From the New York Tribune, December 3, 1912. I had a dream. It was not all a dream. Methought I wandered in some dreadful land Where deep crevasses yawned on either hand, Belching forth clouds of hot, malodorous steam. O’er craggy piles of stone my path now lay, Oft forming barriers high above my head, ‘Mid smoky fires that burnt a lurid red, And pools of slimy mud that barred my way. The heavy air was filled with sulfurous stench; My nostrils spurned it, as I drew my breath, My heart turned faint, and I was sick to death. Such awesome smells might make the boldest blench! Where lies the land with horrors thus replete; Which gaping pits and piles of granite grace? Can you not answer? Lo, New York’s the place; I did not dream—I wandered down the street!
Category: New York Tribune
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A Dream of Tophet?
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The Plains of Mexico
From the New York Tribune, November 9, 1912. By C. Fox Smith. There’s a country wide and weary, and a scorching sun looks down On the thirsty cattle ranges and a queer old Spanish town, And it’s there my heart goes roving by the trails I used to know; Dusty trails by camps deserted where the tinkling mule trains go, On the sleepy sunlit ranges and the plains of Mexico. Is it only looking backward that the past seems now so fair? Was the sun then somehow brighter, was there something in the air Made no day seem ever weary, never hour that went too slow, When we rode the dusty ranges on the plains of Mexico? Then the long, hot, scented evenings, and the fiddle’s squeaky tune, When we danced with Spanish lasses underneath the golden moon, Girls with names all slow and splendid, hot as fire and cold as snow, In the spicy summer night time on the plains of Mexico. I am growing tired and lonely, and the town is dull and strange— I am restless for the open sky and wandering wings that range; I will get me forth a-roving, I will get me out and go, But no more, no more my road is to the plains of Mexico. For the sun is on the plateau, and the dusty trails go down By the same old cactus hedges to the sleepy Spanish town, But I’ll never find my comrade that I lost there long ago, Never, never more (O, lad I loved loved and left a-lying low!) Where the coward bullet took him on the plains of Mexico.
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Halloween
From the New York Tribune, October 31, 1912. Ah! What a night was Halloween At our home up the state! The night we told ghost stories, Huddled close about the grate. Odd taps came on the window pane, Queer creakings on the stair; You never knew what minute You would get an awful scare. On Halloween, in our old home, We daren’t raise the shades For fear we’d see a pumpkin head, With eyes and nose ablaze. But here in town we raise the shade, And all that we can see Is ‘cross the shaft, a table set And people having tea. At our old home on Halloween The gate would disappear And hide itself behind the barn. That couldn’t happen here. Our home is in a Harlem flat, Up five flights, down the hall; We have no gate, no yard, no barn; Just doors and stairs and wall. On Halloween, in our old home, We had a feast of grub; We ate our fill of nuts and ducked For apples in a tub. But here we play no tricks at all; No ghosts are heard or seen. New York’s a lonely place to be On dear old Halloween!
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His Greatness
From the New York Tribune, October 22, 1912. He didn’t climb the hills of fame, But kept the middle ground; On history’s pages ne’er his name By any will be found. But he was brave and he was good, And always did his best; And through his life he always stood Face front to every test. Go ask his wife if you would know The record that he made; And to his little children go, Ask them how daddy played. And then go ask his neighbors, too, And hear them sing his praise; They’ll tell you he was kind and true, That honor marked his ways. Greatness is not by numbers told, Nor always written down On history’s pages; all that’s gold Goes not into a crown. But men are great who day by day Are cheerful, kind and true, And give their best along life’s way Of service to the few.
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The Tiger
From the New York Tribune, October 20, 1912. By William Blake. Tiger, tiger burning bright In the forest of the night! What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardor of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form’d thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile on his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee?
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Courage
From the New York Tribune, October 15, 1912. By Edgar A. Guest. Discouraged, eh? The world looks dark, And all your hopes have gone astray; Your finest shots have missed the mark, You’re heartsick and discouraged, eh? Plans that you built from all went wrong, You cannot seem to find the way And it seems vain to plod along, You’re heartsick and discouraged, eh? Take heart! Each morning starts anew, Return unto the battle line; Against far greater odds than you Brave men have fought with courage fine. Despite the buffetings of fate, They’ve risen, time and time again, To stand, face front and shoulders straight As leaders of their fellow men. And you, now blinded by despair, Heartsick and weary of the fight, On every hand beset by care, Can, if you will, attain the light.
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A Bachelor’s Outburst
From the New York Tribune, September 18, 1912. Dear Sir, I am a bachelor; My income is twelve hun’. ‘Tis small, no doubt, yet I contrive To have a deal of fun. You’ll think me selfish, yet until I’m richer, I must own, I’d rather be a bachelor, And jog along alone. Far be it from me to deride Or scoff at wedded bliss; I’ve thought the matter over well, And my opinion’s this: Though bachelors are selfish things, ‘Twould just as selfish be To take a wife, and bring her to A life of drudgery. Suppose I loved a girl (I do), D’you think I’d care to see Her toil, and soil her pretty hands The livelong day for me? If I grow rich, I’ll crave the hand Of her whom I adore; If not, dear sir, I must remain A lonely bachelor.