Category: Newspapers

From the Rock Island Argus, October 12, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 His ancestor a pirate was,
   And proudly he gave tongue
 Unto the fact that his forbear
   Had from a yardarm swung.
 For if you take it in the days
   When history was made
 A pirate was, you are aware,
   A very decent trade.
 
 He had his picture on the wall
   Where every one could look;
 His history was written up
   And printed in a book.
 And he was just a trifle proud
   And thought that he was great
 Because he had descended from
   That tough old ancient skate.
 
 He had a sort of pity for
   The person who came down
 From ancestors who never robbed
   A coast or burned a town.
 They might be all right in a way,
   But it was understood
 They couldn’t be so much, because
   Their ancestors were good.
 
 He wouldn’t hurt a worm himself;
   He wouldn’t kill a fly.
 He was a modest man without
   A wicked, piercing eye.
 I often wondered, could we turn
   Back to the ancient crowd,
 If that old fiery ancestor
   Of him would have been proud.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 8, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 Oft in the stilly night
 When the cats begin to fight
 On the fence behind the lot
 Then I form a little plot
 As the window wide I throw
 And the yard I knee-deep sow
 With lots of bric-a-brac
 That was resting on the rack.
 
 Do the cats in wild alarm
 Run lest I should do them harm?
 Do they let the concert slide
 And proceed in haste to hide?
 No; they do not seem to know
 As I throw and throw and throw
 That a single thing is wrong
 With their piercing midnight song.
 
 Then I heave a pair of shoes
 That I wouldn’t care to lose,
 And I throw a kitchen chair,
 Followed by my wife’s false hair,
 Books and tables, sofa, rugs,
 Pots and kettles, pans and mugs,
 Writing pads, my rubber stamp,
 The piano and the lamp.
 
 Then the bedding and the bed
 From the tail piece to the head
 All are hurled into the gloom
 Till there’s nothing in the room.
 But the cats are good as new
 On the job when I am through.
 Nor do they a moment pause.
 They regard it as applause.

From the Rock Island Argus, October 7, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
 

 I took my little hopeful
   And sat him on my knee
 And tried to get the six-year-old
   To take advice from me.
 “I want you,” I said softly,
   “Always to be polite,
 And with the rude and naughty boys
   You must not scrap and fight.
 
 “With others do not quarrel
   And do not in your play
 Get angry with another boy
   Who wants to have his way.
 Give in without protesting,
   For you will always find
 That lasting friendships you will win
   By being true and kind.
 
 “Thus by your good example
   The other boys will see
 That it is better to be good
   And with their mates agree.
 Should one be so forgetful
   As to be rude or rough
 Turn on your heel and go away
   And he’ll feel bad enough.”
 
 ’Twas thus the lesson ended,
   And then I asked him, “Now,
 What would you do if some rude boy
   Should try to pick a row?”
 He thought about a minute,
   Then answered plain and clear:
 “I’ll tell you if you want to know.
   I’d biff him on the ear!”