From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 12, 1913. I met a happy fisherman Exhibiting his catch; He seemed to think his finny spoils Were very hard to match. I did not see him pull them out Of any lake or brook; I did not see him drop his line Nor lightly bait his hook. I did not even see him go And come back laden down; But simply met him as he strolled Quite chestily through town. I do not seek a method of Discrediting his tale, But he was near a market place Where there were fish for sale. And as I poked a finger out Remarking, “This one’s nice,” It felt so cold I could have sworn That fish had been on ice.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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A Suspicious Circumstance
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Outside Interference
From the Evening Star, June 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We are feelin’ some excited down to Pohick-on-the-Crick. We used to run the village in a manner smooth an’ slick; But we suddenly discovered with astonishment profound We had a lot o’ lobbyists a-campin’ on the ground! You see, a lobbyist ain’t always one that works for pay. He’s just a man that hangs around an’ wants to have his say. He’ll flatter or persuade you or he’ll rile you an’ make fun In hopes to make you do things jes’ the way he wants ‘em done. You can’t repair your fence or break a colt or shoe a mare Without Joe Struthers gives the job his supervisin’ care. An’ old Zeb Tunkins drops around not meanin’ any harm An’ tells you what’s the matter with the way you run your farm. Si Simlin criticizes all the efforts that you make An’ Huldy Woggins wants to teach your wife to broil an’ bake. We want investigatin’ an’ we want it good and quick. There’s too much lobbyin’ down here to Pohick-on-the-Crick!
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A Modern Courting
From The Seattle Star, June 10, 1913. By Berton Braley. Miss Nancy O’Neill was a suffragette lady, Decidedly militant, too, Who was loved by an Irishman, Martin O’Grady, But vainly indeed, did he woo; For Nancy was busy at blowing up houses And kicking the chancellor’s cat, And so had no time to be thinking of spouses Or frivolous subjects like that. With bon bons and flowers poor Martin pursued her, But Nancy was deaf to his suit. Though gently and sweetly and kindly he wooed her At all his proposals she’d hoot. Till finally, wearied of being so tender, So patient and placid and calm, He gave up the homage he once used to render— And sent her a dynamite bomb. He trampled her garden with ardor most fervent, Cast bricks through her window with zest, Set fire to the house and abducted her servant, Attempted to poison her guest; So Nancy said, “How can I EVER resist him? Such militance beats me,” she said; So she put her fair arms round his neck and she kissed him, And now they are happily wed.
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The Other Man’s Lot
From the Rock Island Argus, June 9, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Each day he watched the trains go by; He’d pause behind his plow to gaze, And many a time he heaved a sigh And thought he wasted precious days; The breeze blew sweetly from the sky, His flocks and herds grazed on the slopes, But, turning when the trains went past, His countenance was overcast And envy blighted all his hopes. His children played among the trees, His fields were wide and rich and green; A thousand things were there to please By adding beauty to the scene. But, longing for the sight of seas And far-off mountains looming high, A dozen times a day he turned And in his bosom envy burned What time he watched the trains go by. He looked across his acres wide And saw his billowy fields of wheat, And heard the thundering trains and sighed, Although the breeze was soft and sweet. And many a weary one who spied Him standing out there brown and grim Thought of his freedom from all care, Thought of his independence there, And, riding onward, envied him.
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A Gilded Experiment
From the Evening Star, June 8, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We was feelin’ somewhat sporty, down to Pohick-on-the-Crick. We figured out a hoss race as a neat an’ fancy trick. We fenced the track off proper an’ we laid the distance out, An’ we sent requests for entries to the neighbors ‘round about. We didn’t give nobody any chance to sneer or snub; We made all comers members of the Pohick Jockey Club. There was only jes’ one little drawback to the fun; The hosses was so busy that they hadn’t time to run. Joe Struthers had to keep his mare a-haulin’ stuff to town. We couldn’t git the hosses that belong to Ezry Brown Because, like many others, they are occupied jes’ now In fillin’ their engagements with a harrow or a plow. The only equine candidate fur glory an’ fur fame Was Uncle Eben’s mule that’s been laid up because it’s lame. Us men folks all went back to work a-realizin’ quick That hoss sense ought to set the pace at Pohick-on-the-Crick.
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The Bench-Legged Fyce
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 7, 1913. By Eugene Field.
Dictionary.com: feist, also fice, fyce. Chiefly South Midland and Southern U.S. A small mongrel dog, especially one that is ill-tempered; cur; mutt.
Speakin’ of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice. Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose, From his predisposition to chronic repose; But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat— Yer bet he got thar on all his four feet! Mos’ dorgs hez some forte—like huntin’ an’ such, But the sports o’ the field didn’t bother him much; Wuz just a plain dorg’ an’ contented to be On peaceable terms with the neighbors an’ me; Used to fiddle an’ squirm, and grunt, “Oh, how, nice!" When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce! He wuz long in the bar’l, like a fyce oughter be; His color wuz yaller as ever you see; His tail, curlin’ upward, wuz long, loose, an’ slim— When he didn’t wag it, why, the tail it wagged him! His legs wuz so crooked, my bench legged pup Wuz as tall settin’ down as he wuz standin’ up! He’d lie by the stove of a night an’ regret The various vittles an’ things he had et; When a stranger, most like a tramp, come along, He’d lift up his voice in significant song— You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space In that bosom o’ his’n to hold so much bass! Of daytimes he’d sneak to the road an’ lie down, An’ tackle the country dorgs comin' to town; By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe, For what he took hold of he never let go! An’ a dude that come courtin’ our girl left a slice Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce! He wuz good to us kids—when we pulled at his fur Or twisted his tail he would never demur; He seemed to enjoy all our play an’ our chaff, For his tongue ’u’d hang out an’ he’d laff an’ he’d laff; An’ once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench legged fyce! We all hev our choice, an’ you, like the rest, Allow that the dorg which you’ve got is the best! I wouldn’t give much for the boy ’at grows up With no friendship subsistin’ ’tween him an’ a pup! When a fellow gits old—I tell you its nice To think of his youth, and his bench legged fyce! To think of the springtime ’way back in St. Joe— Of the peach trees abloom an’ the daisies ablow; To think of the play in the medder an’ grove, When little legs wrassled an’ little hands strove; To think of the loyalty, valor, an’ truth Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!
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Concealment
From the Evening Star, June 6, 1913. By Philander Johnson. When Arabella talks to Jim She thinks, while glancing up at him, “There is a man of heart and brain Worth any lass’ while to gain. I’d like to have him in my care And fix his neckties and his hair.” Yet this is all she has to say: “It is a pleasant day, today.” And Jim, with feelings all intense, Thinks, “There’s a girl of real sense, And pretty as the flowers in spring, And sweet of voice as birds that sing. There’s not a chance that she could be Attracted by a chap like me.” So this is all Jim has to say: “It IS a pleasant day, today.” So, as the years too swift have fled, They’ve left their real thought unsaid. It is the custom of mankind A timid refuge thus to find When some frank sentiment intrudes, A refuge in dull platitudes. We slight the best of life and say “It is a pleasant day, today.”
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The Intricacies of Finance
From the Rock Island Argus, June 5, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. Finance is something that appears To be away beyond my ken; I’ve studied it for years and years, In common with my fellow men; But there are things about it which Are deeply mystifying yet; How is it that some men are rich And at the same time far in debt? My place in life is rather low, And I may never cease to strive; I’m poor, although I do not owe A cent to any man alive; The luxuries that come to me Are very few and very small; Things may be as they ought to be, But I can’t understand at all. They say that old man Billingsworth Owes money almost everywhere; His people travel o’er the earth, And never seem to have a care; With eighty thousand dollars less Than nothing he is living high, And looks with splendid haughtiness Down on such humble ones as I. He has a long, low, rakish car In which he proudly rides about; He smokes a large and good cigar And always has his chest pushed out; The house in which he dwells is grand, His wife wears gems that cost a pile; His son has never turned a hand, His daughters dress in queenly style. He does not labor day by day, As I and those around me do; He’s very deep in debt, they say, And always sinking deeper, too; Yet, worse than merely penniless, He shines where I would have no chance; The simple truth must be, I guess, That I can’t understand finance.
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The Song of Solomon on Picnics
From The Detroit Times, June 4, 1913. By Berton Braley. Get busy, my love, my fair one, and come away. Gather together the bananas and the pies, Gather together the sandwiches and the jelly, And come away. For lo, the winter is past, The flies and the mosquitoes return And the voice of the picnicker is heard in the land. We will spread a table in the wilderness, We will eat burned potatoes and sandy bacon And call it good. We will say, “Lo, when was a home meal like to this!” And “Behold! What an appetite cometh of the open air!” Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, For I am weary. I have packed this basket seven miles And the end is not yet. When shall we eat? When shall we lay a feast for the ants, And spread a banquet for the wasps and the caterpillars, And put our feet into the jam, And sit upon the blackberry pie? Lo, the burdock putteth forth her burrs And the dewberry her thorns, And the poison ivy lureth us with her leaves And we are not wise, but suffer for that we did not know. And we shall come home dusty and tired and declaring, “never again!” Yet, nevertheless and notwithstanding I bid you “come away” For the winter is past, The time of the gnat and the flea and the sandfly and the wasp and the bee and the hornet and the beetle and the grasshopper has come, And the voice of the picnicker is heard in the land!
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Doc Bixby Spins Out Some Rhyme to Country Editors
From the Omaha Daily Bee, June 3, 1913.
Dr. A. L. Bixby of the Nebraska State Journal, Lincoln, delighted the Nebraska State Press association at the opening session yesterday at the Hotel Rome with his annual poem, in which he spun his homely philosophy thus:
Dear brethren of the shears and quill, And sisters, who are dearer still; Perhaps I do not need to say, In my melancholy way, The words you doubtless recollect, Which all have heard, to this effect: These words, prophetic and profound, “Another year has rolled around.” No odds what we may do or say, The stubborn years roll on that way, And we who yesterday were seen, And known among the young and green, Now train with other gray-haired men, Grown old, but just as green as then. Life is so short, let me declare Before a man gets anywhere, Before he can half realize On that which ought to make him wise, The summons comes for him to dress In spotless white and go to press, To let life’s solemn problems go, To close his face and keep it so. I do not claim the man a sage Whose only virtue is his age, Because as many jog along Their prejudice becomes more strong, And they subsist on that alone, While reason totters on her throne. In my own case I call to mind A string of years I’ve left behind; Already far above the span Allotted to the average man; And I have written in that time A lot of bungling prose and rhyme; Enough, as I have often held, To keep my head from getting swelled; To make my self-importance wilt Beneath the weight of conscious guilt. With all my experience, If I have gained a lick of sense, It is along the simple way Of how to live and make it pay. It isn’t what we have and hold— You cannot measure it in gold— But what we are and what we do To make the bells of life ring true. These are the things that always bless, And really help us more or less. Who makes two beams of sunlight play Where one beam trembled yesterday, Who drops a frown and wears a smile, As surely makes his life worth while. As he takes the other tack Deserves to go and not come back. I’d rather have it truly said Of me at last when I am dead, That I was always true and kind To all the folks I left behind, And made the earth a brighter place In spite of my unsightly face, Than have it said that I was great, In gaining bonds and real estate, And “copped” to gratify my greed A d—d sight more than ten men need. This is my message - if a thought Can be evolved (I don’t know what)— Withhold, I pray, your heartless kicks, It’s short, and that should help some. Bix.