From the Evening Star, October 9, 1912. By Walt Mason. Judge Rinktum makes no foolish breaks, no blunders bald or shocking; he goes his way day after day, and no one hears him talking. He answers “no” in accents low when some one asks a question, or murmurs “yes,” as in distress from verbal indigestion. He won’t debate, he won’t orate, or break his solemn quiet; he shakes his head—all has been said—he wants no wordy riot. So in the town he has renown as being crammed with knowledge; his bunch of brains more lore contains than Yale or Harvard college. We’re proud of him, this jurist grim, this man who never chatters; the referee and umpire he in all our village matters. The dames are proud when he has bowed in stately recognition; if Rinktum stands and shakes your hands, he betters your condition. Yet this old boy, our pride and joy, whom some consider greater than Cicero or G. Pinchot, is but a selling plater. If he should drain his massive brain and take out all that’s in it, he wouldn’t need to do the deed, much more than half a minute. Oh, just look wise and you will rise and have good things before you; but talk too much and you’re in Dutch, and no one will adore you.
Category: Evening Star
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The Silent Man
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Convinced
From the Evening Star, September 27, 1912. By Philander Johnson. We had another speaker down to Pohick on the Crick. We all put on our Sunday clothes an’ had ‘em neat an’ slick. We waited for his eloquence to thrill us through an’ through Deliverin’ instructions on what nations ought to do. But he never stood before us on that platform strong and high! Before he struck the steps the Miggins baby caught his eye. He grabbed it from its mother an’ he held it up to view An’ shook his finger at it while he hollered “Coochy-coo!” You should have heard the cheerin’! We set up a mighty shout! You should have seen the way fond parents trotted babies out. An’ he never turned an eyelash. To the finish he was game. He took the little fellers an’ he treated all the same. We’ll vote for him for certain. Every mother in the town Will see that every father gets the proper ballot down; Though I must confess in private, I don’t understand—do you?— Why we’d send a man to office jes’ for sayin’ “Coochy-coo!”
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Happy Days
From the Evening Star, September 21, 1912. By Philander Johnson. Oh, happy was the childhood hour When Father paid the bills And left us free to grasp the flower That blossomed on the hills! Those were the days in which we took No thought of taxes high, Nor feared the grafter or the crook Who might be drawing nigh. Three meals per day were always there; So was the dwelling place. We thought that Father’s greatest care Was simply to say grace. And so we wandered light and free, Without a trace of woe, Each had no thoughts save those of glee, Unless he stubbed his toe. Now greater wisdom bids us pause And grateful memory thrills. We were so happy then because Dear Father paid the bills.
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Instruction
From the Evening Star, September 15, 1912. By Philander Johnson. By hard experience we learn, Whatever our position, And pay, whichever way we turn, Right dearly for tuition. Before we walk we have to creep; We rise with many a tumble; Before we learn life’s road to keep How often must we stumble! Ere we can learn to think we grope Through much fantastic folly. Our smiles of friendship and of hope Are earned through melancholy. And so it is with every man, And so with many a nation; It is a part of nature’s plan— Compulsory education.