still provides a glint of fiction or of truth. It’s a wondrous demonstration Of the one thing in creation That rejoices in an everlasting youth.
Category: Evening Star
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Still With Us
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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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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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Other Pebbles
From the Evening Star, April 30, 1913.
By Walt Mason.Don’t think you’re the only old boy that is lonely, discouraged, down-hearted, world-beaten and blue; the world’s pretty roomy, and others are gloomy and galled by their troubles as deeply as you. But others are braver; their souls have the savor of courage undaunted, the courage that wins; when effort seems futile and Fortune is brutal, they take what she hands them and greet her with grins. So Fortune grows weary of swatting these cheery unquenchable fellows who will not repine; these smiling humdingers she takes by the fingers and leads them to regions of roses and wine. But you sit a-brooding, your eyeballs protruding, your whiskers awash in a fourflusher’s tears, you look, while you’re straining your innards complaining, a statue of grief from your heels to your ears. Dame Fortune will spy you, and if she comes nigh you she’ll hand you a brickbat instead of a rose; she hasn’t much kindness for men who have blindness for everything here but their own private woes. So cut out the grouching and mourning and slouching, and show you’re a scrapper named Scrapperovitch; go forth to your labors like stout-hearted neighbors, and soon you’ll be happy and sassy and rich.
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The Unrealized
From the Evening Star, April 19, 1913. By Philander Johnson. They say our legislature Is going to find a way To conquer human nature And drive its faults away; To shield us from oppression— Although with some regret We note this sad confession: It never happened yet. Mankind has ever striven For sweet Perfection’s state. All power has been given To kings and princes great. On soldiers, saints and others Its hopes the world has set To make men dwell as brothers; It never happened yet.
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Around the Corner
From the Evening Star, April 16, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Just around the corner there is music soft and sweet; The sunbeams on a holiday go dancing down the street. You see a path where blossoms bend to greet you on your way Through the misty lanes of April to the splendors of the May. Though the sullen shadows linger you can sing a little song While you’re trudging on your journey, which will not be very long. Just around the corner skies are smiling warm and blue— The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue. There the butterflies are neighbors and the honeybees are friends, And the wind is sighing comfort where the weeping willow bends. The clumsy tortoise plods along, nor cares where he may roam, And when he’s scared or weary shuts his shell and calls it home. The grasses wave in billows like the flowing of the sea, And the birds are busy nesting, way up yonder in the tree; They are just around the corner, ‘mongst the perfumes and the dew, The corner of Contentment street and Lazy avenue.
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Occupation Provided
From the Evening Star, April 15, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Whenever Jabez Jones takes hold Of anything at all We find he cannot be controlled In matters great or small. He hollers and he waves his hands And sometimes he gets cross While issuing his loud commands. He has to be the boss. He isn’t much at chopping wood Nor with a rake or hoe. His judgement isn’t very good And his results are slow. But time is precious. It is clear We shouldn’t risk its loss. So long as he can’t interfere, We just let Jabez boss.
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The Policeman
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.
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Lessons in History
From the Evening Star, March 23, 1913. We’re a-goin’ to the dogs, History sure points the way, ‘Cause what happened way back there Is what threatens us today. Rome is busted, Greece is busted, Babylon is busted, too— Putterville would better profit By their fate, I’m tellin’ you! Not to beat around the bush— What about old Col. Toake? Is the turnin’ out of his cows On the public streets a joke? Rome and Greece and Babylon— All them had their priv’leged class, And I’ll bet their first graft was Runnin’ cows on public grass. Little thing, some folks’ll say, And not worth the fussin’ at; If me or you or Tuttle Gibbs Should let our stock run out like that It wouldn’t be a little thing; They’d have the constable on us And have us hauled before the law— You bet there’d be an awful fuss! It always is the high up chap That benefits by what is done; And that’s the plan on which those old And ruined nations all was run. Rome went under, Greece went under, Babylon went under, too— Putterville can learn a lesson From their fate, I’m tellin’ you!