From the New York Tribune, April 13, 1913. By Herbert Kaufman. A fig for your flagons of sour old wine! Let others seeks solace in beer— I don’t give a slam for the joys of the dram, It brings me no comfort nor cheer! I’ve no sorrows to drown, I am free from care’s frown, My morrows with promise are ripe, I don’t need a thing, I’m as good as a king, So long as I puff on my pipe. Just give me my pipe and a well laden pouch, And leave me alone with myself; I have more than enough while I sit here and puff, And forget about passions and pelf. You may toast as you please to the ladies who tease, And fuddle your senses with wine; But I know of no bliss that is equal to this— I’m content with this old pipe of mine.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Pipe Song
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The Food Cure
From The Topeka State Journal, April 12, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Abijah Binks was noted for his great array of wealth; In fact he had most everything excepting perfect health. Long years ago the doctors said that he was doomed to die, And nothing seemed to do him good, no matter what he’d try. He left off eating anything excepting breakfast food, He never tackled corn beef hash or anything so rude. A pancake made him turn away in horror and disgust; To starve himself to death to live, it seemed Abijah must. His liver was all out of whack, his nerves were all askew, Dyspepsia racked his feeble frame, no matter what he’d do. He tried mud baths and went abroad to take a famous cure, But still he kept on fading in a manner slow but sure. He licked up patent medicines for twenty years or more, Until he felt just like he was a corner druggist’s store. He ate so much digested food, he often used to say He somehow felt that he was just a walking bale of hay. With all his wealth, life held but naught for this old man forlorn; He often wished that he was dead or never had been born. One melancholy day he thought his own life he would take; His suicide should come about by eating sirloin steak. He ate a nice big juicy one and laid him down to die, But got up feeling quite refreshed, and then he tackled pie. The pie refused to take him off, and in a frenzied mood He ate a can of pork and beans and quit his breakfast food. For seven weeks, he tried and tried to kill himself that way; He kept on growing heavier and each succeeding day He took a dose of hardy food that was a little worse; But even sauerkraut and pickled tripe refused to call the hearse. At last he gave up in despair for he was growing fat. He kept on eating fiendish things and then decided that If he must live, he’d do it right and eat whatever he liked, And seven doctors gave him up and packed their kits and hiked. This happened many years ago, and Bige is eighty-one, And feels just like a frisky kid whose life has but begun.
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The Happy Time
From the Rock Island Argus, April 11, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. The man who cannot rest today, But says he will tomorrow, Finds, when his work is cleared away, New tasks or sits in sorrow. The merry time, the happy time, The blissful day in view Is never gained by them that wait To triumph and to celebrate, With nothing more to do. The man who folds his hands today And contemplates with sorrow The pressing task that’s put away Unfinished ’til tomorrow Has neither rest of heart nor mind, For he that looks ahead To duties long delayed destroys The sweetest of sweet leisure’s joys, But borrows doubt and dread. The man who mixes work and play At present and tomorrow Keeps life’s poor little ills away And finds new cares to borrow. The merry time, the happy time, The blissful day in view Is every day for him whose hand Is turned each day to fair deeds and Who plays in reason too.
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The Crew
From The Seattle Star, April 10, 1913. It’s pleasant on the upper deck Where ocean breezes blow To lazy in a steamer chair And watch the waves that flow; It’s pleasant on the upper deck, But mighty hot below. There’s fun upon the upper deck There’s mirth and laughter free, There’s music on the upper deck As gay as it can be. But it’s the boilers down below That drives her through the sea. It’s fine upon the upper deck While downward, near the keel, The blaze will make you nearly blind, The heat will make you reel. But we’re the boys who make the steam That drives the shaft of steel. The people on the upper deck, They only pays their way; We stokers in the boiler room, We envies such as they. But we—we drives the bloomin’ ship, While they—they only play! There always is an upper deck And boilers down below, And them that’s on the upper deck, They think they’re all the show. But it’s the fellows near the keel That makes the vessel go.
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The Policeman
From the Evening Star, April 9, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Spite of all the churlish chatter It is quite a serious matter To become a proper guardian of the peace. You must have a disposition That would fit you for a mission To Turkey or the Balkans or to Greece. You must treat the children kindly, And when people jostle blindly At a crowded crossing ‘mid the dust and noise, You must grab a perfect stranger And convey him out of danger In a way that won’t disturb his equipoise. You must learn the regulations, And likewise the laws of nations, To avoid the chance of diplomatic jar. You must listen uncomplaining, All your sense of mirth restraining, While they come to tell you what their troubles are. You should have a fund of knowledge More than could be learned at college, To assist each weary wanderer in distress. And your compensation should be All a bank director’s could be— Though I fancy it’s considerably less.
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Curtain
From The Tacoma Times, April 8, 1913. By Berton Braley. And so we part in friendship, yes, With neither pain or bitterness. And, unbewitched, we plainly see The meaning of our comedy; Yet this we know—and knowing, smile, At least we loved a little while! The vows we made, the faith we swore, To love—and love forevermore, Are quite forgot; we turn and go Certain that it is better so, Yet, though Romance cannot beguile, At least we loved a little while. Because you loved me, I have known A world I could not find alone. And from my love you did not gain A glimpse of palaces in Spain. What if we missed the Blissful Isle? At least we loved a little while. Good-bye—upon your brow I press The kiss of faithful friendliness. For, though we part from sorrow free, We lived a space in Arcady, And we can whisper, with a smile, “At least we loved a little while!”
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The Schoolteacher
From The Seattle Star, April 7, 1913. By Berton Braley. She’s much more important than presidents are Or other officials of state; In HER hands is power to make or to mar Our national future and fate; The men of tomorrow are hers for today To counsel and pilot and guide. With patience and love she will show them the way To lives that are worthy of pride. She is molding the thoughts of the girls and the boys To whom we must leave our tomorrows; She learns of their every-day pleasures and joys And shares in their pains and their sorrows; The youth of the country is put in her care To learn of the way they should go; She gives them her best—and a little to spare Which only the children can know. We know how she works and how nobly she serves With all of her soul and her heart, Devoting her strength and her health and her nerves To playing her excellent part, And so it’s our pleasure and even our boast The way we are paying our debts, Since we give her a salary equal (almost) To that which the janitor gets.
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The Fighting Blood
From The Washington Herald, April 6, 1913. By C. P. McDonald. Into the maelstrom of Rosy Thoughts and into the Valley of Dreams He entered, a youth with a happy heart, to follow life’s rainbow gleams; Ever and ever he looked ahead toward the glare of the beckoning heights, Toiling and moiling through days of hope far into the fathomless nights; Alert to the precepts of stern success that thrive in the hearts of men, Crushed to the earth by the iron hand of fate he would rise again. Bruised by adversity, goaded by chance, each day he would grimly smite, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in an uphill fight! Courage was his as he carved his path sans cheers of his fellow men, Stemming his way through each turbulent day that closed but to dawn again; Shoulder to shoulder with mutable luck, undaunted by jests and jeers, He carried his cross with a patience born of failure throughout the years; Building his castles and seeing them fall, he builded anew and smiled; Sounding the depths of his pluck, he knew with faith he was reconciled. Some day achievement all-infinite would dazzle and blind his sight, For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a fearless fight! Year after year as his fathers forged, he struggled and staggered on, Over the path of the countless throngs where his sanctified betters had gone; Out of the smoke of each battle fought emerging to war anew, For the things they had done and the conquests won were naught to the deeds he’d do! What of the failures of yesteryear, the wrecks of a long dead day? Should they serve to swerve him and keep him back from the strife of an endless fray? Heaven forfend! He would strive to the end with the last of his curtailed might! For the blood in his veins was the blood that sustains a man in a losing fight!
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Reflections of a Bachelor Girl
From The Washington Times, April 5, 1913. To wed or not to wed, that is the question. Whether ’tis better, after all, to marry And be cajoled and bullied by a husband, Or to take up stenography or clerking, And slave, alas! for SOME ONE ELSE’S husband? To love—to wed—and by a wedding end The struggles and the thousand petty cares That “slaves” are heir to—’tis a rare vocation Devoutly to be wished for! To love—to wed— To wed—perchance DIVORCE! Aye, there’s the rub! For in that dream of bliss what jolts may come When we have cast aside our little jobs, Must make us wary. There’s the sorry thought That makes so many spinsters hesitate; For who would bear the long, eternal grind, Th’ employer’s jokes, the chief clerk’s contumely, The insolence of office boys, the smoke Of last week’s stogies clinging to the hair, When she herself might quickly end it all By GETTING MARRIED? Who would not exchange A dingy office for a kitchenette— A keyboard for a cook stove or a cradle— But that the dread of something worse to come After the honeymoon—that life of CHANCE From whose dark bourne so many have returned By way of Reno—fills us with dismay, And makes us rather bear the jobs we have Than fly to evils that we know not of? Thus cowardice makes spinsters of—so many!
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The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 4, 1913. By Thomas Moore. The time I’ve lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman’s eyes Has been my heart’s undoing. Though wisdom oft has sought me I scorn’d the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman’s looks, And folly’s all they’ve taught me. Her smile when beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft met in glen that’s haunted. Like him, too, beauty won me But while her eyes were on me If once their ray Was turned away Oh! Winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No—vain, alas! The endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor wisdom’s chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.