Category: Evening Star

From the Evening Star, April 16, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

The man who works eight hours a day
    Goes home with joyous mind,
Prepared to take his share of play
    And leave his cares behind.

The statesman burns the midnight oil
    And starts his task anew;
A day makes fruitless all his toil—
    His work is never through.

The lawyer lives in fierce suspense,
    The doctor’s rest is rare.
The financier finds wealth immense
    A weight of serious care.

And Nature in her curious plan,
    Unfolded day by day,
Seems after all to love the man
    Who works eight hours a day.

From the Evening Star, April 4, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

There’s a squatty looking building that was put up years ago,
They called it altitudinous and thought it quite a show.
But other structures were designed, as men more daring grew,
And this one seemed to dwindle. Its admirers were but few.
It nestles in a canyon. Windows loftily aloof
Gaze down upon the chimneys and the flagpole on its roof.
Nobody lifts his head today and turns a wondering eye
On the squatty looking building that we used to think was high.

Oh, many a glimpse of glory shines and fades in life’s events,
As the theme of song and story with a nation’s compliments.
There’s many a statue chiseled for posterity to see
That doesn’t even make the tourist query, “Who was he?”
As other times bring other men triumphant to our view,
The world forgets the old in contemplation of the new.
And we mention bygone greatness with a reminiscent sigh—
It is like the good old building that we used to think was high.

From the Evening Star, March 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

We thought that Uncle Jim might need
    A little spell o’ rest.
In eloquence he took the lead
    An’ labored with the best.
We thought we’d slip a sinecure
    To this our favorite son,
An’ so we got him safe an’ sure
    A berth in Washington.

We met him there with furrowed brow
    An’ droopin’, weary eyes.
We couldn’t understand just how
    A man so good an’ wise
Could seem so overworked an’ sad,
    With such a victory won.
Our Uncle Jim went to the bad
    Up there in Washington.

When next election comes along
    The neighborhood intends
To bring him by a ballot strong
    Back here among his friends.
Though this may not appeal to him,
    Our duty must be done.
We’ve got to rescue Uncle Jim
    From work in Washington!

From the Evening Star, March 14, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

My Uncle Jim, he used to speak.
    His words would make the welkin ring.
But now his eloquence grows weak.
    He isn’t saying anything.
The popularity he’s found
    To all his friends is a surprise
Since he has just been sitting ‘round
    And doing nothing but look wise.

It’s great to have a silvery tongue
    And make men listen to your voice.
It’s great to lecture old and young
    And see them tremble or rejoice
According to the words you choose.
    But of them all the greatest prize
Is this strange gift that statesmen use;
    The simple art of looking wise.

From the Evening Star, March 11, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

The winter season soon must fly
    And Spring resume its glory;
Yet snow and frost may still draw nigh
    To contradict the story.
Astronomers observe with care
    The planets and their stations.
The climate does not seem to care
    For learned calculations.

From the Evening Star, February 17, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

Are there any hero medals applied for up to date?
Is there one to fit a man obscure and humble in his fate,
Yet one who risks his life and does the very best he can
To obviate the dangers that beset his fellow-man;
Who faces icy gales and never flinches from the blast;
Who saves men, women, children, thinking of himself the last!
Upon that simple citizen some passing thought bestow
Who puts ashes on the sidewalk after shoveling off the snow.

Oh, kind philanthropist, while honoring those whose records claim
A public’s admiration and a monument of fame,
Contrive some decoration that will cause the family’s eyes
To look on dear old father as a hero and a prize.
Think of the many mortals who, as they passed on in line,
Were saved from fractured foreheads or concussion of the spine.
In letters all unfading write it that the world may know
“He put ashes on the sidewalk after shoveling off the snow.”

From the Evening Star, February 15, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

We had a suffrage meetin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.
The voters and the voteresses came resolved to kick.
At the sound of “Votes for women!” all the men folk said “Hurrah!”
But a number of the women simply smiled and said, “Oh, pshaw!”
We talked the matter over. The elections of the past
Had often failed, all owin’ to the way the votes were cast.
We declared that if they wished it, we’d stay home an’ mend the socks
An’ let our wives show how to run that pesky ballot box.
We promised to remove ourselves completely from the scene
When an election day came ’round; we’d make it all serene
By lettin’ none but woman, lovely woman, stand in line,
To show the world some ballotin’ all up-to-date an’ fine.
Then Huldah Higgins said, “That’s jes’ the way them men will shirk!
They want to stand around an’ let us women do the work!”
She roused such indignation that the case was settled quick.
The men will keep on votin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.

From the Evening Star, February 7, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

When a feller gets elected, everything is gay and bright;
Your friends will gather ‘round you and declare that you’re all right;
Your words will be repeated, as they shake you by the hand,
Assuring you your future will be something good and grand.
Those friends appear so numerous that, as you look them o’er,
You wonder why you haven’t seen a lot of them before.
And each looks rather wistful as he joins the cheers so free
And sings his special version of “Then You’ll Remember Me.”

But as the years go rolling by, how many of them say,
“I wonder what he did to get an office, anyway!”
When you’ve done your best to please them, you will hear that tapping sound,
Which tells you that a tribe of Hammer Boys is prowling ‘round.
You think about the beautiful bouquets they used to throw,
And sigh, at realizing that they withered long ago.
For the meetings and the greetings show a very different style
When a feller has been holding public office for a while.

From the Evening Star, January 25, 1914. By Philander Johnson.

There is talk of women votin’ down to Pohick on the Crick.
The men folks all got up an’ spoke in favor of it quick,
Exceptin’ old Joe Struthers, who remarked that as fur him,
The benefits of such a plan seemed all remote an’ slim.
He always had the time when an election day came ‘round
To go to town an’ tussle with the problems so profound.
But as fur Mrs. Struthers, it was quite a different case.
If she should quit, there wouldn’t be no one to run the place.

He said she took a day off once an’ went to see her kin.
Joe jes’ stood ‘round not knowin’ where an’ how he should begin
To do the chores an’ follow out the regular daily plan.
He couldn’t git no help from questionin’ the hired man.
The critters on the place, from chickens to the Jersey cow,
Seemed all upset an’ pinin’ an’ inclined to raise a row.
Joe says fur women’s rights in principle he’ll always stick,
But it’s mighty hard to spare ‘em down to Pohick on the Crick.