From the Evening Star, January 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We all know a fellow called Old Father Time. He has taught us in prose, he has frivoled in rhyme. One day he will give us a song or a laugh And the next he is writing a short epitaph. The way he jogs on is so quietly queer We seldom remember his presence so near. But he measures our steps as we falter or climb. He keeps tabs on us all, does this Old Father Time. But his hand is so gentle, although it is strong, That he helps us a lot as he leads us along. And the ruins that rise on the hills of the past He covers with ivy and roses at last. He teaches the smiles of the present to glow, While the sorrows are left to the long, long ago. And the knell turns to joy in its merriest chime— He’s a pretty good fellow, is Old Father Time.
Category: Newspapers
This is the parent category for all individual newspapers.
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Father Time
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Suffragettes
From the Evening Star, January 12, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Oh, a suffragette will suffer And you need not try to bluff her With remarks about her being out of place. The ballot she will better, She will hand-paint every letter Till it proves a work of rare artistic grace. It is true that some are dashing Madly in for window smashing, And we tremble at reports from far away. But the ladies bent on voting, We are happy to be noting, Manage matters better in the U. S. A. When they go about campaigning They don’t start in with complaining That a man is nothing but “a horrid brute.” It is such an easy matter His intelligence to flatter Till he thinks he’s very wise and something cute. While they’re mighty in convention They can also claim attention By a smile and by a twinkle of the eye. They don’t make ferocious speeches. They’re not lemons. They are peaches. And no doubt they’ll all be voting by and by.
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Nirvana
From the Evening Star, January 11, 1913. By Philander Johnson. Jes' sittin' still fur a minute or two, Lettin' the world buzz away, As you welcome the shadows that gather anew, And wait fur the close of the day; Watchin' the fire as it flickers an' glows, Hearin' the wind's sullen call, An' not carin' much 'bout how anything goes— Jes' sittin' still an' that's all. Lettin' yer mind drift along with the blaze To follow the sparks as they fly Out with the moonlight that fitfully strays Through the clouds that are crossin' the sky; Out through the year that is hurrying' fast To where memories sorrow and smile; The toil is repaid by the pleasure at last Of jes' sittin' still fur a while.
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Good Resolutions
From the Perth Amboy Evening News, January 10, 1913. By Walt Mason. At 8 o’clock on New Year’s day, I heard Bill Wax, my neighbor, say: “This year will see me leave the hole In which I’ve long immersed my soul; That hole is Debt, and from its deeps I’ll drag myself, this time for keeps. My bank account must be enlarged; I’ll buy no goods and have them charged; Collectors won’t be on my track, Nor bailiffs camped around my shack. I’ll cut out porterhouse and pie, And pay for everything I buy, And when the year is growing gray I’ll have a bundle put away. This vow I surely won’t forget— I’m bound to take a fall from Debt!” For many years on New Year’s day Old William Wax has talked this way; He’s asked the gods to witness vows As rigid as the law allows, And for two weeks or maybe three Old Bill’s as righteous as can be. And then he sees a watch or gun He needs so bad! He has no mon, And so he has the blame thing chalked; And then, such weary roads he’s walked, He buys a horse to rest his frame, And gives his note—the same old game; And when the year is growing old The merchants clamor for their gold, And Bill’s afraid to go out doors To be run down by creditors. Alas for Bill! Alas for all Who have their backs against the wall, Their noses on the grinding stone, Because they can’t let Debt alone!
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I Will Not Doubt My Kind
From The San Francisco Call, January 9, 1913. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If bread is poison, what is food? If man is evil, what is good? I’ll cultivate a friendly mind. I see not far, but this I see: If man is false, then naught is true; If faith is not the golden clue To life, then all is mystery. I know not much, but this I know: That not in hermit’s calm retreat, But in the storied, busy street The angels most do come and go. Who to the infinite would rise Should know this one thing ere he starts: That all its steps are human hearts; To love mankind is to be wise. I will not learn to doubt my kind. If man is false, then false am I; If on myself I can’t rely, Then where shall faith a foothold find?
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Vanished Dangers
From the Rock Island Argus, January 8, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. He used to hate the idle rich, And often spoke with dread About the fearful dangers which Were looming up ahead; He saw a time when blood would flow, And anarchy be rife; But that was when his funds were low, He had the luck a year ago To get a wealthy wife. He used to say the millionaires Were blinded by their greed; He thought the world and its affairs Were managed wrong, indeed; He saw the time when class and mass Would wage a bloody strife, When chaos would prevail. Alas! Since then a change has come to pass! He has a wealthy wife. He cannot understand today Why those who toil complain; The ills he feared are cleared away, No signs of strife remain. Content to let things drift along, He lives an easy life, Forgetting, if sometimes the strong Oppress the weak, that it is wrong: He has a wealthy wife.
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The Ignoramus
From The Tacoma Times, January 7, 1913. By Berton Braley. I don’t know nuthin’ about yer books, An’ I don’t much care to know ‘em. I’m scarcely wise to a novel’s looks, An’ I never has read a poem. Them written things is Greek to me, I’m mightily shy on learnin’, But I know the woods, an’ the wind that’s free An’ the smell of the wood fires burnin’. I know the call of the matin’ bird An’ the trail of the stag to water, An’ the ways of the wild things, winged an’ furred, That all of you “wise” folks slaughter. I know the song of the wind at night In the pine trees softly stirrin’, An’ I know the cry of the ducks in flight An’ the sound of the wings a-whirrin’. Do you know the way to pack an’ camp When there ain’t no friend beside you? Kin you keep yer route on an all-day’s tramp With never a trail to guide you? You can’t? Well, mebbe, I’m quite a chump To you an’ yer learned brothers, But let me tell you sir, plain an’ plump, There certainly are some others!
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Butterflies
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 6, 1913. By Harlowe Randall Hoyt. Butterflies, golden, and red, and brown, Dancing delirious to and fro, Light as the ghost of a thistle down, Where do you come from, where do you go? Flitting your fairy minuette, Silent as sunbeams you seem to be, Catching their gossamer gleams; and yet You are the spirit of melody. Back through the dark of the ages fled, When the world was young in its coat of green, Bearded Pan raised his shaggy head By the reedy marshes of Thrasymene; And seized his pipes, for his heart was rife With the thrill that pulsed through each leaf and tree, And he piped of Spring and the joy of life Till the forest echoed his melody. And the quiet people flocked forth to hear: Dryad and nymph, from wood and stream; Satyr, and faun, and the timid deer, Harking with velvet eyes agleam. As if ‘twere the ghost of the tune, indeed, Each liquid note, as it raised on high, Sprang from the end of the brown, dead reed, Into a fluttering butterfly. No more they listen to shaggy Pan, Piping his lilt by the water there; Ages ago they fled the van Of mortals, freightened with woe and care. But still from the reeds of the riverside, When the winds are whispering fancies free, Butterflies, fluttering far and wide, Spring from the magic melody.
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The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
From the New York Tribune, January 5, 1913. By Christopher Marlowe. Come, live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and field And all the craggy mountains yield. There we will sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move Come, live with me and be my love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning; If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my love.
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A Pastoral Tragedy
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, January 4, 1913. The passionate shepherd His lot doth lament; Sweet Phyllida left him— One morning she went. Some say ’twas an actor Who led her astray, And some say a chauffeur Upon the “White Way.” Alone on the hillside The desolate swain Sheds tears of deep sorrow That shower like rain. His pipe is neglected, He singeth no more, His flock is a-straying The wide country o’er. She spoke of his manners As boorish and rude, When she would a lover With polish endued. Then shortly she left him, The hard-hearted girl; Grown tired of day-dreaming, She longed for a whirl. A Shepard, she knew it, Saw little of life; She’d be in the swim as An actor-man’s wife. Or was it a chauffeur? We really can’t say, But sad is the shepherd Since she went away.