Category: Rock Island Argus

From the Rock Island Argus, August 15, 1913. By Henry Howland.

Those rascals thrive while honest men must toil for slender gains,
Though brass may take the fair rewards that should be won by brains,
Though judges chosen to apply and to defend the laws
Exert their cunning in the task of finding little flaws,
Keep on, oh ye that honestly pursue the upward way,
Wrong never yet has managed to escape its judgment day.

Belshazzar’s palace lies in dust and Carthage is no more,
The aristocracy of France repaid in full with gore;
A Stuart’s head fell from the block, no Stuart wears a crown;
The walls that Infamy erect are sure to crumble down.
They may sometimes loom very high, their outlines may be grand,
But always underneath them there is only shifting sand.

Though rascals, laughing at the law, walk out through prison gates,
Though Justice is led far astray by cunning advocates,
Though judges serve the rascal’s ends and scorn the public’s right,
Though foul Corruption’s slimy trails are everywhere in sight,
The wrongs will have their ending in the old, old-fashioned way;
Keep on, hope on, oh ye that serve to haste the judgment day.

From the Rock Island Argus, August 13, 1913. By Henry Howland.

He is not a man whom the world will praise,
For he daily walks in the lowly ways;
His clothes are poor and his earnings small,
And the great know naught of his worth at all;
His beard is gray and his form is bowed,
His name is strange to the rich and proud.

Down in the dismal places where
Contagion lurks in the murky air,
Where the people are sick and lame and blind,
Where many are weary and few are kind,
He kneels with those who have need of cheer,
Imparting hope and dispelling fear.

Those who sit where the light is dim
Have learned to eagerly welcome him;
His clothes are poor, but within his eyes
The gleam of faith that is deathless lies;
And little ones lisp the Savior’s name
Where scoffers grumbled before he came.

He has taught the wronged that there still is good,
That there still is kindness and brotherhood;
He has called men back from their shamefulness,
He has brought them love who were pitiless;
He has knelt with those who had blindly strayed,
And made them hopeful and unafraid.

His beard is gray and his form is bowed,
His name is strange to the rich and proud;
He is not a man whom the world will praise,
For his light is shed in the darkened ways;
The lips of the fallen have soiled his hand—
But the Lord will probably understand.

From the Rock Island Argus, August 5, 1913. By Henry Howland.

I see them trudging down the street.
    His head is bent, his hair is white;
Though she is old her smile is sweet,
    And best of all, her heart is light.

He fondly guards her from the harm
    That threatens where the crowd is dense.
Her hand is laid upon his arm
    With long, long cherished confidence.

He has not won enduring fame,
    Nor gathered riches that are vast;
But she is proud to bear his name,
    And he will love her till the last.

To him she still is young and fair,
    To her he still is brave and strong;
The way is strewn with roses where
    They slowly, gladly trudge along.

From the Rock Island Argus, July 31, 1913. By Henry Howland.

She tried this thing and then tried that
    To keep from growing frightful;
She thought when she was like a slat
    That plumpness was delightful;
But, having lost her slenderness,
    She starved herself and banted;
Each added pound brought new distress,
    And dismally she panted.

She tried to fight the wrinkles back
    By using many lotions;
She sighed, “Alas!” and sobbed, “Alack!”
    And harbored sad emotions;
Her eyes, once beautiful, no more
    Were filled with fine expression;
She lost the smile that years before
    Had been her choice possession.

She tried in many, many ways
    To keep from growing frightful;
Of all things that she valued, praise
    Was always most delightful;
She mourned the hardness of her lot,
    Her eyes were often tearful—
And all because she’d just forgot
    The need of keeping cheerful.

From the Rock Island Argus, July 23, 1913. By Henry Howland.

He left the little old town, one day,
    To pursue success and to win renown;
The seasons passed in too dull a way
    To give him joy in the little old town;
In the little old town the streets were wide
    And the buildings low and pleasures cheap,
And he pitied those who were satisfied
    To stay where the people were half asleep.

He left the little old town to win
    The large rewards that to worth belong,
To add to the city’s unceasing din,
    To try his powers among the strong.
And he proudly thought, as he turned to gaze
    At the little old town in its peacefulness
Of a distant glorious day of days
    When he would return, having claimed success.

He thought of the villagers dozing there,
    Deaf to Ambition’s persuasive call,
Content, because they were free from care,
    To claim rewards that were few and small.
And he thought of a girl whose eyes were wet
    When, wishing him well, she said goodbye,
But he hurried away, to soon forget
    Where the roar was loud and the walls were high.

And often he thought in his lonely nook,
    When his muscles ached and his heart was sad,
Of the little old town with its sleepy look,
    Where the streets were wide and the children glad,
And often he thought of the peace out there,
    And often he wondered if, after all,
The people were wasting the seasons where
    The days were long and the rewards were small.

He had thought of a glorious day of days
    When he would return to the little old town
And listen to those who would give him praise
    For his proud success and his wide renown,
And tomorrow he will be traveling back,
    No more to care and no more to sigh
For the glory the little old town may lack—
    To lie and rest where his parents lie.

From the Rock Island Argus, July 22, 1913. By Henry Howland.

Henrietta was a maiden with a pair of witching eyes
    And her voice was like the sweetest music man has ever heard.
She had all the charms that nature in her gracious mood supplies—
    Henrietta was a beauty, as you doubtless have inferred.

She possessed a gentle manner and a temper that was sweet,
    She was always doing something for the ones who needed aid;
Scandal was a thing she never found it pleasing to repeat,
    From the path that leads to heaven Henrietta never strayed.

She possessed no taste for ragtime and she ne’er indulged in slang,
    Henrietta was artistic from her fingers to her toes;
Sweetest ecstasies were given to her hearers when she sang,
    She was free from affectation and was not inclined to pose.

She respected age, believing that the old could be sublime,
    And instead of reading novels she dipped into classic lore;
She could neatly darn a stocking or construct a witty rhyme,
    And she wasn’t always thinking of the pretty things she wore.

Do not think and do not say that Henrietta was a myth,
    Do not say that one so perfect never on this earth was known;
Henrietta lives and answers to the name of Mrs. Smith;
    I’ve described her as Smith saw her ere he claimed her for his own.

From the Rock Island Argus, July 17, 1913. By Henry Howland.

I’d like to live on Easy Street for just a little while;
I’d like to have a cushioned seat and daily cause to smile;
I’d like to have the right to say to some pale-featured clerk:
“I guess that I’ll play golf today, but you stay here and work.”
It must be fine, it seems to me, to merely boss a job
And have so much that one can be well hated by the mob.

This thing of working day by day, without a chance to rest,
While others put their tasks away and journey east and west,
Sometimes becomes a kind of grind, devoid of any thrill;
One’s muscles slacken and one’s mind becomes more flabby still;
I wish that I, from toiling free, had riches that were vast,
So that the mob might scowl at me when I rode proudly past.

I should not wish to always loaf, without a single care;
The idler is a useless oaf whose outlook is unfair,
But, oh, I fancy ‘twould be good to have things fashioned so
That if I wished to quit I could, and pack my things and go.
And it would give me such delight to see them look with hate
Who’ve never tried to earn the right to quit their present state.

I am not yearning to have more than any man would need;
I’d want a butler at my door, but I’m opposed to greed;
I’d have an auto and a yacht and live in splendid style;
To trouble I should give no thought, I’d wear a constant smile;
I’d let my chest bulge out with pride, with pride my heart should throb,
If I possessed so much that I’d be hated by the mob.

From the Rock Island Argus, June 19, 1913.
 By Henry Howland.
 

 Our troubles have increased of late;
     Alas, how problems vex us;
 It seems as if a stubborn fate
     Delighted to perplex us.
 
 We fondly wished our son to be
     A man of deepest knowledge;
 For years we’ve struggled patiently
     To pay his way through college.
 
 We’ve watched his progress with a pride
     That fully has repaid us
 For all the luxuries denied
     And all the care he’s made us.
 
 But by a problem hard and grim
     We are at present weighted;
 We don’t know what to do with him
     Since Willie’s graduated.