Category: Evening Star

From the Evening Star, June 27, 1913. By Walt Mason.

Hush my child, cut out the yelling! It will do no good, by durn; for I fear there is no telling when your mother will return. Father’s here to rock the cradle and to sing a dulcet note; father’s here, sweet child, to ladle paregoric down your throat. In your couch of wood and wattle, take your rest, my little sweet, drinking cow’s milk from a bottle, while your mother, on the street, tells about the Women’s Battle for their Sacred Rights, by jing; here’s your little wooden rattle, here’s your silver teething ring. Ah, this imitation nursing brings to baby’s face a frown, while your mother’s nobly cursing laws that keep the women down. Milk from can and milk from bottle, and the milk the druggists make, seem to paralyze your throttle and to make your tummy ache; but, my child, your mother’s doing work too long undone, alas! She is storming round and shooing poor male critters off the grass. With her woman suffrage rabies she is frothing at the snoot, and she can’t take care of babies—that’s for dad, the poor galoot. So, my dear, be bright and chipper; sing and smile as fine as silk; father’s here to poor a dipper of the predigested milk.

From the Evening Star, June 24, 1913. By Walt Mason.

A little word is but a sound, a sawed-off chunk of wind; we scatter little words around from here to farthest Ind. They are such inexpensive things we don’t economize, and so the world we live in rings with foolish words and wise. A little word costs just a breath, the shortest breath you drew; yet it may wound some heart to death—some heart that’s good and true. And it may wreck some man’s renown, or stain a woman’s fame, and bring bright castles tumbling down into the muck of shame. Your little words, like poisoned darts, may crooked fly, or straight, and carry into loving hearts the venom of dire hate. Be not so lavish with the breath that forms the words of woe, the words that bear the chill of death and lay true friendships low. A word is but a slice of air that’s fashioned by your tongue; so never let it bring despair or grief to old or young. But give to it the note of love and it will surely seem the symbol of the life above, and of an angel’s dream.

From the Evening Star, June 18, 1913. By Walt Mason.

The old world is wagging along to the bragging of those who have won in the battle of life; their vaunting and crowing we hear as we’re going to do what we can in the flurry and strife! But Midas and Croesus have all gone to pieces and millions of winners have crumbled to dust; the old world, still wagging, has heard legions bragging whose names are forgotten, whose riches are rust. The old world is flying along to the sighing of those who have troubles too heavy to bear; and loud sounds the wailing of sick souls and ailing, the chorus of sorrow, the dirge of despair. But millions are sleeping who one time were weeping and cursing their gods in the caverns of gloom; the old world, still flying, has heard so much sighing—has heard so much prating of dolor and doom! The old world is rumbling along to the grumbling of those who can tell how it might be improved; the kicking and carping that way have been harping since first in the dawn of the ages it moved. But millions are planted who once gallivanted around on the surface with croakings and kicks; the old world, still rumbling, has seen them go tumbling, has heard the small splashes they made in the Styx.

From the Evening Star, June 13, 1913. By Walt Mason.

The latest book by Mr. Gush has made a killing grand, and to the bookstores people rush, with money in each hand. “We want the best of Gush’s works,” they cry, “and here’s the mon!” And so the sad, soul-weary clerks dispense it by the ton. The village library’s in a stew, for all the dames are there; they want that book—none else will do—and they are pulling hair! In street cars, in the busy mart, and in the social crush, they talk, until they break your heart, about that book by Gush. And all the tiresome low brow dubs discuss it in the street; and women, at their culture clubs, read extracts and repeat. You hear of it from every bore, and in the evening’s hush you sadly sit before your door and curse the name of Gush. And then the talk all dies away, as sudden as it rose; a new best-seller is in sway, and Gush turns up his toes. If in the bookstore you should look, next month, for Gush’s work, “We never heard of such a book,” will say the weary clerk. Today a book may be a scream that holds the public mind; it passes like a winter dream and leaves no trace behind.

From the Evening Star, May 27, 1913.
By Walt Mason.

The man who deals in rainbows has come to town by stealth, to catch the village vain beaux with tales of sudden wealth. I hear his gorgeous ravings, his winter dreams and sich: “Bring me,” he says, “your savings, and I will make you rich; I’ve coal mines in Nebraska (where coal does not exist), and peach groves in Alaska (no peaches there, I wist); the nectarine and prune shine on trees I have for sale, and I can sell you moonshine, so hand me out your kale.” The easy marks are digging their kopecks from the jar, for hot air, never twigging what easy marks they are. They hope to rake in riches and never pay the price; a sucker always itches to be a sacrifice. I sidestep such disasters as these men have in view; to my hard-earned piasters I stick like patent glue. I cannot be enchanted by any hot air crank; my coin is safely planted down in the village bank. I buy no dazzling ophirs a million miles away, no Belgian hares or gophers in Persia or Cathay. No fish in the Nyanzas, no ice plants up in Nome; no ginseng farms in Kansas, no silk works far from home. I save my clammy rubles till there’s a seemly pile, and sidestep lots of troubles, and dance and sing and smile.